"Come with us. We're flying to Hawaii. Get your hat and coat."
McLeod obeyed silently. At the moment, there was nothing else he could
do. As a matter of fact, there was nothing he wanted to do more.
It was no trouble at all for Professor McLeod to get an audience with
the Galactic Resident, but when he was escorted in by Jackson and his
squad, the whole group was halted inside the front door.
The Resident, a tall, lean being with a leathery, gray face that
somehow managed to look crocodilian in spite of the fact that his head
was definitely humanoid in shape, peered at them from beneath
pronounced supraorbital ridges. "Is this man under arrest?" he asked
in a gravelly baritone.
"Er ... no," said Jackson. "No. He is merely in protective custody."
"He has not been convicted of any crime?"
"No sir," Jackson said. His voice sounded as though he were unsure of
himself.
"That is well," said the Resident. "A convicted criminal cannot, of
course, use the credits of society until he has become rehabilitated."
He paused. "But why protective custody?"
"There are those," said Jackson, choosing his words with care, "who feel
that Professor McLeod has brought disgrace upon the human race ... er ...
the Terrestrial race. There is reason to believe that his life may be in
danger."
McLeod smiled wryly. What Jackson said was true, but it was carefully
calculated to mislead.
"I see," said the Resident. "It would appear to me that it would be
simpler to inform the people that he has done no such thing; that,
indeed, his work has conferred immense benefits upon your race. But
that is your own affair. At any rate, he is in no danger here."
He didn't need to say anything else. Jackson knew the hint was an
order and that he wouldn't get any farther with his squad.
McLeod spoke up. "Subject to your permission, sir, I would like to
have Mr. Jackson with me."
The Galactic Resident smiled. "Of course, professor. Come in, both of
you." He turned and led the way through the inner door.
* * * * *
Nobody bothered to search either of them, not even though they must
know that Jackson was carrying a gun. McLeod was fairly certain that
the gun would be useless to Jackson if he tried to assert his
authority with it. If Clem had been able to render the U.B.I.'s
eavesdropping apparatus inoperable, it was highly probable that the
Galactic Resident would have some means of taking care of weapons.
"There are only a few formalities to go through," the Resident said
pleasantly, indicating chairs with a gesture. The room he had led them
to didn't look much different from that which would be expected in any
tastefully furnished apartment in New York or Honolulu.
McLeod and Jackson sat down in a couple of comfortable easy-chairs
while the Resident went around a large desk and sat down in a swivel
chair behind it. He smiled a little and looked at McLeod. "Hm-m-m. Ah,
yes. Very good." It was as though he had received information of some
kind on an unknown subject through an unknown channel, McLeod thought.
Evidently that was true, for his next words were: "You are not under
the influence of drugs nor hypnotic compulsion, I see. Excellent,
professor. Is it your desire that this check be converted to cash?" He
made a small gesture. "You have only to express it, you see. It would
be difficult to explain it to you, but rest assured that such an
expression of will--while you are sitting in that chair--is impressed
upon the structure of the check itself and is the equivalent of a
signature. Except, of course, that it is unforgeable."
"May I ask a few questions first?" McLeod said.
"Certainly, professor. I am here to answer your questions."
"This money--is it free and clear, or are there Galactic taxes to
pay?"
If the Galactic Resident had had eyebrows, it is likely that they
would have lifted in surprise. "My dear professor! Aside from the fact
that we run our ... er ... government in an entirely different manner,
we would consider it quite immoral to take what a man earns without
giving services of an exact kind. I will charge you five credits for
this validation, since I am rendering a service. The bank will take a
full tenth of a percent in this case because of the inconvenience of
shipping cash over that long distance. The rest is yours to do with as
you see fit."
_Fifty-five credits out of fifty thousand_, McLeod thought. _Not bad
at all._ Aloud, he asked: "Could I, for instance, open a bank account
or buy a ticket on a star-ship?"
"Why not? As I said, it is your money. You have earned it honestly;
you may spend it honestly."
Jackson was staring at McLeod, but he said nothing.
"Tell me, sir," McLeod said, "how does the success of my book compare
with the success of most books in the galaxy?"
"Quite favorably, I understand," said the Resident. "The usual income
from a successful book is about five thousand credits a year. Some run
even less than that. I'm not too familiar with the publishing
business, you understand, but that is my impression. You are, by
Galactic standards, a very wealthy man, professor. Fifty thousand a
year is by no means a median income."
"Fifty thousand a _year_?"
"Yes. About that. I understand that in the publishing business one can
depend on a life income that does not vary much from the initial
period. If a book is successful in one area of the galaxy it will be
equally successful in others."
"How long does it take to saturate the market?" McLeod asked with a
touch of awe.
"Saturate the--? Oh. Oh, I see. Yes. Well, let's see. Most publishing
houses can't handle the advertising and marketing on more than a
thousand planets at once--the job becomes too unwieldy. That would
indicate that you sold an average of a million copies per planet,
which is unusual but not ... ah ... miraculous. That is why you can
depend on future sales, you see; over a thousand planets the
differences in planetary tastes averages out.
"Now if your publishers continue to expand the publication at the rate
of a thousand planets a year, your book should easily last for another
century. They can't really expand that rapidly, of course, since the
sales on the planets they have already covered will continue with
diminishing success over the next several years. Actually, your
publishers will continue to put a billion books a year on the market
and expand to new planets at a rate that will balance the loss of
sales on the planets where it has already run its course. Yes,
professor, you will have a good income for life."
"What about my heirs?"
"Heirs?" The Galactic Resident blinked. "I'm afraid I don't quite
follow you."
"My relatives. Anyone who will inherit my property after my death."