"How long can they go on collecting? When does the copyright run out?"
The Galactic Resident's puzzlement vanished. "Oh my dear professor!
Surely you see that it is impossible to ... er ... inherit money one
hasn't earned! The income stops with your death. Your children or your
wife have done nothing to earn that money. Why should it continue to
be paid out after the earner has died? If you wish to make provisions
for such persons during your lifetime, that is your business, but the
provisions must be made out of money you have already earned."
"Who does get the income, then?" McLeod asked.
The Galactic Resident looked thoughtful. "Well, the best I can explain to
you without going into arduous detail is to say that our ... er ...
government gets it. 'Government' is not really the proper word in this
context, since we have no government as you think of it. Let us merely say
that such monies pass into a common exchequer from which ... er ... public
servants like myself are paid."
McLeod had a vision of a British Crown Officer trying to explain to a
New Guinea tribesman what he meant when he said that taxes go to the
Crown. The tribesman would probably wonder why the Chief of the
English Tribe kept cowrie shells under his hat.
"I see. And if I am imprisoned for crime?" he asked.
"The payments are suspended until the ... er ... rehabilitation is
complete. That is, until you are legally released."
"Is there anything else that can stop the payments?"
"Not unless the publishing company fails--which is highly unlikely. Of
course, a man under hypnotic compulsion or drugs is not considered
legally responsible, so he cannot transact any legal business while he
is in that state, but the checks are merely held for him until that
impediment is removed."
"I see." McLeod nodded.
He knew perfectly well that he no more understood the entire workings
of the Galactic civilization than that New Guinea tribesman understood
the civilization of Great Britain, but he also knew that he understood
more of it than Jackson, for instance, did. McLeod had been able to
foresee a little of what the Resident had said.
"Would you do me the service, sir," McLeod said, "of opening a bank
account for me in some local bank?"
"Yes, of course. As Resident, I am empowered to transact business for
you at your request. My fees are quite reasonable. All checks will
have to go through me, of course, but ... hm-m-m ... I think in this
case a twentieth of a per cent would be appropriate. You will be
handling fairly large amounts. If that is your wish, I shall so
arrange it."
"Hey!" Jackson found his tongue. "The Earth Union Government has a
claim on that! McLeod owes forty-nine thousand Galactic credits in
income taxes!"
If the Galactic Resident was shocked at the intimation that the
Galactic "government" would take earned money from a man, the
announcement that Earth's government did so was no surprise to him at
all. "If that is so, I am certain that Professor McLeod will behave as
a law-abiding citizen. He can authorize a check for that amount, and
it will be honored by his bank. We have no desire to interfere with
local customs."
"I am certain that I can come to an equitable arrangement with the
Earth authorities," said McLeod, rising from his chair. "Is there
anything I have to sign or--"
"No, no. You have expressed your will. Thank you, Professor McLeod; it
is a pleasure to do business with you."
"Thank you. The pleasure is mutual. Come on, Jackson, we don't need to
bother the Resident any more just now."
"But--"
"Come on, I said! I want a few words with you!" McLeod insisted.
Jackson sensed that there would be no point in arguing any further
with the Resident, but he followed McLeod out into the bright Hawaiian
sunshine with a dull glow of anger burning in his cheeks. Accompanied
by the squad, they climbed into the car and left.
* * * * *
As soon as they were well away from the Residence, Jackson grabbed
McLeod by the lapel of his jacket. "All right, humorist! What was the
idea of that? Are you trying to make things hard for yourself?"
"No, but _you_ are," McLeod said in a cold voice. "Get your hands off
me. I may get you fired anyway, just because you're a louse, but if
you keep acting like this, I'll see that they toss you into solitary
and toss the key away."
"What are you talking about?" But he released his hold.
"Just think about it, Jackson. The Government can't get its hands on
that money unless I permit it. As I said, we'll arrive at an equitable
arrangement. And that will be a damn sight less than ninety-eight
percent of my earnings, believe me."
"If you refuse to pay, we'll--" He stopped suddenly.
"--Throw me in jail?" McLeod shook his head. "You can't get money
while I'm in jail."
"We'll wait," said Jackson firmly. "After a little while in a cell,
you'll listen to reason and will sign those checks."
"You don't think very well, do you, Jackson? To 'sign' a check, I have
to go to the Galactic Resident. As soon as you take me to him, I
authorize a check to buy me a ticket for some nice planet where there
are no income taxes."
Jackson opened his mouth and shut it again, frowning.
"Think about it, Jackson," McLeod continued. "Nobody can get that
money from me without my consent. Now it so happens that I want to
help Earth; I have a certain perverse fondness for the human race,
even though it is inconceivably backward by Galactic standards. We
have about as much chance of ever becoming of any importance on the
Galactic scale as the Australian aborigine has of becoming important
in world politics, but a few thousand years of evolution may bring out
a few individuals who have the ability to do something. I'm not sure.
But I'm damned if I'll let the boneheads run all over me while they
take my money.
"I happen to be, at the moment--and through sheer luck--Earth's only
natural resource as far as the galaxy is concerned. Sure you can put
me in jail. You can kill me if you want. But that won't give you the
money. I am the goose that lays the golden eggs. But I'm not such a
goose that I'm going to let you boot me in the tail while you steal
the gold.
"Earth has no other source of income. None. Tourists are few and far
between and they spend almost nothing. As long as I am alive and in
good health and out of prison, Earth will have a nice steady income of
fifty thousand Galactic credits a year.
"Earth, I said. Not the Government, except indirectly. I intend to see
that my money isn't confiscated." He had a few other plans, too, but
he saw no necessity of mentioning them to Jackson.
"If I don't like the way the Government behaves, I'll simply shut off
the source of supply. Understand, Jackson?"
"Um-m-m," said Jackson. He understood, he didn't like it, and he
didn't know what to do about it.
"One of the first things we're going to do is start a little
'information' flowing," McLeod said. "I don't care to live on a planet
where everybody hates my guts, so, as the Resident suggested, we're
going to have to start a propaganda campaign to counteract the one
that denounced me. For that, I'll want to talk to someone a little
higher in the Government. You'd better take me to the head of the
U.B.I. He'll know who I should speak to for that purpose."
Jackson still looked dazed, but it had evidently penetrated that
McLeod had the upper hand. "Wha ... er ... what did you say, sir?" he
asked, partially coming out of his daze.
McLeod sighed.
"Take me to your leader," he said patiently.
* * * * *