he was of Irish descent.
He was waiting. He had been forced to move from his apartment; nobodywanted that dirty so-and-so, Professor McLeod, around. Besides, hismoney was running short. He had never seen the two thousand. "You'llget that when the Galactic bank cashes your royalty check," he hadbeen told. He was waiting.
Not hiding. No. That wasn't possible. The U.B.I. could find himeasily when they wanted him. There was no place he could have hiddenfrom them for very long. A man needs friends to stay hidden from anefficient police organization for very long, and John Hamish McLeodhad no friends. "Jack McCaffery" had, since he was a pleasant kind offellow who made friends easily when he wanted them. But he had noillusions about his new friends. Let them once suspect, howeverfaintly, that Good Old Jack McCaffery was really that ProfessorMcLeod, and the game would be up.
The U.B.I. would find him again all right, whenever it wanted him. AndMcLeod hoped it would be soon because he was down to his last hundredbucks.
So he waited and thought about fifty thousand Galactic credits.
The mathematics was simple, but it conveyed an awful lot ofinformation. To make fifty thousand credits from one thousandth of onepercent royalties on a book selling at five credits the copy, one mustneeds sell a billion copies. Nothing to it.
5X.10to the power of -5 = 5.10to the power of 4
Ergo: X = 10to the power of 9
McLeod drew the equations on the bar with the tip of a wet forefinger,then rubbed them out quickly.
A billion copies in the first year. He should have seen it. He shouldhave understood.
How many planets were there in the galaxy?
How many people on each planet?
Communication, even at ultralight velocities, would be necessarilyslow. The galaxy was just too big to be compassed by the humanmind--or even by the mind of a Galactic, McLeod suspected.
How do you publish a book for Galactic, for galaxy-wide, consumption?How long does it take to saturate the market on each planet? How longdoes it take to spread the book from planet to planet? How many peoplewere there on each planet who would buy a good book? Or, at least, anentertaining one.
McLeod didn't know, but he suspected that the number was huge. McLeodwas a zoologist, not an astronomer, but he read enough on astronomy toknow that the estimated number of Earth-type planets alone--accordingto the latest theory--ran into the tens of millions or hundreds ofmillions. The--
A man sat down on the stool next to McLeod and said something loudenough and foul enough to break the zoologist's train of thought.
"Gimme a shot, Leo," he added in an angry voice.
"Sure, Pete," the bartender said. "What's the trouble?"
"_Tourists_," Pete said with a snarl. "Laffin' attus alla time like wewas monkeys inna zoo! Bunch 'em come inta day." He downed his whiskeywith a practiced flip of the wrist and slammed it on the bar. Leorefilled it immediately. "I shunt gripe, I guess. Gotta haffa creditoffen 'em." He slapped down a five dollar bill as though it hadsomehow been contaminated.
The bar became oddly quiet. Everyone had heard Pete. Further,everyone had heard that another shipload of Galactics had landed andwere, at the moment, enjoying the sights of New York. A few of themknew that Pete was the bell-captain in one of the big midtown hotels.
McLeod listened while Pete expounded on the shame he had had toundergo to earn half a credit--a lousy five bucks.
McLeod did some estimating. Tourists--the word had acquired an evenmore pejorative sense than it had before, and now applied only toGalactics--bought nothing, but they tipped for services, unless theservices weren't wanted or needed. Pete had given them informationthat they hadn't had before--where to find a particular place. All inall, the group of fifteen Galactics had given out five or six creditsin such tips. Say half a credit apiece. There were, perhaps, a hundredGalactics in this shipload. That meant fifty credits. Hm-m-m.
They didn't need anyone to carry their bags; they didn't need anyoneto register them in hotels; they didn't need personal service of thatkind. All they wanted to do was look. But they wouldn't pay forlooking. They had no interest in Broadway plays or the acts in thenight-clubs--at least, not enough to induce them to pay to see them.This particular group had wanted to see a hotel. They had wanderedthrough it, looking at everything and laughing fit to kill at thecarpets on the floor and the electric lighting and such. But when themanagement had hinted that payment for such services as letting themlook should be forthcoming, they had handed half a credit to someoneand walked out. Then they had gone to the corner of Fifty-first andMadison and looked for nothing.
Fifty credits for a shipload. Three shiploads a year. Hell, give 'emthe benefit of the doubt and say _ten_ shiploads a year. In a hundredyears, they'd add another fifty thousand to Earth's resources.
McLeod grinned.
And waited.
* * * * *
They came for him, eventually, as McLeod had known they would.
But they came long before he had expected. He had given them sixmonths at the least. They came for him at the end of the third month.
It was Jackson, of course. It would have to be Jackson. He walked intothe cheap little room McLeod had rented, followed by his squad of men.
He tossed a peculiar envelope on the bed next to McLeod.
"Letter came for you, humorist. Open it."
McLeod sat on the edge of the bed and read the letter. The envelopehad already been opened, which surprised him none.
It looked very much like an ordinary business letter--except thatwhatever they used for paper was whiter and tougher than the paper heused.
He was reminded of the time he had seen a reproduction of a ThirteenthCentury manuscript alongside the original. The copy had been set upin a specially-designed type and printed on fine paper. The originalhad been handwritten on vellum.
McLeod had the feeling that if he used a microscope on this letter thelines and edges would be just as precise and clear as they appeared tothe naked eye, instead of the fuzziness that ordinary print wouldshow.
The way you tell a synthetic ruby from a natural ruby is to look forflaws. The synthetic doesn't have any.
This letter was a Galactic imitation of a Terran business letter.
It said:
Dear Mac,
I am happy to report that your book, "Interstellar Ark," is a smash hit. It looks as though it is on its way to becoming a best seller. As you already know by your royalty statement, over a billion copies were sold the first year. That indicates even better sales over the years to come as the reputation of the book spreads. Naturally, our advertising campaign will remain behind it all the way. Congratulations.
Speaking of royalty checks, there seems to be some sort of irregularity about yours. I am sorry, but according to regulations the check must be validated in the presence of your Galactic Resident before it can be cashed. Your signature across the back of it doesn't mean anything to our bankers.
Just go to your Galactic Resident, and he'll be happy to take care of the matter for you. That's what he's there for. The next check should come through very shortly.
All the best,
Clem.
_Better and better_, McLeod thought. He hadn't expected to be able todo anything until his next royalty check arrived. But now--
He looked up at Jackson. "All right. What's next?"
"Come with us. We're flying to Hawaii. Get your hat and coat."
McLeod obeyed silently. At the moment, there was nothing else he coulddo. 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 withthe Galactic Resident, but when he was escorted in by Jackson and hissquad, the whole group was halted inside the front door.
The Resident, a tall, lean being with a leathery, gray f
ace thatsomehow managed to look crocodilian in spite of the fact that his headwas definitely humanoid in shape, peered at them from beneathpronounced supraorbital ridges. "Is this man under arrest?" he askedin 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 ofhimself.
"That is well," said the Resident. "A convicted criminal cannot, ofcourse, 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 feelthat Professor McLeod has brought disgrace upon the human race ... er ...the Terrestrial race. There is reason to believe that his life may be indanger."
McLeod smiled wryly. What Jackson said
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