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ticholama, ready for harvest; a small cottage, native-style, but furnished
adequately; the ocean at his doorstep, the mountains in his back-yard. Why had
the price been so low?
"Is it possible," mused Magnus Ridolph, "that Blantham is the philanthropist his
acts suggest? Or does the ointment conceal a fly?" And Magnus Ridolph pulled at
his beard with petulant fingers.
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Now Naos slipped into Irremedial Ocean and lime-green evening flowed like
syrup down out of the badlands which formed the northern boundary of the
plantation. Magnus Ridolph half-turned in the doorway, glanced within. Chook,
his dwarfish servant, was sweeping out the kitchen, grunting softly with each
stroke of the broom.
Magnus Ridolph stepped out into the green twilight, strolled down past the
copter landing to the first of the knee-high ticholama bushes.
He froze in his tracks, cocked his head.
"Ow-oto-ow-ow-ow-oto-ow," in a yelping chorus, wild and strange, drifted from
across the field. Magnus Ridolph strained, squinted through the dusk. He could
not be sure. ... It seemed that a tumult of dark shapes came boiling down from
the badlands, vague sprawling things. Olive-green darkness settled across the
land. Magnus Ridolph turned on his heel, stalked back to the cottage.
Magnus Ridolph had been resting quietly in his hotel - the Piedmont Inn of New
Napoli, on Naos V - with no slightest inclination toward or prospect of an
agricultural life. Then Blantham knocked and Magnus Ridolph opened the door.
Blantham's appearance in itself was enough to excite interest. He was of early
middle-age, of medium height, plump at the waist, wide at the hips, narrow at the
shoulders.
His forehead was pale and narrow, with eyes set fish-like, wide apart under the
temples, the skin between them taut, barely dented by the bridge of his nose. He
had wide jowls, a sparse black mustache, a fine white skin, the cheeks meshed,
however, with minute pink lines.
He wore loose maroon corduroy trousers, in the "Praesepe Ranger" style, a
turquoise blouse with a diamond clasp, a dark blue cape, and beside Magnus
Ridolph's simple white and blue tunic he appeared somewhat overripe.
Magnus Ridolph blinked, like a delicate and urbane owl. "Ah, yes?"
"I'm Blantham," said his visitor bluffly. "Gerard Blantham. We haven't met
before."
Watching under his fine white eyebrows, Magnus Ridolph gestured courteously.
"I believe not. Will you come in, have a seat?"
Blantham stepped into the room, flung back his cape.
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"Thank you," he said. He seated himself on the edge of a chair, extended a case.
"Cigarette?"
"Thank you." Magnus Ridolph gravely helped himself. He inhaled, frowned, took
the cigarette from his lips, examined it.
"Excuse me," said Blantham, producing a lighter. "I sometimes forget. I never
smoke self-igniters; I can detect the flavor of the chemical instantly, and it annoys
me."
"Unfortunate," said Magnus Ridolph, after his cigarette was aglow. "My senses
are not so precisely adjusted, and I find them extremely convenient. Now, what
can I do for you?"
Blantham hitched at his trousers. "I understand," he said, looking archly upward,
"that you're interested in sound investment."
"To a certain extent," said Magnus Ridolph, inspecting Blantham through the
smoke of his cigarette. "What have you to offer?"
"This." Blantham reached in his pocket, produced a small white box. Magnus
Ridolph, snapping back the top, found within a cluster of inch-long purple tubes,
twisting and curling away from a central node. They were glossy, flexible, and
interspersed with long pink fibers. He shook his head politely.
"I'm afraid I can't identify the object."
"It's ticholama," said Blantham. "Resilian in its natural state."
"Indeed!" And Magnus Ridolph examined the purple cluster with new interest.
"Each of those tubes," said Blantham, "is built of countless spirals of resilian
molecules, each running the entire length of the tube. That's the property,
naturally, which gives resilian its tremendous elasticity and tensile strength."
Magnus Ridolph touched the tubes, which quivered under his fingers. "And?"
Blantham paused impressively. "I'm selling an entire plantation, three thousand
acres of prime ticholama ready to harvest."
Magnus Ridolph blinked, handed back the box. "Indeed?" He rubbed his beard
thoughtfully. "The holding is evidently on Naos Six."
"Correct, sir. The only location which supports the growth of the ticholama."
"And what is your price?"
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"A hundred and thirty thousand munits."
Magnus Ridolph continued to pull at his beard. "Is that a bargain? I know little of
agriculture in general, ticholama in specific."
Blantham moved his head solemnly. "It's a giveaway. An acre produces a ton of
ticholama. The selling price, delivered at Starport, is fifty-two munits a ton,
current quotation. Freight, including all handling, runs about twenty-one munits
a ton. And harvesting costs you about eight munits a ton. Expenses twenty-nine
munits a ton, net profits, twenty-three munits a ton. On three thousand acres
that's sixty-nine thousand munits. Next year you've paid the land off, and after
that you're enjoying sheer profit."
Magnus Ridolph eyes his visitor with new interest, the hyper-developed lobe in
his brain making its influence felt. Was it possible that Blantham intended to play
him - Magnus Ridolph - for a sucker? Could he conceivably be so optimistic, so
ill-advised?
"Your proposition," said Magnus Ridolph aloud, "sounds almost too good to be
true."
Blantham blinked, stretching the skin across his nose even tauter. "Well, you see,
I own another thirty-five hundred acres. The plantation I'm offering for sale is
half the Hourglass Peninsula, the half against the mainland. Taking care of the
seaward half keeps me more than busy.
"And then, frankly, I need money quick. I had a judgment against me - copter
crash, my young son driving. My wife's eyes went bad. I had to pay for an
expensive graft. Wasn't covered by Med service, worse luck. And then my
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