"The bulk of your business, my brilliant friend, comes not from lovesick swains calling up their gal friends across a hundred million miles of space. It comes from men sending orders to ship thirty thousand tons of Venusian Arachnia-web to Terra, and to ship ten thousand fliers to Southern Point, Venus, and to send fifty thousand cylinders of acetylene to the Solar Observatory on Mercury, and so forth. Follow me?" "I think so," said Channing slowly. "There'll still be need for communications, though." "Sure. And also spacelines. But there's one more item, fella." "Yes?" "You've got a terrific laboratory job ahead of you, Don. It is one that must be done--and quick! You owe it to the world, and to yourself, and to your children, and their children's children. You've brought forth the possibility of a system of plenty, Don, and left it without one very necessary item. "_Channing, can you make one item that can not be duplicated?_" "No, but--" "Uh-huh. Now we go back to barter and exchange." "Golly!" "Furthermore, chum, what are you going to barter with? A ton of pure gold is the same value as a ton of pure silver. That is, aside from their relative technical values. A ton of pure radium won't bother us at all, and if we want Uranium Two-thirty-five, we make it by the ton also. Oh brother, _you've really screwed the works this time_." "Now what?" "You and your crew start looking for something that is absolutely un-reproducible. It should be a light, metalloid substance of readily identifiable nature, and it should be ductile and workable. We need a coin-metal, Channing, that cannot be counterfeited!" "Yum. That's one for the book. Meanwhile, we'll retrench on Venus Equilateral and get set for a long, long drought." "Check. I'm about to do likewise with Interplanet Transport. You don't know anybody who'd like to buy the major holdings in a spaceline, do you? It's on the market, cheap. In fine condition, too, in spite of the depredations of Hellion Murdoch." "Might swap you a communications company for your spaceline, Keg." Johnson smiled. "No dice. I'm looking for a specialized business, Don. One that will pay off in a world where there is no money!" "What are you going to sell--and for what?" "I'm going to sell security--for service!" "So?" "Those are items that your devil-gadget won't duplicate, Channing. But they're intangible. Barter and exchange on the basis of a washed-car's worth of dug postholes." * * * * * Linna Johnson looked up with some annoyance as Keg entered her room. She was a tall woman, lissome in spite of her fifty years, but the artificial stamp of the "woman-of-fashion" spoke louder than her natural charm. "Yes?" she asked without waiting for salutation. "Linna, I need a hundred and seventy thousand dollars." "Remarkable. What do you want me to do about it?" "You've got a quarter of a million tied up in baubles. I want 'em."