“If you don’t understand now, you will before the Council ends ascribing you,” he said. “However, I’ll explain. Your museum chronometer, not being an object of necessity, is the property of this Province. This is a civilized country, and you can’t have hoard-property here, whatever you can do in Spain. Strangers’ effects are bought by the Province at their listed value, and your chronometer is listed at two hundred labor units, or ones—in other words, if you have ever heard of the metric system, two hektones.” “Ah, give him the Rest Cure!” said the girl with the typewriter badge, swinging about and stalking away contemptuously. I picked up the metal counters and began examining them. They were crudely made, and without milled edges. Two of them appeared to be of aluminum; on one side was an ant in relief, and under it the inscription, LABOR COMMON 37 on the other side, in bold letters, were the words, HALF HEKTONE FIFTY ONES There were two smaller pieces, of a yellowish-gray, each stamped, TWENTY-FIVE ONES It did not take me more than a moment’s calculation to see that if the hektone was a hundred units of currency, or labor hours, I had only a hektone and a half instead of two. I told the clerk of the deficiency. “Don’t lie! Sign that!” he shouted, pushing an inkpad and printed form toward me. “I shall not sign, and I shall bring this theft to the attention of—Doctor Sanson,” I said, suddenly recollecting the name. It was a chance shot, but its effect was extraordinary. The mob, which had begun to jostle me, suddenly scurried away in the greatest confusion. The clerk turned white; he picked up the money with trembling fingers. “Why, that is so!” he exclaimed. “It was a mistake, Boss. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I—I thought you were a blue,” he muttered, looking up at me beseechingly. And he returned me a whole half-hektone too much. I tossed this back to him and returned no answer. I was looking about for a pen with which to sign the receipt when the policeman took hold of my thumb in a comically obsequious manner and pressed the inkpad against it. So I made my mark upon the paper. In the corridor outside he turned toward me humbly. “Are you a trapper, Boss?” he asked. “A what?” “A switch. A wipe. I mean a council watcher.” “A spy, you mean?” I asked. “Certainly not.” He shook his head in perplexity, and seemed uncertain whether to believe me or not. “He thought you were,” he said. “That was an old list he used. You should have had more. Of course I couldn’t get in bad with him by telling you, but you’d have had nothing if I hadn’t stood up for you. Isn’t that worth something, Boss?”