'Gold,' Stile said. 'I have played with that in my historical researches. I have a fair notion of its value, as measured in archaic ounces.'
'Then set one gram of Protonite as equivalent to four hundred troy ounces of gold, sir. One kilogram-'
'Four hundred thousand ounces of gold!' Stile finished, amazed despite himself.
'Enough to hire a thousand serfs for full tenure, sir,' Mellon said. 'A fortune equivalent to that of many of the historically wealthy persons of Earth. That is your minimum share of Citizenship; wealthy Citizens control the equivalent of as much as a ton of Protonite, so are richer than any historical figure.'
'I see that,' Stile agreed, somewhat awed. He had known Citizens were exceedingly rich, but still had underestimated the case. 'And I must become one of those wealthy ones?'
'You must become the wealthiest Citizen, sir,' Mellon agreed. 'Only then can you be reasonably secure against the forces that may be brought to bear. Our target is two metric tons of Protonite.'
'That's two thousand kilograms!' Stile exclaimed.
'Precisely, sir. There have been wealthier Citizens in the past, but at present none go beyond this level. Only extraordinary expertise can bring you to this.'
'Expertise, yes; illicit information, no.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And how much of my single, insignificant kilogram may I employ for gambling?'
'Three quarters of it, sir. You must, by Proton custom that has the force of law, maintain a floor of two hundred and fifty grams for normal household use.'
'Some household! That's a hundred thousand ounces of gold!'
'True, sir. No Citizen is poor by galactic standards.'
'I seem to remember Sheen telling me that no Citizen could get more than two years' income in arrears.'
'That is an optional guideline for the conservative.'
'I see. But I can't afford to be conservative, can I? And if I gamble and lose, so I'm stud: at the floor level- then what?'
'Your share is not a literal kilogram, sir, bat rather the equivalent in continuing production from the Protonite mines. In time - perhaps a year - you will have an income of ten to twenty additional grams. Enough to maintain a modest estate without depleting your principal.''
'Oh, I wouldn't want to deplete my principal,' Stile said, feeling giddy. Even a Citizen's small change vastly exceeded his exportation. 'Still, to build a stake of seven hundred and fifty grams up to an estate of two thousand kilograms - that will take rapid doubling and redoubling.'
'Certainly, sir. And we shall not be risking all of the discretionary funds. Reverses are to be expected. I recommend an initial limit of one hundred grams per wager.'
'And your recommendation is my law.'
'Yes, sir, in this respect. Except-'
'Except that I will handle the substance of the wagers myself, drawing on none of your computer information. I presume you feel this makes me likely to fail.'
'Yes, sir,' Mellon said unhappily. 'I have considerable strategic resource, were it permissible for use.'
'Were it not the way I am, your kind would not have trusted me to keep their secret.'
'Yes, sir.' But considerable disapproval was conveyed in that acquiescence.
'Very well, let's review this matter. You have the entire information bank of the planetary computer network available to you. The average wagering Citizen does not. Would you consider it fair play for us to use this? I submit that it represents an unfair advantage, and to use it would be dishonest.'
'Citizens have very few restrictions, sir. They may draw on any available facilities. I think it likely that some will seek to take advantage of your inexperience. Turnabout may be considered fair play.'
'Very well. If I encounter a Citizen who is trying to take unfair advantage, I'll draw on your information to turn the tables. But I'll balk at anything I deem to be unethical. I will cheat only the cheaters.'
'Understood, sir. It would be unwise to seem to follow the advice of a serf too slavishly.'
Evidently the issue of personal integrity still eluded the robot. 'Yes. A Citizen must keep up arrogant appearances.'
Now Sheen, who had remained scrupulously clear of this discussion, rejoined it. 'I am sure you will have no difficulty, sir.'
She was a machine, but she was programmed for human emotion. How much did she resent the use he was making of her?
The event they attended turned out to be a routine Citizens' ball. Sheen and Mellon, as favored servitors, were permitted to accompany Stile, but they kept subserviently behind him. At the entrance they outfitted Stile with a suitable costume for the occasion: a seemingly cumbersome ancient spacesuit, puffed out around the limbs with huge joints at the elbows and knees, and a translucent helmet bubble. Actually, the material was very light and did not hamper movement at all.
They entered the ballroom - and Stile was amazed. It was outer space in miniature. Stars and planets, somewhat out of scale; comets and nebulae and meteors and dust clouds. The motif was not remarkable, but the execution was spectacular. The stars were light without substance, holographically projected, but they looked so real he was fearful of getting burned if he floated too near. For he was floating, in effect, on the invisible floor; the soles of his space boots were padded, so that his footsteps made no sound.
Citizens in assorted varieties of spacesuits floated in groups, their serf-servitors like satellites. One spotted him and moved across. It was the Rifleman. 'I see you are mixing in, Stile. Excellent. Let me introduce you to key figures. What is your preference? Romance, camaraderie, or mischief?'
'Mischief,' Stile said, grateful for the man's help. 'I want to make some wagers.'
'Oh,
'I understand. I have a competent monetary adviser.'
'You will need him. I warn you, Stile, there are barracuda in these waters. Best to play penny ante until you get to know them.'
By the same token, though, the barracuda would get to know him - and his adviser. That would not do. He needed to score rapidly, before others grew wary. 'What is considered penny ante here?'
'One gram of Protonite.'
'That was all I was worth a few days ago.'
The Rifleman smiled. 'I, too, in my day. Times change, Citizen. This is a whole new world.'
'I hope not to do anything foolish before I acclimatize.'
'Oh, by all means do be foolish,' the Rifleman said encouragingly. 'It is expected of all new Citizens. You are the novelty of the day; enjoy it while you can.'
All this time the Rifleman had been guiding Stile across the miniature galaxy. Now they came to a group of space-suited Citizens hovering near a large dark nebula. The men were rotund and unhandsome; rich living had shaped them to porcine contours that even the ballooning suits could not ameliorate. This disgusted Stile; he knew that they could easily have kept their weight down by consuming diet food that tasted identical to the calorific food; or by having reductive treatments. Apparently they just didn't care about appearance.
But the two women were a striking contrast. One was an hourglass, her breasts like pink melons, her waist so tiny Stile knew that surgery had reduced it, her hips re-surging enormously, tapering into very large but well- contoured legs. Stile found this exaggeration of female traits unpleasant, but even so, it had its impact upon him. Her breasts swelled like the tides of an ocean as she breathed, and her hips shifted elevation precipitously as she walked. Her suit was only remotely related to space; most of it was transparent, and much of the front was mere netting. It seemed to Stile that in real space those enormous mammaries would detach explosively and fly outward like the rings of gas and dust from old super-novae. But she had a pretty face, almost elfin; surely the handiwork of a fine plastic surgeon.
The other woman was decorously garbed in an opaque cloth-type suit that covered every portion of her body. Her head was encased in a translucent bubble that shadowed
her face and lent enticing mystery to her expression. She seemed almost too young to be a Citizen-but of
