The I.T.&T. Building turned out to be several hundred yards down the street, almost at the far side of Main Island, but it was easy to find as it was the largest building on the island. Don climbed over the coaming at the entrance and found himself in the local office of Interplanetary Telephone and Televideo Corporation. A young lady was seated behind a counter desk. “I’d like to send a radiogram,” he said to her.
“That’s what we’re here for.” She handed him a pad and stylus.
“Thanks.” Don composed a message with much wrinkling of forehead, trying to make it both reassuring and informative in the fewest words. Presently he handed it in.
The girl raised her brows when she saw the address but made no comment. She counted the words, consulted a book, and said, “That’ll be a hundred and eighty-seven fifty.” Don counted it out, noting anxiously what a hole that made in his assets.
She glanced at the notes and pushed them back. “Are you kidding?”
“What’s the matter?”
“Offering me Federation money. Trying to get me in trouble?”
“Oh.” Don felt again a sick feeling at the pit of his stomach that was getting to be almost a habit. “Look—I’m just down in the Nautilus. I haven’t had time to exchange this stuff. Can I send the message collect?”
“To Mars?”
“What should I do?”
“Well, there’s the bank just down the street. If I were you I’d try there.”
“I guess so. Thanks.” He started to pick up his message; she stopped him.
“I was about to say that you can file your message if you like. You’ve got two weeks in which to pay for it.”
“Huh? Why, thanks!”
“Don’t thank me. It can’t go out for a couple of weeks and you don’t have to pay until we are ready to send it.”
“Two weeks? Why?”
“Because Mars is right smacko back of the Sun now; it wouldn’t punch through. We’ll have to wait on the swing.”
“Well, what’s the matter with relay?”
“There’s a war on—or hadn’t you noticed?”
“Oh-” Don felt foolish.
“We’re still accepting private messages both ways on the Terra-Venus channel—subject to paraphrase and censoring—but we couldn’t guarantee that your message would be relayed from Terra to Mars. Or could you instruct someone on Earth to pay for the second transmission?”
“Uh—I’m afraid not.”
“Maybe it’s just as well. They might not relay it for you even if you could get someone to foot the bill. The Federation censors might kill it. So give me that traffic and I’ll file it. You can pay for it later.” She glanced at the message. “Looks like you sort of ran into hard luck. How old are you” She glanced again at the form. “—Don Harvey?”
Don told her.
“Hmmm… you look older. I’m older than you are; I guess that makes me your grandmother. If you need any more advice, just stop in and ask Grandmother Isobel—Isobel Costello.”
“Uh, thanks, Isobel.”
“Not at all. Usual I.T.&T. service.” She gave him a warm smile. Don left feeling somewhat confused.
The bank was near the center of the island; Don remembered having passed it. The sign on the glass read: BANK OF AMERICA & HONGKONG. Over this had been stuck strips of masking tape and under it was another sign handwritten in whitewash: New London Trust & Investment Company. Don went in, picked the shortest queue, and presently explained his wants. The teller hooked a thumb toward a desk back of a rail. “See him.”
At the desk was seated an elderly Chinese dressed in a long black gown. As Don approached he stood up, bowed, and said, “May I help you, sir?”
Don again explained and laid his wad of bills on the banker’s desk. The man looked at it without touching it. “I am so sorry.”
“What’s the matter?”
“You are past the date when one may legally exchange Federation currency for money of the Republic.”
“But I haven’t had a chance to before! I just got in.”
“I am very sorry. I do not make the regulations.”
“But what am I to do?”
The banker closed his eyes, then opened them. “In this imperfect world one must have money. Have you something to offer as security?”