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seldom that he ever left his apartment. The elevator boy gave him a rehearsed and nervous, “Good morning. Mr. Newton.” He smiled at him and stepped in.
    The elevator took him slowly and very smoothly up to the seventh floor, which had formerly housed Farnsworth’s law offices. Farnsworth was waiting for him when he stepped out. The lawyer was dressed like a potentate in a gray silk suit, a brilliant red jewel flashing on a fat and perfectly manicured ring finger. “You’re looking well, Mr. Newton,” he said, taking his extended hand with gentle care. Farnsworth was observant; he would have noticed, quickly enough, the wince that Newton made if he were touched roughly in any way.
    “Thank you, Oliver. I’ve been feeling especially well.”
    Farnsworth led him down a hallway, past offices and into a suite of rooms with the plaque, W. E. Corp. They walked by a battery of secretaries, who became respectfully silent at their approach, and into Farnsworth’s office, with O. Y. Farnsworth, President, in small brass letters on the door.
    Inside, the office was furnished as before, with mixed rococo pieces dominated by the huge, grotesquely ornamented Caffieri desk. The room was, as always, filled with music—a violin piece this time. It was unpleasant to Newton’s ears; but he said nothing.
    A maid brought them tea, while they chatted for a few minutes—Newton had learned to like tea, although he had to drink it lukewarm—and then they began to talk about business; their status in the courts, the arranging and rearranging of directorships, holding companies, grants and licenses and royalties, the financing of new plants, the purchase of old ones, the markets, prices, and the fluctuation of public interest in the seventy-three consumer articles they made—television antennas, transistors, photographic film, and radiation detectors—and the three hundred-odd patents they leased out, from the oil refining process to a harmless substitute for gunpowder that was used in children’s toys. Newton was well aware of Farnsworth’s amazement—even more than usual—with his own grasp of these things, and he told himself it would be wise if he made a few intentional blunders in his recollection of figures and details. Yet it was enjoyable, exciting—even though he knew the vain and cheap pride that gave the pleasure—in using his Anthean mind on these matters. It was as if one of these people—he always thought of them as “these people,” much as he had grown to like and to admire them—should find himself dealing with a group of very alert and resourceful chimpanzees. He was fond of them and, with his fundamental human vanity, unable to resist the easy pleasure of exercising his mental superiority to their dumbfounded amazement. Yet, enjoyable as this might be, he had to remember that these people were more dangerous than chimpanzees—and it had been thousands of years since any of them had seen an Anthean undisguised.
    They went on talking until the maid brought them lunch—sliced-chicken sandwiches and a bottle of Rhine wine for Farnsworth; oatmeal cookies and a glass of water for Newton. Oatmeal, he had found, was one of the most digestible foods for the peculiar qualities of his system, and he ate it frequently. They continued to talk for quite a while about the complex business of financing the various and widespread enterprises. Newton had come to enjoy this part of the game for its own sake. He had been forced to learn it from scratch—there were many things about this society and this planet that could not be learned from watching television—and he had found he had a natural bent for it, possibly an atavism tracing back to ancient ancestors in the old, strong days that had been the glory of primitive Anthean culture. That was during the time that this Earth had been in its second ice age—the time of harsh capitalism and warfare, before the Anthean power sources had been all but exhausted and the water