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gone. He enjoyed playing with the counters and the numbers of finance, even though this power gave him little excitement and though he had entered the game with the stacked deck that only ten thousand years of Anthean electronics, chemistry, and optics could have provided. But he never for a moment forgot what he had come to Earth for. It was always with him, unavoidable, like the dim ache that still lived in his strengthened, but always tired, muscles, like the impossible strangeness, however familiar it would become, of this huge and various planet.
    He enjoyed Farnsworth. He enjoyed the few humans he knew. He was unacquainted with any women, for he feared them, for reasons he did not understand himself. He was sad, sometimes, that security made it too risky to know these people better. Farnsworth, hedonist that he was, was a shrewd man, a lusty player of the game of money; a man who required occasional watching; a possibly dangerous man, but one whose mind had many fine and subtle facets. He had not made his huge income—an income that Newton had trebled for him—solely on reputation.
    When he had made it clear enough to Farnsworth what he wanted to have done, he leaned back in his chair for a moment, resting, and then said, “Oliver, now that the money is beginning to… accumulate, there is a new thing I want to undertake. I spoke to you before of a research project….”
    Farnsworth did not seem surprised. But then he had probably been expecting something more important to be the subject of this visit. “Yes, Mr. Newton?”
    He smiled gently. “It will be a different kind of undertaking, Oliver. And, I fear, an expensive one. I imagine you’ll have some work to do in setting it up—the financial end of it anyway.” He looked out the window for a moment, at the discreet row of gray Fifth Avenue shops, and at the trees. “It’s to be nonprofit, and I think the best thing is to set up a research foundation.”
    “A research foundation?” The lawyer pursed his lips.
    “Yes.” He turned back to Farnsworth. “Yes, I think we’ll incorporate in Kentucky, with about all the capital I can gather together. That’ll be about forty million dollars, I think—if we can get the banks to help us.”
    Farnsworth’s eyebrows shot up. “
Forty million?
You’re not worth half that, Mr. Newton. In another six months maybe, but we’ve only begun…”
    “Yes. I know. But I think I’m going to sell my rights in Worldcolor to Eastman Kodak, outright. You may, of course, keep your share, if you wish. Eastman will make intelligent use of it, I imagine. They’re prepared to go rather high to get it—with a proviso that I don’t market a competitive color film within the next five years.”
    Farnsworth was getting red in the face now. “Isn’t that like selling a life interest in the U.S. Treasury?
    “I suppose it is. But I need the capital; and you know yourself that there’s an annoying danger of anti-trust action inherent in these patents. And Kodak has better access to the world markets than we have. Really, we’ll be saving ourselves a great deal of trouble.”
    Farnsworth shook his head, somewhat placated. “If I had a copyright on the Bible I wouldn’t sell it to Random House. But I suppose you know what you’re doing. You always do.”

5
    At Pendley State University in Pendley, Iowa, Nathan Bryce dropped by the office of his department head. This was Professor Canutti and his position was called Departmental Coordinator-Advisor, which was much like the titles of most department heads these days, since the time of the great labeling shift that had turned every salesman into a Field Representative, every janitor into a Custodian. It had taken a little longer to reach the universities. But it had reached them, and nowadays there were no more secretaries, only Receptionists and Administrative Aides, no more bosses, only Coordinators.
    Professor Canutti, crew-cut, pipe-smoking and rubbery-complexioned,