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                          "IF YOU'RE SMART--"

                            By Colin Keith

          Seems a pretty obvious crack for a business sharper
           to make to an inventor. "If you're so smart, why
            don't you make some money yourself?" Maybe so.
            But this scientist had an even better answer--

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                Astounding Science-Fiction April 1942.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


"If you're so damn smart, why ain't you rich?"

That hoary wisecrack must have been all of three centuries old when
Wolf Carmichael pulled it on Dr. Claud Kellog. The Wolf of Saturn
loved it and used it often. That day he lay back in his swivel chair,
chuckling offensively somewhere in the fatty depths of his triple chin,
as he threw it. But his roving, piggish eyes showed no mirth. They
were hard and scheming, the ruthless eyes that had made him master
of all commerce and industry throughout the Saturnian system. To his
money-grubbing mentality, this question was the ultimate in triumphant
repartee.

"A scholar named Archimedes was asked that question once," replied Dr.
Kellog, flushing angrily, "and to prove he could be rich if he wished,
he knocked off his important mathematical researches long enough to buy
up all the wine presses in the country. It was winter, then, but when
the next fall came the vintners had to have their presses back or else
lose the grape crop. Archimedes made a tidy profit."

"Never heard of him," snorted Carmichael. "Musta been some little
fellow on Venus. If he was a real big shot in the booze racket, he'd be
on the board of Interplanetary Distillers. He aint."

Carmichael threw away the stump of the cigar he was smoking and lit
another.

"To get back to this gadget of yours," he resumed indifferently. "Maybe
it's as good as you say, maybe not. But George Carmichael was always
the boy to give a struggling inventor a chance--"

Kellog winced. Yeah. Wolf would back anything that promised sure profit
and no loss--provided he was given control.

"--so here's what I'm willing to do. Your proposition to have me lend
you enough to get your machines built is out--the machines might
flop, then where'd I be? What we'll do is this--incorporate your
whatchamacallit--"

"Antichron."

"Antichron, huh? We'll incorporate it first, then put it into
production. I get fifty-five percent of the stock for promotion fee,
we sell twenty to the public for working capital, and all the rest is
yours. See?"

Kellog saw. It was a typical Carmichael proposition. Kellog would
furnish the work and brains, the sucker public the money. If the
venture failed, Carmichael couldn't be hurt; if it succeeded, he would
rake in the lion's share. Kellog reached for his hat and jammed it on
his head.

"That's pure burglary, Mr. Carmichael," he said fairly evenly,
mustering all his powers of self-restraint. "I'll see you in hell
first."

"Tut, tut, my boy," said Carmichael with a repetition of his nasty
chuckle, "how fiery you are! That's bad. You should never mix emotion
with business. Take me. Am I offended? No. I'll be here tomorrow, and
the day after that, and the day after that, ready to do business with
you. You'll come back--they always do."

Kellog only glared at him, then strode from the room, boiling at the
arrogance of the grasping capitalist. And as he angrily made his way
down the main street of Saturnport, everything he saw added to his
rage--and to his gloom, too. For every enterprise of any magnitude
on Titan, or on any of the other Saturnian satellites, was owned or
controlled by Carmichael. The list was an imposing one. Carmichael was
the president of the Titanic Trust Co., the only bank. He owned the
Saturnport Supply Co. and Titan Shipyards outright. He had a fat finger
in Rhean Ranches, Miman Mines, Titan Radio Power, the Dione angrauk
packeries, and the ruby pits on Enceladus. What burned up Kellog the
most was Trans-Saturnian Lighter Service.

That line of small intersatellite freighters had been established and
built by his father, years before. It supplied a much-needed service,
for the great interplanetary ships stopped only at Saturnport. The
little lighters carried the slaughtered angrauks from Rhea to the
packeries of Dione, and thence to the big port. They hauled ores from
the mines of Mimas to the smelters on Titan, and did other chores of
the kind. Carmichael saw it was a profitable line and tried to buy
into it. The elder Kellog resisted. Carmichael shut down his mines for
a year, cutting off important revenue. A quarantine on angrauks was
mysteriously promulgated; taxes on intersatellite shipping increased.
The bank called Kellog's notes. His lighter service was forced into
bankruptcy.

"And Carmichael bought it for a song," muttered Doc, bitterly, "had the
new taxes repealed and the quarantine rescinded. It broke dad's heart."

That was the way the Wolf of Saturn did things. Honeyed words, cash
advances, at first, anything for a foothold. Then squeeze, squeeze
until the enterprise was his. Now that he had the colonies of the
Saturnian system well under his thumb, he was branching out into larger
fields. He had ambitions of going back to the Earth one day and taking
his place among the mighty in Wall Street, where the Systemic Stock
Exchange was. He wanted to lock horns with such magnates as Aalman,
head of Venus Exploitation, Inc., and chairman of the board of the
Tellurian Master Bank. He wanted a bigger say-so in the operation of
the Interplanetary Transport Co. and a directorship on Etherways, the
planets' communication system. Therefore, when he was not in his office
at the Carmichael Building, he could be found in the brokerage office
of Neville & Beardsley, trading fiercely in securities, trying to match
wits with Aalman and the other tycoons.

Doc Kellog knew all that and knew how hopeless his fight was. Yet that
illiterate taunt still rang in his ears. He was smart, but he wasn't
rich. There must be something wrong with his approach to things. Other
men with half his brains got along and prospered; why couldn't he? That
thought was uppermost in his mind when he reached his laboratory.

"What luck, Doc?" asked cheery Billy Wade, his chief assistant.

"The usual," growled Kellog. "He wants to hog the show, otherwise no
dice. I told him to go to hell."

"Swell," grinned Billy Wade, admiringly, "but where do we get off? Fold
up and get jobs somewhere?"

"Maybe." Doc Kellog's anger had cooled somewhat and dejection had
succeeded it. But he was not quite ready to surrender. The memory of
that sneering challenge still rankled. Kellog sat down and stared at
the floor in deep thought.

       *       *       *       *       *

Things looked black. The single model of his antichron worked
perfectly. It had proved that his theory was correct. He could warp
space-time, given power enough, and bring all the planets together,
just as centuries before the introduction of telegraph and radio
brought all the countries of the Earth together. But his money was
gone, his bills mounting, and he was forced to deal with interlocking
monopolies for all his supplies, power and credit. Carmichael knew that
as well as he did and was waiting for the plum to drop in his lap.
Kellog knew that Carmichael would fight him tooth and nail unless he
cut him in. And that Kellog was resolved not to do.

He had never thought of his invention in terms of money before, but
rather in terms of the immense boon it would be to all humanity, taking
it for granted that his own compensation would be just and adequate.
But now he was racking his brain for a way to turn it into money--lots
of money--and quickly. He had exhausted all his own resources in
building the one model he had, and the power bills were eating him
up. If they were not paid by the end of the week, Titan Power would
attach his laboratory and its contents, which was the same as saying
Carmichael would.

Antichron--what were its chief virtues? What could he cash in on
_now_? For he must not only save what he had, but construct other
machines to introduce to the public. He sat up and looked at his model
thoughtfully. It was a clumsy-looking device, a monster machine taking
up the whole side of the room. Its main feature was a six-foot-square
crystal window, framed by shiny steel panels studded with knobs, dials,
glowing tubes, buttons and cranks. The crystal resembled an ordinary
televise scanner of the type used by Etherways, except that it was
thicker and double-faced. Whatever form of energy, whether heat,
electricity or light, impinged on one face was immediately transmitted
to the other. Where it differed from the standard models was that
its two faces could be split apart when subjected to antichronic
stresses, and separated by any number of millions of miles. But the
same antichronic stresses also created a warp in space-time so that
the interval seemed not to exist. It was a window that with the proper
manipulations of its complex controls could be made to look upon any
spot in the universe and receive energy impulse from it _then_.

That "then" was its great virtue. Long before space travel was an
actuality, mathematicians had known that there was no such thing as
simultaneity. Time, like space, was relative. They had had their first
practical demonstration of it when they tried to use two-way television
between the Earth and Moon. Radio waves took a little over a second to
travel each way. A man would speak, then wait for two seconds before
his answer began coming back to him. Later, that time lag became almost
intolerable. From Callisto it was three quarters of an hour--you
activated the machine, waited forty or so minutes for it to light up,
and then you waited an equal period for the inquiring face looking at
you to register understanding and begin his reply. Obviously, where
an hour and a half intervened between question and answer, sprightly
conversation was impossible. The antichron would cure that. With the
space between warped out of existence, instantaneous response could be
had.

"Why ain't I rich, huh?" repeated Kellog, sourly, and began thinking
on how men got rich. Not by inventing useful things or hard work,
necessarily. He thought of Carmichael's career, and Aalman's, and
those of others. They had one common denominator--they were men who
bought and sold, bought cheap and sold dear. And where did they find
their sellers and buyers? Why, on the Stock Exchange, of course.
Kellog's eyes lit up and he almost trembled with excitement as the full
implications of that chance thought dawned upon him. He jumped up and
called Wade to him.

"How much money have we?" he asked excitedly.

Billy Wade pulled out a wallet and squinted at its contents.

"There's about a thousand here of my own and the three thousand you
gave me to keep for the power bill."

"Willing to gamble?"

Wade just grinned and handed over the money.

"Quick, now. Grab the current 'Ephemerides' and find the Earth's
present position and rate of relative movement. Then look up the exact
latitude and longitude of the lower tip of Manhattan Island--that's in
New York."

Kellog ran over to the antichron and began setting the dials as
Wade called out the figures. Then he threw a master switch and the
machine hummed into activity. In a moment the screen was glowing, then
transparent. It was as if Kellog were looking out of a window high
over a green park surrounded on three sides by water. He adjusted the
mechanism and caused the projected screen to lower itself to a great
sprawling building that lay below. He forced it through a wall, and
there he was--looking in on the trading floor of the nerve center of
the Solar System, the Systemic Stock Exchange!

Thousands of men were milling about beneath, gesticulating and
shouting. At the other end of the vast hall an immense annunciator
board stood, on which names and numbers appeared. A flickering screen
beside it was displaying news flashes.

"A notebook! Hurry!" exclaimed Doc Kellog. He jotted down quotations
as he watched. Callistan Radioactives was high and climbing--a sale
at 423-1/2, then another at 428, then at 430-1/4. A flash came over
the screen saying Martian Gems had passed its dividend. Martian Gems
promptly dropped twelve points. Etherways and I. P. T. were strong. The
market generally was strong.

"Let her run," Doc shouted, shoving the book into his pocket. "Damn
the power bill. If I'm right, it won't matter; if I'm wrong, it won't
matter either. I'll be seeing you."

Then he was out and gone, hurrying to Neville & Beardsley.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Neville took the money, but he looked at the young scientist
dubiously.

"Small margin accounts are dangerous," he warned. "We accept them, but
we don't solicit them. Those wolves out there will take the shirt off
your back so quick it will make your head swim."

"Fair enough," answered Kellog cheerfully. "As a matter of fact, I am
in the market for a few wolfskins myself. Here, buy me some Callistan
Radioactives and sell some Martian Gems; all you can for the money."

Neville grunted disapprovingly, but took the money. Nobody but an
ignorant fool would sell Martian short, and Callistan was no bargain
above 400. Kellog went on into the board room and sat down behind the
group of local capitalists who were scanning the board in a listless,
bored way. Kellog had a hard time restraining his elation, for the
figures on the board they were looking at were ancient history to him.
His information was over an hour ahead of it. After a while he got up
and phoned Wade from a booth.

"Read me the latest dope," he said. Then listened as Wade gave him the
quotations. Martian had stopped falling; there was a flurry in Oberon
Metals. He hung up and stopped at Neville's desk on the way back to his
chair.

"Cover that Martian sale, then buy me some Oberon."

Neville blinked. Oberon had been inactive for days. But he noticed
Kellog had doubled his money on the Martian transaction, and had a nice
paper profit on his Callistan stock.

"Beginner's luck," he cautioned, as he filed the order.

When Kellog got the day's close from Wade, he closed out his line. It
was not a bad day's work. His cash balance on Neville's books was over
fourteen thousand. He left it there; tomorrow was another day.

The next day he ran the fourteen thousand up to forty-five. The day
after that he finished up with a couple of hundred. He drew enough of
it to pay the power bill, then walked on to the booking office of Titan
General Shops.

"Last week," said Kellog to the clerk, "I left an order here for some
parts for a special televise machine--"

"It's N. G.," said the insolent clerk. "Credit disapproved."

"I've got the money now," added Kellog. But the clerk shook his head
and walked away. Over his shoulder he flung:

"You gotta get Wolf's O. K. He stopped it--personally."

"Oh," said Kellog. So he wouldn't be permitted to develop his invention
on Titan _even_ if he had money! Carmichael held the reins--the supply
house, the shops, the power plant, transportation. Kellog walked slowly
back to his laboratory, thinking on the way what his next step would be.

The following day he had better luck. When he looked from his antichron
onto the clamoring mob of Wall Street brokers he knew at once that
something unusual was afoot. Pandemonium reigned, and often awed faces
would turn to stare up at the quotation board with its ever-changing
symbols of good and bad news. Kellog read the last bulletin hurriedly.

"Following the suicide early this morning of Charles Bean, general
manager of Venus Exploitation, rumors persist that the company's
billion-dollar investment in mimil plantations has had to be written
off as a total loss. The stock opened at 240, but fell off over a
hundred points in the first few minutes of trading. The last sale was
at 97--"

Kellog waited, tense. He watched Exploitation sink rapidly to 60, 50,
then 40. A gong rang and the screen lighted up again.

"A correction to the last bulletin," it said. "President Aalman
has made a statement. He says that Bean's suicide was due entirely
to domestic difficulties. The mimil venture has been tremendously
successful. So much so that the board of directors announce a one
hundred percent stock dividend and an equal amount in cash. He further
states that he will buy personally all the stock that is offered under
500."

At once the tumult on the floor increased to a howling typhoon of sound
as the brokers suddenly reversed their position and began hunting
sellers as fervidly as they had previously been hunting buyers.
The bidding was wild, leaping by bounds to ever-higher figures.
Exploitation rose from its depths like a soaring skyrocket--up into the
hundreds, past the five-hundred mark of Aalman's bid, on to a thousand
and upward.

Another gong. Another announcement.

"It is apparent that an effort is being made to corner Venus
Exploitation. The Exchange authorities have ordered, dealings in the
stock suspended. Speculators short of stock may settle at the rate of
two thousand dollars per share."

"Wow!" yelled Doc Kellog, and a moment later he was burning up the road
to Neville & Beardsley.

       *       *       *       *       *

The board room was crowded when he got there. All the big shots of
Titan were present, not excepting Carmichael. There was sheer panic
in the faces of some as they stared at the earlier bulletins, for
Exploitation represented a heavy investment for most of them. Even
Wolf's usually expressionless face showed concern as he saw his spare
millions dwindle to half and less. He was so intent on following the
damning figures that he did not notice the entrance of Kellog, or that
he sat down beside him in the chair vacated by a haggard man who had
just rushed despairingly from the room.

"It's more of Aalman's skulduggery, the pirate!" growled Carmichael to
the fellow sitting on the other side. "He's looted the company, that's
what. We're stuck. I'm getting out while I can."

He wrote an order and beckoned to Neville.

"The hell of it is," Wolf added, to his crafty-looking partner, "that
while this order is getting to New York, the stock will drop forty
points more. Damn that time lag!"

Neville approached, bowed respectfully, and took the order. He looked
at it, then remarked:

"This is for more than you own. Are you taking a short position?"

"Right! The stuff's wallpaper. When Aalman milks 'em, they stay milked.
Tomorrow I can cover at three. Get rid of this--quick."

Neville bowed again and turned away. Kellog plucked him by the sleeve.
He had sneaked a look at the order. The amount he had on balance would
margin it.

"I'll take that--at the current price," he whispered. "You needn't send
it to New York."

"You're crazy," said Neville, but he noted the order.

Kellog sat back and waited, gloating. In a few minutes the news would
come through that the market had reversed itself. He had made a
brilliant double play. If Carmichael's selling order had gone through
in the regular way, when it hit New York his stock would have brought
him hundreds of dollars a share; conversely, if his own buying order
had, he would have had to pay the corresponding price. As it was, he
got Carmichael's stock at 43, close to the bottom, and for it Wolf
received but 43.

"Whipsawed!" Carmichael yelled when Aalman's bullish statement was
broadcast. "The dirty rattlesnake. He started the rumors to depress the
stock; now he's buying it in at a bargain. Neville! Cancel my selling
orders."

Neville was late in coming. In the meantime the later flash showed on
the screen--the one telling of suspension of trading and the penalties
levied on short-sellers.

"Sorry, sir," said Neville, as placatingly as possible, "but it is
already executed. You said quick, so I disposed of it locally."

Carmichael snorted and looked about him.

"What fool--" he began, but Neville simply said, "The gentleman on your
right."

Carmichael glared at Kellog. Kellog glared right back.

"You!" howled Wolf, his porcine eyes incredulous.

"Me," grinned Kellog. "You owe me five thousand shares of Exploitation,
I believe. I want it."

Carmichael sputtered and gazed questioningly at Neville. It must be a
joke--this silly upstart of a scientist holding the whip hand over him.
Why, only a few days before he had come whining to his office for the
loan of a miserable few thousand. Now he was demanding ten million.
Preposterous!

"If you haven't the cash, I'll settle for a deed to Titan Shops, lock,
stock and barrel," offered Kellog smoothly, but he could not conceal
the triumph in his eyes. "I am rather anxious to get a little job done
there, but up to now they haven't been very ... uh ... co-operative."

Carmichael grunted like a prodded boar, frowning. He was in a tight
spot; he knew it. He had to settle and he did not have the cash.
Moreover, it hurt him to give up a property. But there seemed to be no
choice, and he was aware that the other speculators in the room were
watching him closely. He couldn't welsh--not openly.

"Done!" he exploded.

       *       *       *       *       *

That night Kellog took over the Titan General Shops. He and Wade worked
late, laying out the program for the following day. Tomorrow they would
start construction on the first batch of commercial antichrons. But
just at midnight a messenger came, bearing a communication from the
power company. It read:

    You are hereby notified that due to inadequate generating
    facilities, Titan Radio Power finds itself compelled to curtail
    its service. Since our contract to furnish your plant with power
    was made with Mr. George Carmichael personally and not with the
    Titan General Shops, the change of ownership voids it. All service
    will be discontinued within four hours.

"The dirty rat!" blazed Kellog.

"Wolf is the word," corrected Billy Wade with a sigh. "You can't beat
him."

"We'll see," said Kellog grimly. "Let's have a look at the electrical
hook-up here. Maybe we can use antichron in another way."

Neither he nor Wade attempted to sleep that night. They were much too
busy. The machine was retuned and put in search for the New York home
of the general manager of Tellurian Power. They found him, aroused him
and made their proposition. Yes, the Earth plants had unlimited power.
Yes, if Kellog could project a receiving plate into one of Tellurian's
generating plants, its men would connect leads to it. The general
manager doubted whether power could be transmitted from planet to
planet--it had never been done before--but if they would pay for it, he
would send it.

Kellog closed the deal. Then he and Wade went about altering the
antichron for gathering pure current, not light. They marked the back
face to show where the Earthly electrodes should be placed. On the
front they attached their own connections. Those led to the shops. Then
they set the space-time warper to working. In a moment the back face
was gone. No doubt, at that instant, startled engineers were puzzling
over the bizarre outlet that had suddenly appeared in their plant.

"Say," said Billy Wade. "He said unlimited power, didn't he? And the
rate there is a tenth what it is here. Why not peddle some juice on the
side?"

"Right!" yelped Kellog, and he reached for a pad.

                         POWER FOR SALE, CHEAP

    Owing to surplus productive capacity provided by new owners, Titan
    General Shops is in a position to furnish any quantity of power at
    the rate of ten cents a mega-watt hour.

"Get that to the Saturnport _Herald_ to be run in the next edition," he
told Wade.

"This'll wash up Titan Power, if my guess is any good," remarked Wade
cheerfully. "They've been getting away with murder."

"Yep," said Kellog dreamily. Carmichael would have to write off another
asset, for local power could not possibly compete with Tellurian now
that there was a way to transmit it. And the power monopoly was the
biggest plum in Wolf's basket.

In an hour the first surges of energy were coming in from Earth,
flowing from the antichron into the local radio distributing emission
set. The electricians at the plant simply tuned out on Titan Power and
in on the laboratory set. The shift was made.

       *       *       *       *       *

Carmichael did not take the fresh assault upon him lying down. He
promptly went about getting an injunction against the unfranchised
sale of power, but it was several days before he could get it
issued. In the meantime, with the full facilities of the shop at his
disposal, Kellog had completed a batch of sight-sound antichrons for
use in communication. He hired and instructed operators. Then the
machines were focused on the various important planets, satellites and
asteroids. At one stroke Saturnport became the central clearing house
of the Solar System for news. If necessary, a Pluto signal could be
relayed through Titan to Earth in only the time necessary to make the
connections. Etherways was at once ruined. All its equipment was junk,
except for nearby use.

"That ought to hurt," observed Billy Wade, jubilantly. "They say Wolf
had a pile of Etherways Preferred."

"Probably," said Kellog. But he was smarting under the injunction. The
corrupt local court had forbidden the outside sale of power. Not only
that, the Saturnport Council--all creatures of Carmichael--issued an
edict prohibiting the importation of power generated outside of Titan.
This time the shops did have to close down until Kellog could improvise
some old-fashioned magnetic generators of the field-armature type. Not
content with inflicting those inconveniences on Kellog, Carmichael
might be expected next to bring suit for personal damages ensuing
from the collapse of Etherways. Etherways represented the investment
of important money, and the men who lost were not the type who would
console themselves that their company had been replaced by something
incomparably better.

"I've got to go all the way," concluded Kellog, soberly. "If I don't
get him, he'll get me."

Again he put his and Wade's head together and designed a new type of
antichron. It was three-dimensional--a cubical box, to be exact, with
four sides and a bottom, but open at the top. It worked on the same
principle as the flat screen, but with slight variations. It operated
as a shuttle, not continuously.

Kellog put one of his television machines in focus with the mine on
Mimas. Miman Mines was only partly owned by Carmichael; he controlled
the industries on the lesser satellites by virtue of his strangle-hold
on transportation. So the manager was willing to talk to Kellog.

"What do you pay that buccaneer to haul ore to Titan?" asked Kellog.

"Twenty cents a ton."

"I'll haul it for two."

"You can't," objected the manager. "The Trans-Saturnian Lighter
Service's charter says--"

"I know what it says," snapped back Kellog. "My father drew it up.
It confers a perpetual monopoly on all intersatellite _ship-borne_
commerce. Now listen. Clear a place about twenty feet square and
arrange to dump ore in it from twenty feet or more above. Mark it off
with safety lines and don't ever let a man step across the lines. Then
watch my smoke."

He cut the connection long enough to send similar instructions to the
receiving station by the smelter. Then he watched through the antichron
while the preparations were being made at both ends of the line. When
they were ready he turned the machine over to Wade.

Wade sat down and got to work. His job was very much like that of the
operator of a grab bucket. He kept his eyes on the visual screen, his
hands on the controls of the cubical one.

Current!--the empty cube appears on Mimas--an avalanche of ore fills
it--shift current--it disappears from Mimas, appears at the smelter on
Titan--the unloading cradle on which it materializes tips and dumps the
ore--when it is upright again, shift current. Mimas, fill; Titan, dump.
Mimas, fill; Titan, dump. That was all there was to it. Hundreds of
tons a minute, delivered in Titan the day it is mined.

"That shoots Interplanetary Transportation and Trans-Saturnian all to
hell, I should say," drawled the editor of the _Herald_, who had been
invited to watch the demonstration. He was conducting a campaign to
have Carmichael's injunction revoked. Now that the people knew cheap
power was available, they were angry about it. "Yes," continued the
editor, "they're sunk. I'm going to stroll down to the bank and draw
out my balance before the run starts."

"What do you mean?" asked Kellog.

"Plenty. The bank is really a sort of holding company for Wolf. Now
that his companies are all shot, it'll crash. You may not know it yet,
but Carmichael is ruined. He will be a very sick wolf in an hour or so."

       *       *       *       *       *

Who is the Wolf of Saturn? People on Titan will point out a blowzy,
sodden old derelict who hangs out in a dive near the skyport and tell
you that "Carmy," as they call him now, used to wear that title. He was
a big shot once, they say.

But if you should ask any of the frequenters of the big building
on lower Manhattan who the Wolf of Saturn is, they will tell you
instantly. It is a crackpot on Titan by the name of Kellog. He was the
fellow who ruthlessly and without warning wrecked two of the biggest
and most profitable enterprises in the universe--Etherways, Inc., and
Interplanetary Transport--and many of the smartest financiers of the
System with it. What a guy! Not only that, but he wrecked the System's
entire price structure with his cheap services. "Benefactor?" they will
squall. "He's a wild man--a wolf!"