I might be willing to deal with you, but your little machines must be used to be useful.
How might riches come to me, if I had to use - what is it you sell?- well, a razor, for instance, only in the strictest, trembling secrecy.
Even if my chin were more simply and more cleanly shaven, how would I become rich?
And how would I avoid death by gas chamber or mob frightfulness if I were ever once caught using it?"
Ponyets shrugged,
"You are correct.
I might point out that the remedy would be to educate your own people into the use of nucleics for their convenience and your own substantial profit.
It would be a gigantic piece of work; I don't deny it; but the returns would be still more gigantic.
Still that is your concern, and, at the moment, not mine at all. For I offer neither razor, knife, nor mechanical garbage disposer."
"What do you offer?"
"Gold itself.
Directly.
You may have the machine I demonstrated last week."
And now Pherl stiffened and the skin on his forehead moved jerkily.
"The transmuter?"
"Exactly.
Your supply of gold will equal your supply of iron.
That, I imagine, is sufficient for all needs.
Sufficient for the Grand Mastership itself, despite youth and enemies.
And it is safe."
"In what way?"
"In that secrecy is the essence of its use; that same secrecy you described as the only safety with regard to nucleics.
You may bury the transmuter in the deepest dungeon of the strongest fortress on your furthest estate, and it will still bring you instant wealth.
It is the gold you buy, not the machine, and that gold bears no trace of its manufacture, for it cannot be told from the natural creation."
"And who is to operate the machine?"
"Yourself.
Five minutes teaching is all you will require. I'll set it up for you wherever you wish."
"And in return?"
"Well," Ponyets grew cautious.
"I ask a price and a handsome one.
It is my living.
Let us say,- for it its a valuable machine - the equivalent of a cubic foot of gold in wrought iron."
Pherl laughed, and Ponyets grew red.
"I point out, sir," he added, stiffly, "that you can get your price back in two hours."
"True, and in one hour, you might be gone, and my machine might suddenly turn out to be useless.
I'll need a guarantee." "You have my word."
"A very good one," Pherl bowed sardonically, "but your presence would be an even better assurance.
I'll give you my word to pay you one week after delivery in working order."
"Impossible."
"Impossible?
When you've already incurred the death penalty very handily by even offering to sell me anything.
The only alternative is my word that you'll get the gas chamber tomorrow otherwise."
Ponyet's face was expressionless, but his eyes might have flickered.
He said, "It is an unfair advantage.
You will at least put your promise in writing?"
"And also become liable for execution?
No, sir!"
Pherl smiled a broad satisfaction.
"No, sir! Only one of us is a fool."
The trader said in a small voice, "It is agreed, then." 6.