He decided to settle that problem at once by spending the note the banker had given him. He recalled a restaurant a short distance back and stopped suddenly, whereupon a man jostled him.

Don said, "Excuse me," and noted that the man was another Chinese-noted it without surprise as nearly half of the contract labor shipped in during the early days of the Venerian colonies had been Orientals. It did seem to him that the man's face was familiar-a fellow passenger in the Nautilus? Then he recalled that he had seen him at the dock at the foot of the street.

"My fault," the man answered. "I should look where I'm going. Sorry I bumped you." He smiled most charmingly.

"No harm done," Don replied, "but it was my fault. I suddenly decided to turn around and go back."

"Back to the bank?"

"Huh?"

"None of my business, but I saw you coming out of the bank."

"As a matter of fact," Don answered, "I wasn't going back to the bank. I'm looking for a restaurant and I remembered seeing one back there."

The man glanced at his bags. "Just get in?"

"Just down in the Nautilus."

"You don't want that restaurant-not unless you have money to throw away. It's strictly a tourist trap."

Don thought about the single credit note in his pocket and worried. "Uh, where can a chap get a bite to eat? A good, cheap restaurant?"

The man took his arm. "I'II show you. A place down by the water, run by a cousin of mine."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble."

"Not at all. I was about to refresh the inner man myself. By the way, my name is Johnny Ling."

"Glad to know you, Mr. Ling. I'm Don Harvey."

The restaurant was in a blind alley off the foot of Buchanan Street. Its sign advertised TWO WORLDS DINING ROOM-Tables for Ladies-WELCOME SPACEMEN. Three move-overs were hanging around the entrance, sniffing the odors and pressing their twitching noses against the screen door. Johnny Ling pushed them aside and ushered Don in.

A fat Cantonese stood behind the counter, presiding over both range and cash register. Ling called out, "Hi Charlie!"

The fat man answered, "Hello, Johnny," then broke into fluent cursing, mixing Cantonese, English, Portuguese, and whistle speech impartially. One of the move-overs had managed to slip in when the door was opened and was making a beeline for the pie rack, his little hooves clicking on the floor. Moving very fast despite his size the man called Charlie headed him off, took him by the ear and marched him out. Still cursing, Charlie returned to the pie rack, picked out half a pie that had seen better times and re turned to the door. He tossed the pie to the fauns, who scrambled for it, bleating and whimpering.

"If you didn't feed them, Charlie," commented Ling, "they wouldn't hang around."

"You damn mind your own business!"

Several customers were eating at the counter; they paid no attention to the incident. Ling moved closer to the cook and said, "Back room empty?"

Charlie nodded and turned his back. Ling led Don through a swinging door; they ended up in a booth in the back of the building. Don sat down and picked up a menu, wondering what he could get that would stretch his one credit as far as possible. Ling took it from him. "Let me order for you. Charlie really is a number-one cook."

"But..."

"You are my guest. No, don't argue. I insist." Charlie showed up at that point, stepping silently through the booth's curtain. He and Ling exchanged remarks in a rapid singsong; he went away, returning shortly with crisp, hot egg rolls. The aroma was wonderful and Don's stomach put a stop to his protests.

The egg rolls were followed by a main dish which Don could not place. It was Chinese cooking but it certainly was not the chop suey of the trade. Don thought that he could identify Venerian vegetables out of his childhood in it but he could not be sure. Whatever it was, it was just what he needed; he began to feel a warm glow of content and ceased to be worried about anything.

While he ate he found that he was telling Ling his life history with emphasis on recent events that had landed him unexpectedly on Venus. The man was easy to talk to and it did not seem polite simply to sit, wolfing his host's food and saying nothing.

Ling sat back presently and wiped his mouth. "You've certainly had an odd time of it, Don. What are you going to do now?"

Don frowned. "I wish I knew. I've got to find a job of some sort and a place to sleep. After that I've got to scrape up, or save up, or borrow, enough money to send word to my folks. They'll be worried."

"You brought some money with you?"

"Huh? Oh, sure, but it's Federation money. I can't spend it."

"And Uncle Tom wouldn't change it for you. He's a flinty hearted old so-and-so in spite of his smiles. He's still a pawnbroker at bottom."

" `Uncle Tom?' The banker is your uncle?"

"Eh? Oh, no, no-just a manner of speaking. He set up a hock shop here a long time ago. Prospectors would come in and pawn their Geiger counters. Next time out he'd grubstake 'em. Pretty soon he owned half the hot pits around here and was a banker. But we still call him `Uncle Tom.' "

Don had a vague feeling that Ling was too anxious to deny the relationship but be did not pursue the thought as it did not matter to him. Ling was continuing, "You know, Don, the bank isn't the only place where you can change Federation money."

"What do you mean?"

Ling dipped his forefinger in a puddle of water on the table top and traced out the universal credit sign. "Of course, it's the only legal place. Would that worry you?"

"Well..."

"It isn't as if there were anything wrong about changing it. It's an arbitrary law and they didn't ask you when they passed it. After all, it's your money. That's right, isn't it?"

"I suppose so."

"It's your money and you can do what you please with it. But this talk is strictly on the quiet-you understand that?"

Don didn't say anything; Ling went on, "Now just speaking hypothetically-how much Federation money do you have?"

"Uh, about five hundred credits."

"Let's see it."

Don hesitated. Ling said sharply, "Come on. Don't you trust me? After all it's just so much waste paper."

Don got out his money. Ling looked at it and took out his wallet, started counting out bills. "Some of those big bills will be hard to move," he commented. "Suppose we say fifteen per cent." The money he laid down looked exactly like that Don had placed on the table except that each note had been overprinted with VENUS REPUBLIC.

Don did a rapid calculation. Fifteen per cent of what he had came to seventyfive credits, more or less-not even half what he needed to pay for a radiogram to Mars. He picked up his money and started putting it back into his wallet.

"What's the matter?"

"It's no use to me. I told you I needed a hundred eighty-seven fifty to pay for my radiogram."

"Well-twenty per cent. And I'm doing you a favor because you're a youngster in trouble."

Twenty per cent was still only a hundred credits. "No."

"Be reasonablel I can't move it at more than a point or two over that; I might take a loss. Commercial money draws eight per cent now, the way things are booming. This stuff has to go into hiding, losing eight per cent every year. If the war goes on very long, it's a net loss. What do you expect?"

Fiscal theory was over Don's head; he simply knew that anything less than the price of a message to Mars did not interest him. He shook his head.

Ling shrugged and gathered up his money. "It's your loss. Say, that's a handsome ring you're wearing."

"Thanks."

"How much money do you say you needed?"

Don repeated it. "You see, I've just got to get word to my family. I don't really need money for anything else; I can work."

"Mind if I look at that ring?"