Mike had failed utterly to understand it at first, even though Jubal showed him how to make out his first check, gave him “money” in exchange for it, taught him how to count it.

Then suddenly, with a grokking so blinding that he trembled and forced himself not to withdraw, he understood the abstract symbolic nature of money. These pretty pictures and bright medallions were not “money”; they were concrete symbols for an abstract idea which spread all through these people, all through their world. But these things were not money, any more than water shared in water ceremony was the growing-closer. Water was not necessary to the ceremony . . . and these pretty things were not necessary to money. Money was an idea, as abstract as an Old One’s thoughts—money was a great structured symbol for balancing and healing and growing closer.

Mike was dazzled with the magnificent beauty of money.

The flow and change and countermarching of the symbols was another matter, beautiful in small, but reminding him of games taught to nestlings to encourage them to learn to reason correctly and grow. It was the total structure that dazzled him, the idea that an entire world could be reflected in one dynamic, completely interconnected, symbol structure. Mike grokked then that the Old Ones of this race were very old indeed to have composed such beauty, and he wished humbly that he might soon be allowed to meet one of them.

Jubal encouraged him to spend some of his money and Mike did so, with the timid, uncertain eagerness of a bride being brought to bed. Jubal suggested that he “buy presents for his friends” and Jill helped him with it, starting by placing arbitrary limits: only one present for each friend and a total cost that was not even a reciprocal filled-three of the sum that had been placed to his account—Mike’s original intention had been to spend all of that pretty balance on his friends.

He quickly learned how difficult it is to spend money. There were so many things from which to choose, all of them wonderful and most of them incomprehensible. Surrounded by thick catalogs from Marshall Field’s to the Ginza, and back by way of Bombay and Copenhagen, he felt smothered in a plethora of riches. Even the Sears & Montgomery catalog was too much for him.

But Jill helped. “No, Mike, Duke would not want a tractor.”

“Duke likes tractors.”

“Um, maybe—but he’s got one, or Jubal has, which is the same thing. He might like one of those cute little Belgian unicycles—he could take it apart and put it together and shine it all day long. But even that is too expensive, what with the taxes. Mike dear, a present ought not to be very expensive—unless you are trying to get a girl to marry you, or something. Especially ‘something.’ But a present should show that you thought about it and considered that person’s tastes. Something he would enjoy but probably would not buy for himself.”

“How?”

“That’s always the problem. Wait a minute. I just remembered something in this morning’s mail—I hope Larry hasn’t carted it off yet.” She was back quickly. “Found it! Listen to this: ‘Living Aphrodite: A de-luxe Album of Feminine Beauty in Gorgeous Stereo-Color by the World’s Greatest Artists of the Camera. Notice: this item will not be sent by mail. It will be forwarded at purchaser’s risk by prepaid express only. Orders cannot be accepted from addresses in the following states—’ Um, Pennsylvania is on the verboten list—but don’t let that worry you; if it is addressed to you, it will be delivered—and if I know Duke’s vulgar tastes, this is just what he would like.”

Duke did like it. It was delivered, not by express, but via the S.S. patrol car capping the house—and the next ad for the same item to arrive in the house boasted: “—exactly as supplied to the Man from Mars, by special appointment,” which pleased Mike and annoyed Jill.

Other presents were just as difficult, but picking a present for Jubal was supremely difficult. Jill was stumped. What does one buy for a man who has everything—everything, that is to say, that he wants which money can buy? The Sphinx? Three Wishes? The fountain that Ponce de Leon failed to find? Oil for his ancient bones, or one golden day of youth? Jubal had long ago even foresworn pets, because he outlived them, or (worse yet) it was now possible that a pet would outlive him, be orphaned.

Privately they consulted the others. “Shucks,” Duke told them, “didn’t you know? The boss likes statues.”

“Really?” Jill answered. “I don’t see any sculpture around.”

“That’s because most of the stuff he likes isn’t for sale. He says that the crud they’re making nowdays looks like disaster in a junk yard and any idiot with a blow torch and astigmatism can set himself up as a sculptor.”