The Cosmic Computer

son?” his father asked.
The price had begun to rise; even so, he was afraid that what they had paid so far was only the down payment. Dinner last evening. Flora, who had evidently been talking to Wade Lucas, shouting accusations at them; his mother fleeing from the table in tears. As the car rose, he reached out and turned on and adjusted the telescreen for the under-view.
“Keep your eye on that, Father,” he said. “That’s what we’re paying to get rid of.”
A distillery, bigger than the Menardes plant, long closed and now half roofless and crumbling. Rows of warehouses, empty after the War until taken over by homeless vagrants. Jerry-built shanties with rattletrap aircars grounded around them. Tramptown, a festering sore on the south side of Litchfield.
“If we put this over,” he continued, “all those tramps will have steady work and good homes. We can have a park there, with fountains that’ll work. Maybe even Flora and Mother will think we’ve done something worth doing.”
“It’ll be kind of hard to take in the meantime, though, but if you can take it, I can.” Rodney Maxwell turned off the underside teleview screen and put on the forward one. “See that little pink spot over there? Sunrise on the east side of Snagtooth; Tenth Army’s just behind us. Now, let’s see if this airspeed gauge is telling the truth or just bragging.”
Sudden acceleration pushed them back in their seats. The calibrations on the gauge rose swiftly; the pink-lighted peak grew swiftly in the teleview screen. The gauge hadn’t been bragging, it had been understating; the car had more speed than the instrument could register. Two and a half minutes from Litchfield, they were decelerating and swinging slowly around Snagtooth, looking down on a tilted plateau that ended on the western side in a sheer drop of almost a thousand feet.
There were ruinous buildings on it: barracks and storehouses and offices, an airship dock and an air-traffic control tower from which all the glass had long ago vanished, a great steel telecast tower that had fallen, crushing a couple of buildings. Young trees had already grown among the wreckage.
“Look over there, on the slope below it; there’s one entrance to the shelters.” There was a clearing among the evergreens, half a mile from the buildings, and raw earth, and a couple of big scows grounded near. “They bulldozed rock and earth over the end of the tunnel. Then, there’s another one down on that bench, a couple of hundred feet below the edge of the plateau. They blasted rock down over that. The main entrance is a vertical shaft under that pre-stressed concrete dome. That was chapel, auditorium, or something. They just covered it with sheet metal and poured a foot of concrete on top.”
They floated down above the broken roofs and crumbling walls, and grounded in the area between the main administration building and the offices, back of the ship docks. Once, he supposed, it had been a lawn. Then it had been a jungle. Now it was a scuffed, littered, bare-trodden work-yard. Men were straggling out of the administration building, lighting pipes and cigarettes; they all wore new but work-soiled infantry battle dress. All of them waved and shouted greetings; one, about Conn’s own age, approached. As he got out, Conn saw the resemblance to Lester Dawes, the banker, before he recognized Anse Dawes, who had been one of his closest friends six years ago. They shook hands and pounded each other on the back.
“Hey, you’re looking great, Conn!” They all told him that; he’d begin to believe it pretty soon. “Sorry I couldn’t make the party, but somebody had to sit on the lid here, and Jerry Rivas and I cut cards for it and Jerry won.”
“You didn’t tell me Anse was with you,” he reproached his father. Rodney Maxwell said he’d been saving that for a surprise.
When Conn asked Anse what was the matter with the bank, he said: “For the birds; I’d as soon count sheets of toilet paper as this stuff we’re using for money. Sooner. Toilet paper can be used for something, and this paper money’s too stiff. Maybe some of this stuff we’re digging here isn’t worth much, but at least it’s real.”
That was something else the Maxwell Plan would have to take care of. Gresham’s Law was running hog-wild on Poictesme. A Planetary Government sol was worth about ten centisols, Federation, and aside from deposit boxes, woolen socks under the mattress, and tin cans buried in the corner of the cellar, Federation currency was nonexistent.
“Had breakfast yet?” Rodney Maxwell asked.
“Oh, hours ago. I was out and shot another spikenose; it’s hanging up back of the kitchen, waiting for the cook to skin it and cut it up.” He grinned at Conn. “You don’t get this kind of hunting in a bank, either.”
“Jerry still inside? I want to see him. Suppose you take Conn around and show him the sights. And don’t worry about him bumping you out of a job. Worry about the six or eight extra jobs you’ll have to do besides your own, from now on.”
Conn and Anse crossed the yard and entered one of the office buildings, through a big breach in the wall. Anse said: “I did that myself; 90  mm tank gun. When we want a wall out of the way, we get it out of the way.” Inside were a lot of lifters and skids and power shovels and things; laborers were assembling for work assignments. Most of them had been with his father six years ago and he knew them. They hadn’t done any growing up in the meantime. They climbed into an airjeep and floated out over the edge of the plateau, letting down past the sheer cliff to where the lower lateral shaft had been opened. A great deal of rock had been shoveled and bulldozed away to expose it; it was twenty feet high and forty wide. Anse simply steered the jeep inside and up