Birthright

medium of financial exchange used by the planet could be duplicated in huge quantities by the merchants

in charge of commerce in that particular system. Except for fissionable materials, which were in ever-increasing demand across the galaxy, there was nothing so rare that Man couldn't spare a planetload of it to push an unruly economic entity back into line: diamonds, rare earths, drugs, grain, whatever an independent-minded planet held near and dear, would immediately be made worthless. Most economies, whether natural or imposed by the Republic, dealt in essentially artificial mediums of exchange, made valuable only by the populace's confidence in them. There were a few worlds, however, where this did not hold true. If, for example, World X prized apples above all else, and apples were the prime medium of exchange, to be eaten when accumulated, introducing more apples into the society wasn't about to turn it into an economic entity that the Republic could influence and deal with. But finding something that destroyed apple crops, and then reintroducing them through the Republic's merchants, usually did the trick.

Yes, Ngana knew his job, and knew it well. More than four thousand sentient races had been discovered, and well over fifteen hundred of them were already integral cogs in the Republic's vast economic machinery. By the time he retired, Ngana expected to see that figure more than double. But in the meantime, he was uneasy, and he couldn't quite put his finger on the reason for it. He'd been feeling apprehensive for more than a year now, filled with vague doubts about the wisdom of assimilating so many races so quickly. He did not fear any strivings for economic independence; such problems could and would be dealt with quickly and efficiently. It was something else, something he sensed was more far-reaching, but it was like a glimmer of light he could see only out of the corner of his eye; when he turned full face to it, it was gone.

A buzzer sounded on his desk, and he pressed a button that activated the inter-office communicator. It was Renyan, the Secretary of Commerce and Trade, his immediate superior. The gray-haired visage on the small screen looked troubled.

“Kip,” said Renyan, “cancel everything you have on for today and get over to my office right away.” “Something serious?” asked Ngana.

“Very.”

“On my way,” said Ngana, flicking off the intercom. He debated taking a pocket computer, but decided that the meeting would probably be on record if he needed to go over anything later. Five minutes found him seated at a large oval table with Renyan and an elderly woman he didn't recognize. “Kip,” said Renyan, “I'd like you to meet Miss Agatha Moore, a member of our trade commission to Lodin XI. Miss Moore, it seems, is the bearer of rather grim tidings.” “Well, what can we do for you, Miss Moore?” asked Ngana. “Not a thing,” said Agatha Moore. “But it's just possible that I can do something for you. Or, at least, prepare you for something that's going to be doneto you.” Ngana shot a quick look at Renyan, who just raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Are you speaking about me personally?” asked Ngana.