We were at the teller window. She scribbled on the sheet and handed it to the clerk.
"Now," I said, feeling that I'd fulfilled the code of gallantry, "may I ask what you need it for?"
"Certainly, dear. I'm giving it to the Mendelsohns as a going-away present. Tonight at their farewell party."
"What! Ten thousand credits? Are you insane! The Mendelsohns mean nothing to me." I was so upset that I kicked the degravity pedal and we started to rise from the roof. I brought us down with a thud.
"They mean a lot to me," said Celia calmly. "They used to mean a lot to you too."
"But ten thousand!" I protested. "What do you think I am, a millionaire philanthropist?"
"It is a lot of money," Celia agreed placatingly. "But the Mendelsohns are leaving tomorrow for Primus Gladus. We'll never see them again."
"So what!" I said heatedly. "Thousands of people go to the stars as colonists. Thousands of failures like the Mendelsohns think their luck will change on another planet. Does this mean that—"
"Bart, consider," said Celia. "If they had remained here on Earth as our friends, there would have been many occasions in a lifetime when I would have sent them remembrances. The birth of children. Anniversaries. Graduations. Confirmations, bar mitzvahs, wedding presents. Funeral wreaths. All I've done now is roll up all those gifts of a lifetime into one farewell present, of a size that will help them a little on their new world."
"I've cut off a lot of heads for that money. Grain brokerage is a brutal profession, what with thirty billion mouths clamoring for food, and the government keeping speculation in a straight-jacket, and that insurrection on Venus, the granary of the solar system, making wheat futures a nightmare. This kind of generosity leaves me cold. I had more to say on the subject, but the bank teller spoke up to Celia.