"Letters with money in them."
"We have to have funds for postage, don't we?"
"What about the postage on the first mailing list, before you got any dollars to pay for stamps?"
If it had been a little lighter, Sam would have been surer of the alarm that crossed Hesterson's face.
"I—well, we had to fabricate some of your currency for that. We regretted it—we aim to obey all local rules and regulations. As soon as we have enough coming in, we intend to send the amount to the New York postmaster as anonymous conscience money."
"How about the $1,000 prize? And those dollar book credits?"
"Oh, that. Well, we say 'when our publishing firm has been established,' don't we? That publishing thing is just a gimmick. As for the $1,000, we give no intimation of when the poll will end."
Sam tightened his grasp on the wrist, which was beginning to wriggle.
"I see. O.K., explain the whole setup. It sounds crazy to me."
"I couldn't agree with you more," said Mr. Hesterson, to Sam's surprise. "That's exactly what, in our own idiom, I told—" Sam couldn't get the name; it sounded like a grunt. "But he's the boss and I'm only a scout third class." His voice grew plaintive. "You can't imagine what an ordeal it is, almost every week, to have to land in a secluded place where I can hide the flyer, make my way to New York, and buy a bunch of stamps and mail a batch of letters in broad daylight. We can simulate your paper and printing and typing well enough, but"—that grunt again—"insists we use genuine stamps. I told you we try to follow all your laws, as far as we possibly can. It's very difficult for me to keep this absurd shape for long at a time; I'm exhausted after every trip. I can assure you, these little night excursions from the mother-ship to pick up the letters are the very least of my burdens!"