Milligan was agitated. "Are you sure, Mr. Lowndes? First of all, Nestor told Farrell, our investment man that we Cornusians were headed for a recession of even greater severity than that experienced by the ancients in the twenty-ninth year of the twentieth century."
Lowndes' hands were shaking. He fumbled for a Martian rolled plovur, lit it and inhaled the greenish fumes. "Why," he said, "Nestor told me the same thing this morning. What does that prove?"
Milligan stared at the greenish fumes with distaste. He did not smoke. He said shortly, "Allow me to continue, M. Lowndes. I am as distressed by this affair as you are. After all, five hundred thousand kredits." He broke off, eyed the green fumes curling from the tip of Lowndes' plovur, then continued, "Frankly, Mr. Lowndes, I never heard of anything so fantastic."
Lowndes couldn't control his hands. He dropped the plovur on the carpet. He stood. He couldn't control his shaking legs. He grasped the edge of Milligan's desk. "What-dya mean, you never heard of anything so fantastic?" he croaked weakly. "What'd Nestor tell Farrell he was going to do with the kredits?"
Milligan's face blanched. His voice in turn quavered. "What? You mean you don't know? Why, Nestor told Farrell he was going to tell you—in case an emergency came up. Farrell says Nestor walked out of here with a great big grip jammed full of the kredits. Said he was going to bury them. Said he'd be back and redeposit them after the recession was going good—when a kredit would be worth a kredit!"