“That was all handled back at Bella III.”
“Good. Now, captain, would you care for that drink?” At Deitrich’s nod, he asked, “What will you have, oonalyn? Betelgeuse? They’re very good.”
“Oonalyn,” Deitrich replied. “I know what effect it has.”
“Then you should try the betelgeuse, captain.”
The drink was brought by a shiny blue automaton that ran on five wheels and had nine pentadactylended tentacles. The commissioner eyed the machine proudly as it served them. “We’re not so far behind them at that, are we?”
Deitrich agreed with the man, although he knew that by this time the Home had considerably superior devices to this. But the Eighteen Planet System could not truthfully be called backward in many respects. Situated as it was, with its huge sun moving lazily along not quite halfway between Home Galaxy and M33, it became a natural trading post between them. Technically, it, belonged to the Home Galaxy, but only technically. One hundred and seventy running years of distance had proved to be just too far to exert any political control.
And, operating as an independent and growing monopoly, the lonely system had gorged itself on the trade between the Home and its populous farther colonies. Culture, considered as purchasable a commodity as any other, was liberally imported from wherever it was obtainable. Every luxury and technological advance had to pass through there on its way to the hungry markets in either direction. The Eighteen Planets thrived upon it.
The commissioner sipped his wine and brushed his heavy lips delicately. “Deitrich,” he mused. “I seem to remember my grandfather speaking of a time-jump pilot by that name.” He looked again at the identification coupon. “I believe that you must be the man.”
“Very likely,” Deitrich replied. “I was in here about that period.”