THE COSMIC COMPUTER

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Gresham's Law was running hog-wild on Poictesme. A Planetary Government
sol was worth about ten centisols, Federation, and aside from deposit
boxes, woolen socks under the mattress, and tin cans buried in the
corner of the cellar, Federation currency was nonexistent.

"Had breakfast yet?" Rodney Maxwell asked.

"Oh, hours ago. I was out and shot another spikenose; it's hanging up
back of the kitchen, waiting for the cook to skin it and cut it up." He
grinned at Conn. "You don't get this kind of hunting in a bank, either."

"Jerry still inside? I want to see him. Suppose you take Conn around and
show him the sights. And don't worry about him bumping you out of a job.
Worry about the six or eight extra jobs you'll have to do besides your
own, from now on."

Conn and Anse crossed the yard and entered one of the office buildings,