"Mr. Fernwright," the Secretary said, "you strike a hard bargain. You are a firm man. You do, in fact, remind me of Ché, and I think all the millions watching on TV will agree. Let's hear it now for Joe Fernwright and Ché Guevara both together!" The Secretary threw aside his prepared statement and began to clap. "Let's hear it out there from all you good people; this is a hero of the state, a new firm-minded man who has spent years working to—"

Joe's alarm woke him up.

Christ, he said to himself; he sat up groggily. What was that about? Money? Already it had become hazy in his mind. "I made the money," he said aloud, blinking. "Or printed it." Who cares? he said to himself. A dream. Compensation, by the state, for reality. Night after night. It's almost worse than being awake.

No, he decided. Nothing is worse than being awake.

He picked up the phone and dialed the bank.

"Interplan Corn and Wheat People's Collective Bank."

"How much are thirty-five thousand crumbles worth in terms of our dollars?" Joe asked.

"Crumbles as in the Plabkian tongue of Sirius five?"

"Right."

"The banking service momentarily was silent and then it said, "$200,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000.00."

"Really?" Joe said.

"Would I lie to you?" the bank robot-voice said. "I don't even know who you are."

"Are there any other crumbles?" Joe said. "That is, the word ‘crumble' used as a monetary unit in any other enclave, civilization, tribe, cult, or society in the known universe?"

"There is a defunct crumble known several thousand years ago in the—"

"No," Joe said. "This is your active crumble. Thank you and off." He hung up, his ears ringing; he felt as if he had wandered into a titanic auditorium filled with bells of terrible and grand sizes. This must be what they mean by a mystical experience, he said to himself.