“They’re from another planet?”

“Yes.”

“You, too?”

“Of course.”

“You bring advanced products to Earth in secret and sell or rent them to rich people?”

“Yes. Only smaller stuff comes here, of course—larger items, like the television sets, come in at main receivers in other cities. The details of the operation may be surprising, but surely the general principles of commerce are well known to you.”

“That’s exactly what’s bothering me,” Connor said. “I don’t give a damn about other worlds and matter transmitters, but I can’t see why you go to all this trouble. Earth currency would be of no value on… wherever you come from. You’re ahead on technology, so there is nothing…” Connor stopped talking as he remembered what Smith had been feeding into the black rectangle. An old oil painting.

Smith nodded, looking more relaxed. “You are right about your currency being useless on another world. We spend it here. Humanity is primitive in many respects, but the race’s artistic genius is quite remarkable. Our organization makes a good trading surplus by exporting paintings and sculptures. You see, the goods we import are comparatively worthless.”

“They seem valuable to me.”

“They would seem that way to you—that’s the whole point. We don’t bother bringing in the things that Earth can produce reasonably well. Your wines and other drinks aren’t too bad, so we don’t touch them. But your coffee!” Smith’s mouth curved even further downward.

“That means you’re spending millions. Somebody should have noticed one outfit buying up so much stuff.”

“Not really. We do quite a bit of direct buying at auctions and galleries, but often our clients buy on our behalf and we credit their accounts.”

“Oh, no,” Connor breathed as the ramifications of what Smith was saying unfolded new vistas in his mind.