Was this why millionaires, even the most unlikely types of men, so often became art collectors? Was this the raison d’etre for that curious phenomenon, the private collection? In a society where the rich derived so much pleasure from showing off their possessions, why did so many art treasures disappear from the public view? Was it because their owners were trading them in against P-brand products? If that was the case, the organization concerned must be huge, and it must have been around for a long time. Connor’s legs suddenly felt tired.

He said, “Let’s sit down and talk about this.”

Smith looked slightly uncomfortable. “We don’t sit. Why don’t you use one of those crates if you aren’t feeling well?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me, so don’t try anything,” Connor said sharply, but he sat on the edge of a box while his brain worked to assimilate shocking new concepts. “What does the P stand for on your products?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“Perfect?”

“That is correct.”

The readiness with which Smith was now giving information made Connor a little wary, but he pressed on with other questions which had been gnawing at him. “Miss Lomond told me her installments were eight hundred and sixty-four thousand dollars—why that particular figure? Why not a million?”

“That is a million—in our money. A rough equivalent, of course.”

“I see. And the forty-three days.”

“One revolution of our primary moon. It’s a natural accounting period.”

Connor almost began to wish the flow of information would slow down. “I still don’t see the need for all this secrecy. Why not come out in the open, reduce your unit prices and multiply the volume? You could make a hundred times as much.”

“We have to work underground for a number of reasons. In all probability the various Earth governments would object to the loss of art treasures, and there are certain difficulties at the other end.”