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The Contract.”

      Antonio Ruzzini bit out, “Nor to our interest to see Waldemar Gotland attempt it. There has been blood shed more than once in the past century, Zelenza”

      The papers were accepted as authentic.

      Gotland cleared his throat. “We have reached the point, Excellency, where the entire fortune is yours, and we merely employees. As we have said, attempts have been made on the fortune. We suggest, if it is your desire to continue its growth...”

      Mister Smith nodded here.

      “…that a stronger contract, which we have taken the liberty to draw up, be adopted.”

      “Very well, I’ll look into it. But first, let me give you my instructions.”

      There was an intake of breath and they sat back in their chairs.

      Mister Smith said, “With the fall of Constantinople to the Turks, the Venetian power will drop. The house must make its center elsewhere.”

      There was a muffled exclamation.

      Mister Smith went on: “The fortune is now considerable enough that we can afford to take a long view. We must turn our eyes westward. Send a representative of the fortune to Spain. Shortly, the discoveries in the west will open up investment opportunities there. Support men named Hernando Cortez and Francisco Pizarro. In the middle of the century withdraw our investments from Spain and enter them in England, particularly in commerce and manufacture. There will be large land grants in the new world; attempt to have representatives of the fortune gain some of them. There will be confusion at the death of Henry VIII; support his daughter Elizabeth.

      “You will find, as industry expands in the northern countries, that it is impractical for a manufacturer to operate where there are literally scores of saints’ days and fiestas. Support such religious leaders as demand a more, ah, puritanical way of life.”

      He wound it up. “One other thing. This group is too large. I suggest that only one person from each nation involved be admitted to the secret of the contract.”

      * * * *

      “Gentlemen,” Mister Smith said in 1600, “turn more to manufacture and commerce in Europe, to agriculture, mining and accumulation of large areas of real estate in the New World. Great fortunes will be made this century in the East; be sure that our various houses are first to profit.”

      * * * *

      They waited about the conference table in London. The clock, periodically and nervously checked, told them they had a full fifteen minutes before Mister Smith was expected.

      Sir Robert took a pinch of snuff, presented an air of nonchalance he did not feel. “Gentlemen,” he said, “frankly I find it difficult to believe the story legend. Come now, after everything has been said, what does it boil down to?”

      Pierre Deflage said softly, “It is a beautiful story, messieurs. In the year 1300 a somewhat bedraggled stranger appeared before a Venetian banking house and invested ten pieces of gold, the account to continue for a century. He made certain suggestions that would have tried the abilities of Nostradamus. Since then his descendants have appeared each century at this day and hour and reinvested the amount, never collecting a sou for their own use, but always making further suggestions. Until now, messieurs, we have reached the point where it is by far the largest fortune in the world. I, for instance, am considered the wealthiest man in France.” He shrugged eloquently. “While we all know I am but an employee of The Contract.”

      “I submit,” Sir Robert said, “that the story is impossible. It has been one hundred years since our Mr. Smith has supposedly appeared. During that period there have been ambitious men and unscrupulous men in charge of The Contract. They concocted this fantastic tale for their own ends. Gentlemen, there is no Mr. Smith and never was a Mr. Smith. The question becomes, shall we continue the farce, or shall we take measures to divide the fortune and each go our own way?”

      A small voice from the doorway said, “If you think that possible, sir, we shall have to work still more to make the contract iron bound. May I introduce myself? You may call me Mr. Smith.”

      * * * *

      In 1800 he said, “You are to back, for twelve years, the adventurer Bonaparte. In 1812 drop him. You are to invest largely in the new nation, the United States. Send a representative to New York immediately. This is to be a century of revolution and change. Withdraw support from monarchy...” There was a gasp from around the table. “...and support the commercial classes. Back a certain Robert Clive in India. Withdraw all support of Spain in Latin America. In the American civil war to come, back the North.

      “Largely, gentlemen, this is to be the century of England. Remember that.” He looked away for a moment, off into an unknown distance. “Next century will be different, but not even I know what lies beyond its middle.”

      After he was gone, Amschel Mayer, representative from Vienna, murmured, “Colleagues, have you realized that at last one of The Contract relicts makes sense?”

      Lord Windermere scowled at him, making small attempt to disguise his anti-Semitism. “What’d’ya mean by that, sir?”

      The international banker opened the heavy box which contained the documents handed down since the day of Goldini. He emerged with a medium-sized gold coin.

      “One of the original invested coins has been retained all these centuries, my lord.”

      Windermere took it and read. “The United States of America. Why, confound it, man, this is ridiculous. Someone has been a-pranking. The coin couldn’t have existed in Goldini’s day; the colonies proclaimed their independence less than twenty-five years ago.”

      Amschel Mayer murmured, “And the number at the bottom of the coin. I wonder if anyone has ever considered that it might be a date.”

      Windermere stared at the coin again. “A date? Don’t be an ass! One does not date a coin more than a century ahead of time.”

      Mayer rubbed his beardless face with a thoughtful hand. “More than six centuries ahead of time, my lord.”

      * * * *

      Over cigars and brandy they went into the question in detail. Young Warren Piedmont said, “You gentlemen have the advantage of me. Until two years ago I knew only vaguely of The Contract in spite of my prominence in the American branch of the hierarchy. And, unfortunately, I was not present when Mr. Smith appeared in 1900 as were the rest of you.”

      “You didn’t miss a great deal,” Von Borman growled. “Our Mr. Smith, who has all of us tied so tightly with The Contract that everything we own, even to this cigar I hold in my hand, is his—our Mr. Smith is insignificant, all but threadbare.”

      “Then there actually is such a person,” Piedmont said.

      Albert Marat, the French representative, snorted expressively. “Amazingly enough, messieurs, his description, even to his clothes, is exactly that handed down from Goldini’s day.” He chuckled. “We have one advantage this time.”

      Piedmont frowned. “Advantage?”

      “Unbeknown to Mr. Smith, we took a photo of him when he appeared in 1900. It will be interesting to compare it with his next appearance.”

      Warren Piedmont continued to frown his lack of understanding and Hideka Mitsuki explained. “You have not read the novels of the so clever Mr. H.G. Wells?”

      “Never heard of him.”

      Smith-Winston, of the British branch, said, “To sum it up, Piedmont, we have discussed the possibility that our Mr. Smith is a time traveler.”

      “Time traveler! What in the world do you mean?”

      “This is the year 1910. In the past century science has made strides beyond the conception of the most advanced scholars of 1810. What strides will be made in the next fifty years, we can only conjecture. That they will even embrace travel in time is mind-twisting for us,

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