Gilded Getty, whose wildcat oil well back in 1916 poured forth the wherewithal to attain his present eminence as the ""world's richest man,"" floods forth his own benison upon all who, like this mellow old operator, have reached retirement. Mr. Getty, for whom nothing is impossible, stretches the sunset years by for instances: if you're eighty-five, you'll have about four and one-half years left. Think of it! And so on. Then of course there are friends, interests, hobbies--amazing how little an art collection can cost. Lock up your candy store and off to the auctions! Not unexpectedly, when St. Paul of the Geritol gets to finance and investing, instead of some zippy little tips on how to rake up the pile and slaughter your opponents, he cagily backs off into some very safe neutral corner, probably waiting to bring out the good stuff in the next world. Mellifluous, pompous, but probably sincere--after all Mr. Getty has dwelt in the Golden Age longer than most of us.