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Blue Lake and let the planet go ahead and rot.ā€

Rossā€™s horror at the unseemly outburst was eclipsed by his interest at noting how similarly he and Oldham had been thinking. ā€œSir,ā€ he ventured, ā€œIā€™ve had something on my mind for a whileā€”ā€”ā€

ā€œIt can wait,ā€ Oldham growled, collecting himself with a visible effort. So there went his chance to resign. ā€œWhat about customs? I know Haarland hasnā€™t got enough cash to lay out. Who has?ā€

Ross said glibly: ā€œUsual arrangement, sir. They turn an 21estimated twenty-five per cent of the cargo over to the port authority for auction, the receipts to be in full discharge of their import tax. And I suppose they enter protective bids. They arenā€™t wasting any timeā€”auctionā€™s 2100 tonight.ā€

ā€œYou handle it,ā€ Oldham muttered. ā€œDonā€™t go over one hundred thousand shields. Diversify the purchases as much as possible. And try to sneak some advance information out of the dummies if you get a chance.ā€

ā€œYes, sir,ā€ Ross said. As he left he saw Oldham taking a plastic bottle from a wall cabinet.

And that, thought Ross as he rode to the Free Port, was the first crack he had ever seen in the determined optimism of the trading firmā€™s top level. They were optimists and they were idealists, at least to hear them tell it. Interplanetary trading was a cause and a mission; the traders kept the flame of commerce alight. Perhaps, thought Ross, they had been able to indulge in the hypocrisy of idealism only so long as a population upcurve assured them of an expanding market. Perhaps now that births were flattening outā€”some said the dirty word ā€œdecliningā€ā€”they all would drop their optimistic creed in favor of fang-and-claw competition for the favors of the dwindling pool of consumers.

And that, Ross thought gloomily, was the way heā€™d go himself if he stayed on: junior trader, to senior trader, to master trader, growing every year more paranoidally suspicious of his peers, less scrupulous in the chase of the shield....

But he was getting out, of course. The purserā€™s berth awaited. And then, perhaps, the awful depressions he had been enduring would lift off him. He thought of the master traders he knew: his own man Oldham, none too happy in the hereditary business; Leverett, still smug and fat with his terrific windfall of the Sirius IV starship fifteen years ago; Marconiā€™s boss Haarlandā€”Haarland broke the sequence all to hell. It just wasnā€™t possible to think of Haarland being driven by avarice and fear. He was the oldest of them all, but there was more zest and drive in his parchment body than in the rest of them combined.

In the auction hall Ross found a seat near the velvet 22ropes. One of the professional bidders lounging against a wall flicked him an almost imperceptible signal, and he answered with another. That was that; he had his man, and a good one. They had often worked together in the commodity pits, but not so often or so exclusively that the bidder would be instantly known as his.

Inside the enclosure Marconi, seated at a bare table, labored over a sheaf of papers with one of the ā€œSonniesā€ from the ship. Sonny was wriggling in coveralls, the first clothes he had ever worn. Ross saw they hadnā€™t been able to get shoes onto him.

Who else did he know? Captain Delafield was sitting somberly within the enclosure; Win Fraley, the hottest auctioneer on the Port, was studying a list, his lips moving. Every trading firm was represented; the heads of the smaller firms were there in person, not daring to delegate the bidding job. Plenty of Port personnel, just there for the excitement of the first longliner in fifteen years, even though it was well after close of the business day.

The goods were in sealed cases against the back wall as usual. Ross could only tell that some of them were perforated and therefore ought to contain living animals. Only the one Sonny from the starship crew was there; presumably the rest were back on the ship. He wouldnā€™t be able to follow Oldhamā€™s orders to snoop out the nature of the freight from them. Well, damn Oldham; damn even the auction, Ross thought to himself. His mood of gloom did not lift.

The auction was a kind of letdown. All that turmoil and bustle, concentrated in a tiny arc around the velvet ropes, contrasted unpleasantly with the long, vacant rows of dusty seats that stretched to the back of the hall. Maybe a couple of centuries ago Ross would have enjoyed the auction more. But now all it made him think of was the thing he had been brooding about for a night and a day, the slow emptying of the planet, the....

Decay.

But, as usual, no one else seemed to notice or to care.

Captain Delafield consulted his watch and stood up. He rapped the table. ā€œIn accordance with the rules of the 23Trade Commission and the appropriate governing statutes,ā€ he droned, ā€œcertain merchandise will now be placed on public auction. The Haarland Trading Corporation, consignee, agrees and consents to divest itself of merchandise from Consignment 97-W amounting by estimate of the customs authorities to twenty-five per cent of the total value of all merchandise in said consignment. All receipts of this auction are to be entered as excise duties paid by the consignee on said merchandise, said receipts to constitute payment in full on excise on Consignment 97-W. The clerk will record; if any person here present wishes to enter an objection let him do so thank you.ā€ He glanced at a slip of paper in his hand. ā€œI am requested to inform you that the Haarland Trading Corporation has entered with the clerk a protective bid of five thousand shields on each item.ā€ There was a rustle in the hall. Five thousand shields was a lot of money. ā€œYour auctioneer, Win Fraley,ā€ said Captain Delafield, and sat down in the first row of seats.

The auctioneer took a long, slow swallow of water, his eyes gleaming above the glass at the audience. Theatrically he tossed the glass to an assistant, smacked his hands together and grinned. ā€œWell,ā€ he boomed genially, ā€œI donā€™t have to tell you gentlemen that somebodyā€™s going to get rich tonight. Who knowsā€”maybe itā€™ll be you? But you canā€™t make money without spending money, so without any further ado, letā€™s get started. I have here,ā€ he rapped out briskly, ā€œItem Number One. Now you donā€™t know and I donā€™t know exactly what Item Number One contains, but I can tell you this, they wouldnā€™t have sent it two hundred and thirty-one lights if they didnā€™t think it was worth something. Letā€™s get this started with a rush, folks, and I mean with a big bid to get in the right mood. After all, the more you spend here the less you have to pay in taxes,ā€ he laughed. ā€œYou ready? Hereā€™s the dope. Item Number Oneā€”ā€”ā€ His assistant slapped a carton at the extreme left of the line. ā€œā€”ā€”weight two hundred and fifteen grams, net; fifteen cubic centimeters; one microfilm reel included. Reminds me,ā€ he reminisced, ā€œof an item just about that size on the Sirius IV shipment. Turned out to be Maryjane seeds, and I donā€™t suppose I have to tell anybody here how 24much Mr. Leverett made out of Maryjanes; I bet every one of us has been smoking them ever since. What do you say, Mr. Leverett? You did all right last timeā€”want to say ten thousand as a first big bid on Item Number One? Nine thousand? Do I hearā€”ā€”?ā€

One of the smaller traders, not working through a professional bidder, not even decently delegating the work to a junior, bid seventy-five hundred shields. Like the spokesmen for the other big traders, Ross sat on his hands during the early stages. Let the small fry give themselves a thrill and drop out. The big firms knew to a fraction of a shield how much the small ones could afford to bid on a blind purchase, and the easiest way to handle them was to let them spend their budgets in a hurry. Of course the small traders knew all this, and their strategy, when they could manage it, was to hold back as long as possible. It was a matter of sensing emotion rather than counting costs; of recognizing the fraction of a second in which a little fellow made up his mind to acquire an item and bidding him upā€”of knowing when heā€™d gone his limit and letting him have it at a ruinous price. It was an art, and Ross, despising it, knew that he did it very, very well.

He yawned and pretended to read a magazine while the first six items went on the block; the little traders seemed desperate enough to force the price up without help. He bid on Item Seven partly to squeeze a runt trader and partly to test his liaison with his professional bidder. It was perfect; the pro caught his signalā€”a bored inspection of his fingernailsā€”while seeming to peek clumsily at the man from Leverettā€™s.

Ross let the next two pass and then acquired three items in rapid succession. The fever had spread to most of the bidders by then; they were starting at ten thousand and up. One or two of the early birds had spent their budgets and were leaving, looking sandbaggedā€”as indeed they had been. Ross signaled ā€œtake fiveā€ to his professional and strolled out for a cup of coffee.

On the way back he stopped for a moment outside the hall to look at the stars and breathe. There were the familiar constellationsā€”The Plowman, the Rocket Fleet, Marilyn 25Monroe. He stood smoking a cigarette and yearning toward them until somebody moved in the darkness near him. ā€œNice night, Ross,ā€ the man said gloomily.

It was Captain Delafield. ā€œOh, hello, sir,ā€ Ross said, the world descending around him again like a too-substantial curtain. ā€œTaking a breather?ā€

ā€œHad to,ā€ the captain growled. ā€œTen more minutes in that place and I would have thrown. Damned money-grabbing traders. No offense, Ross; just that I donā€™t see how you stand the life. Seems to have got worse in my time. Much worse. You high-rollers goading the pee-wees into shooting their wadsā€”it didnā€™t use to be like that. Gallantry. Not stomping a downed man. I donā€™t see how you stand it.ā€

ā€œI canā€™t stand it,ā€ Ross said quietly. ā€œCaptain Delafield, you donā€™t knowā€”Iā€™m so sick to death of the life Iā€™m leading and the work Iā€™m doing that Iā€™d do anything to get away. Mr. Fallon offered me a purserā€™s spot on his ship; Iā€™ve been thinking about it very seriously.ā€

ā€œPurser? A dirty job. Thereā€™s nothing to do except when youā€™re in port, and then thereā€™s so much to do that you never get to see the planet. I donā€™t recommend it, Ross.ā€

Ross grunted, thinking. If even the purserā€™s berth was no way out, what was left for him? Sixty more years of waiting for a starship and scheming how to make a profit from its contents? Sixty more years watching Ghost Town grow by nibbles on Halsey City, watching the traders wax in savagery as they battled for the ever-diminishing pool of consumers, watching obscene comedies like Lurline of the Old Landowners graciously consenting to wed Marconi of the New Nobodies? He said wearily: ā€œThen what shall I do, Captain? Rot here with the rest of the planet?ā€

Delafield shrugged, suprisingly gentle. ā€œYou feel it too, Ross? Iā€™m glad to hear it. Iā€™m not sensitive, thank God, but I know they talk about me. They say I quit the space-going fleet as soon as I had a chance to grab off the port captaincy. Theyā€™re right; I did. Because I was frightened.ā€

ā€œFrightened? You?ā€ Delafieldā€™s ribbons for a dozen heroic rescues gleamed in the light that escaped from the hall.

ā€œSure, Ross.ā€ He flicked the ribbons. ā€œEach one of these means I and my men pulled some people out of a jam they 26got into because of somebodyā€™s damned stupidity or slow reflexes or defective memory. No; I withdraw that. The ā€˜Thetisā€™ got stove in because of mechanical failure, but all the rest were human error. There got to be too many for me; I want to enjoy my old age.

ā€œReady to face that if you become a purser? I can tell you that if you donā€™t like it here you wonā€™t be happy on Sunward and you wonā€™t like the moons. And you most especially and particularly wonā€™t like being a purser. Itā€™s the same job youā€™re doing now, but it pays less, offers you a six-by-eight cubicle to work and live in, and gives you nothing resembling a future to aim at. Now if youā€™ll excuse me Iā€™d better get back inside. Iā€™ve enjoyed our talk.ā€

Ross followed the captain gloomily. Nothing had changed inside; Ross lounged in the doorway inconspicuously picking up the eye of his bidder. Marconi was gone from

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