Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out on the other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old man was staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changed every sign in the building. His work finished, the technician was removing the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him. He turned and peered. "You stuck here, too?" he asked in the uneven voice of the aged. "Stuck?" repeated Cassal. "I suppose you can call it that. I'm waiting for my ship." He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions. "Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency. Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agency were new." The old man chuckled. "Re-organization. The previous first counselor resigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new one didn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed." She would do just that, thought Cassal. "What about this Murra Foray?" The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemed overcome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away. Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job, afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. He shrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, but he didn't intend to depend on that alone. * * * * * "The girl ahead of you is making unnecessary wriggling motions as she walks," observed Dimanche. "Several men are looking on with approval. I don't understand." Cassal glanced up. They walked that way back in good old L.A. A pang of homesickness swept through him. "Shut up," he growled plaintively. "Attend to the business at hand." "Business? Very well," said Dimanche. "Watch out for the transport tide." Cassal swerved back from the edge of the water. Murra Foray had been right. Godolphians didn't want or need his skills, at least not on terms that were acceptable to him. The natives didn't have to exert themselves. They lived off the income provided by travelers, with which the planet was abundantly supplied by ship after ship. Still, that didn't alter his need for money. He walked the streets at random while Dimanche probed. "Ah!" "What is it?" "That man. He crinkles something in his hands. Not enough, he is subvocalizing." "I know how he feels," commented Cassal. "Now his throat tightens. He bunches his muscles. 'I know where I can get more,' he tells himself. He is going there." "A sensible man," declared Cassal. "Follow him." Boldly the man headed toward a section of the city which Cassal had not previously entered. He believed opportunity lay there. Not for everyone. The shrewd, observant, and the courageous could succeed if--The word that the quarry used was a slang term, unfamiliar to either Cassal or Dimanche. It didn't matter as long as it led to money.