"All the news is fit to print, and if it's news the _Times_ prints it," I told him. "Think you're going to get some good thrillers this time?" He shrugged. I'd just asked that to make conversation; he never had any way of knowing what sort of films would come in. The ones the _Peenemünde_ was bringing should be fairly new, because she was outbound from Terra. He'd go over what was aboard, and trade one for one for the old films he'd shown already. "They tell me there's a real Old-Terran-style Western been showing on Völund that ought to be coming our way this time," he said. "It was filmed in South America, with real horses." That would go over big here. Almost everybody thought horses were as extinct as dinosaurs. I've seen so-called Westerns with the cowboys riding Freyan _oukry_. I mentioned that, and then added: "They'll think the old cattle towns like Dodge and Abilene were awful sissy places, though." "I suppose they were, compared to Port Sandor," Lautier said. "Are you going aboard to interview the distinguished visitor?" "Which one?" I asked. "Glenn Murell or Leo Belsher?" Lautier called Leo Belsher something you won't find in the dictionary but which nobody needs to look up. The hunters, ahead of us, heard him and laughed. They couldn't possibly have agreed more. He was going to continue with the fascinating subject of Mr. Leo Belsher's ancestry and personal characteristics, and then bit it off short. I followed his eyes, and saw old Professor Hartzenbosch, the principal of the school, approaching. "Ah, here you are, Mr. Lautier," he greeted. "I trust that I did not keep you waiting." Then he saw me. "Why, it's Walter Boyd. How is your father, Walter?" I assured him as to Dad's health and inquired about his own, and then asked him how things were going at school. As well as could be expected, he told me, and I gathered that he kept his point of expectation safely low. Then he wanted to know if I were going aboard to interview Mr. Murell. "Really, Walter, it is a wonderful thing that a famous author like Mr. Murell should come here to write a book about our planet," he told me, very seriously, and added, as an afterthought: "Have you any idea where he intends staying while he is among us?" "Why, yes," I admitted. "After the _Peenemünde_ radioed us their passenger list, Dad talked to him by screen, and invited him to stay with us. Mr. Murell accepted, at least until he can find quarters of his own." There are a lot of good poker players in Port Sandor, but Professor Jan Hartzenbosch is not one of them. The look of disappointment would have been comical if it hadn't been so utterly pathetic. He'd been hoping to lasso Murell himself. "I wonder if Mr. Murell could spare time to come to the school and speak to the students," he said, after a moment. "I'm sure he could. I'll mention it to him, Professor," I promised.