He awoke next morning with a start of surprise at finding himself in neither a net nor a padded compartment. The bed was soft. It invited him to roll over for another half hour's snooze in the faintly perfumed room. Perfume? Bedroom ... _Carole!_ Winstead sat straight up as full memory returned. Everything was quiet. He threw back the electric blanket, checked a clock that must be set to planetary time, and decided that it was early morning. The window filters yielded to trial-and-error manipulation, flooding the room with cheerful sunlight not unlike that of a Terran summer morning. Winstead walked softly to the door and opened it a crack. The room outside remained dim and silent. He washed in the adjoining bathroom and dressed rapidly. Feeling better prepared for the day, he sallied out to seek breakfast. The first sight that met his eyes was that of Carole sleeping on a couch under an aquamarine blanket she had plugged in at the socket of a floor lamp. The thought of fifty credits restrained the impulse to pat her blonde head in commiseration. He thought of it a little more, thereby fighting down a mild attack of conscience over appropriating the bed. _After all_, he thought, _here I have to get my own breakfast. She's probably tired out, but that's the reward of moonlighting. It's her planet, not mine._ * * * * * Winstead tiptoed to the kitchen door, slipped furtively through, and closed the door as quietly as possible behind him. Two men eating breakfast at a small table looked up at him amiably. "Gaagh!" said Winstead. "Good morning," replied one man, who wore a rather feminine dressing gown. The other, a ruddy, farmerish individual, grunted past a mouthful of toast. "I beg your pardon," Winstead said. "You must be another star traveler," said the gentleman in the dressing gown. "We knew there must be one when we saw Carole on the couch. I hope she gets you out of here quicker than she's finding a ship for me." "You have been waiting for a spaceship?" Winstead asked. "Over two weeks now," said the other. "The kid's fair enough about it, I must admit. She can't ship me toward Epseri, so she's been giving me a discount on my room." "Sit down and have some eggs," invited the farmer type. "Brought 'em into town myself, along with my other produce." Winstead eyed the platter of fried eggs. They were entirely too large to have come from chickens, but they looked good. He decided not to ask any questions. It developed after he joined them at the table that the farmer was in the habit of boarding with Carole whenever he came to Junction on business. The traveler, one Cecil Feigelson, excused his borrowing Carole's robe on grounds of the scanty baggage allowed space travelers and the fact that he had been hanging about for so long. They assured him that he looked fine in pink. Winstead drained his cup of coffee substitute, considered having another.