“Sure, Ross.” He flicked the ribbons. “Each one of these means I and my men pulled some people out of a jam they got into because of somebody’s damned stupidity or slow reflexes or defective memory. No; I withdraw that. The ‘Thetis’ 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. “Ready to face that if you become a purser? I can tell you that if you don’t like it here you won’t be happy on Sunward and you won’t like the moons. And you most especially and particularly won’t like being a purser. It’s the same job you’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 you’ll excuse me I’d better get back inside. I’ve enjoyed our talk.” 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 the enclosure. Ross looked around hopefully and found his friend in agitated conversation with an unrecognizable but also agitated man at the back of the hall. Ross drifted over. Heads were turning in the front rows. As Ross got within range he heard a couple of phrases. “——in the ship. Mr. Haarland specially asked for you. Please, Mr. Marconi!” “Oh, hell,” Marconi said disgustedly. “Go on. Tell him I’ll be there. But how he expects me to take care of things here and——” He trailed off as he caught sight of Ross. “Trouble?” Ross asked. “Not exactly. The hell with it.” Marconi stared indecisively at the auctioneer for a moment. He said obscurely, “Taking your life isn’t enough; he wants more. And I thought I’d be able to see Lurline tonight. Excuse me, Ross. I’ve got to get over to the ship.” He hurried out. Ross looked wonderingly after him, caught the eye of his bidder, and went back to work. By the time the auction was over and dawn was breaking in the west, Oldham Trading had bought nine lots of merchandise: three breathing, five flowering, and one a roll of microfilm. Ross took his prizes to the office where Charles Oldham was waiting, much the better for a few drinks and a long nap. “How much?” demanded Oldham. Evidently they were both supposed to ignore his hysteria of the night before. “Fifty-seven thousand,” Ross said dully. “For nine lots? Good man! With any kind of luck at all——” And Oldham babbled on and on. He wanted Ross to stay and view the microfilm projection, stand by for a report from a zoologist and a botanist on the living acquisitions. He pleaded weariness and Oldham became conciliatory to the wonderful young up-and-comer who had bid in the merchandise at a whopping bargain price.