An old woman, a ruralian carrying a huge bundle, spied him and eagerly grasped his arm. "Greetings, International! Pray give an old woman information! I've farmed my allotment and _achieved_ ten years ahead of my plan, and now they tell me I must move to Venus! I don't mind the moving--though I mistrust those winged creatures--but I'm old and very tired. Does my moving mean I'll have another allotment to achieve? Must I clear Venusian land? Tell me International, if I'm assigned to a freighter, will the gravs be likely to shorten what remains of my life-span?" Mark laughed at the loud avalanche of questions. "Peace, Ruralian," he managed through his laughter. "I doubt if you'll be required to _achieve_ another allotment. Didn't the government grant you sufficient credits for a new start?" The ruralian woman pulled out a package of rank, Venusian cigarets and contentedly puffed on one after lighting it. "Yes, when the earth-temblors ruined my land and a mouth of fire finished it, a proctor came from the Council and gave me enough credits to last a body a life-time, then told me to make my way to transportation. But I can't bring myself to spend those credits, International--its wasteful.... I'd rather achieve another allotment. Why, I haven't bought a thing for fifty years that I could grow or make myself! "I've been some time getting here from the Arizona sector, for the shakes disrupted the conveyor roads, and I lost a lot of things when another mouth of fire pushed up where the road was and blew my cart to the four winds--It's a miracle I'm here at all! But about the freighter, will the gravs...." "Ask for the sleep-freeze ... it will be given you, in any event. If anything, it'll lengthen your span, and the journey will seem like an overnight trip to you. If you need directing, a proctor will assist you. Greetings Ruralian!" Mark tried to make his tones as kindly as he possibly could, but realizing the woman was eager to make conversation, he ended the incident--he was still on duty. "Greetings, International," she replied disappointed, and heaved the bundle to her shoulder. Mark had not walked ten paces when instant correlation between his senses, mental synthesis and muscular reaction made him swerve aside, bending over at the same time. It had been the horror-shocked expression in the eyes of a technician barely three paces before him, that had sent the Spacer hurtling to one side, half bent over, bowling pedestrians aside like ten-pins. A thin pencil of light flashed where Mark's head had been seconds before. Mark had turned without pausing and he saw a tall International whose yellow tunic bore the red whorl insignia of a conveyor-road inspector.