The brown eyes blinked in agitated alternation. "Apparently I've loused up my investigation of the local cultural background. I had no idea you were capable of that sort of thing." The immense head leaned back, the wide mouth opening and closing rapidly. "And to think I've been spinning my wheels collecting primitive 2-D art!" "But--don't you have a time machine? I mean, isn't that one?" "That? That's merely a carrier. Now tell me more about your time machines. A fascinating concept! My superiors will be delighted at this development--and astonished as well. They regard this planet as Endsville." * * * * * "Your superiors?" Dan eyed the window; much too far to jump. Maybe he could reach the machine and try a getaway-- "I hope you're not thinking of leaving suddenly," the beachball said, following Dan's glance. One of the eighteen fingers touched a six-inch yellow cylinder lying on the desk. "Until the carrier is fueled, I'm afraid it's quite useless. But, to put you in the picture, I'd best introduce myself and explain my mission here. I'm Blote, Trader Fourth Class, in the employ of the Vegan Confederation. My job is to develop new sources of novelty items for the impulse-emporiums of the entire Secondary Quadrant." "But the way Manny and Fiorello came sailing in through the wall! That _has_ to be a time machine they were riding in. Nothing else could just materialize out of thin air like that." "You seem to have a time-machine fixation, Dan," Blote said. "You shouldn't assume, just because you people have developed time travel, that everyone has. Now--" Blote's voice sank to a bass whisper--"I'll make a deal with you, Dan. You'll secure a small time machine in good condition for me. And in return--" "_I'm_ supposed to supply _you_ with a time machine?" Blote waggled a stubby forefinger at Dan. "I dislike pointing it out, Dan, but you are in a rather awkward position at the moment. Illegal entry, illegal possession of property, trespass--then doubtless some embarrassment exists back at the Snithian residence. I daresay Mr. Kelly would have a warm welcome for you. And, of course, I myself would deal rather harshly with any attempt on your part to take a powder." The Vegan flexed all eighteen fingers, drummed his tentacles under the desk, and rolled one eye, bugging the other at Dan. "Whereas, on the other hand," Blote's bass voice went on, "you and me got the basis of a sweet deal. You supply the machine, and I fix you up with an abundance of the local medium of exchange. Equitable enough, I should say. What about it, Dan?" "Ah, let me see," Dan temporized. "Time machine. Time machine--" "Don't attempt to weasel on me, Dan," Blote rumbled ominously. "I'd better look in the phone book," Dan suggested. Silently, Blote produced a dog-eared directory. Dan opened it. "Time, time. Let's see...." He brightened. "Time, Incorporated; local branch office. Two twenty-one Maple Street."