By noon Zwinger Street showed signs of coming to life. A halfhearted winter sunshine had broken through the gloom, adding no real joy to the scene — only a sickly smile. The sidewalks were now populated with women and quite a few men in their antiquing clothes — deliberately outlandish, mismatched, or shabby. They moved from shop to shop while waiting for the auction at one thirty.

Qwilleran decided there was time for a quick lunch and found a diner, where he gulped a leathery hot dog on a spongy roll, a beverage claiming to be coffee and a piece of synthetic pie with crust made of papier-m?ch‚. He also telephoned the feature editor and asked for a photographer.

"About this auction," he told Arch Riker. "We should get some candids of the crowd. Their getups are incredible." "I told you Junktown was colorful," Riker reminded him.

"Don't send me Tiny Spooner. He's a clumsy oaf, and there are lots of breakables here." "At this short notice we'll have to take any man we can get. Have you bought any antiques yet?" "NO!" Qwilleran bellowed into the mouthpiece, at the same time thinking warmly of the Mackintosh coat of arms.

By one o'clock the scene of the auction was crowded. Andrew Glanz had done business in a large building, probably dating from the 1920s when the neighborhood had begun to go commercial. The high ceiling was hung with ladderback chair, copper pots, birdcages, sleds, and chandeliers of every description. The floor was crowded with furniture in a disorganized jumble, pushed back to make room for rows of folding chairs. A narrow stairway led to a balcony, and from its railings hung Oriental rugs and faded tapestries. Everywhere there were signs re- minding customers, "If you break it, you've bought it." The auctiongoers were circulating, examining the merchandise with studious frowns, looking at the underside of plates, ringing crystal with a flick of a finger.

QwilIeran pushed through the crowd, making mental notes of the conversation around him.

"Look at this rocking horse! I had one exactly like it in the attic, and my husband burned it in the fireplace!" "If it has a little man with a parasol on the bridge, it's Canton china, but if he's sitting in the teahouse, it's Nanking.

.. or maybe it's the other way around." "What's this thing? It would make a wonderful punch bowl!" "I don't see the finial anywhere, thank God!" "There's Andy's stepladder." "My grandmother had a Meissen ewer, but hers was blue." "Do you think they'll put up the finial?" As the auction hour approached, people began to take seats facing the platform, and QwilIeran found a chair at the end of a row where he could watch for the Fluxion photographer to arrive. There were all kinds, all ages in the audience. One man in a Hudson Bay blanket coat carried a small dog dressed to match. Another was wearing a Santa Claus cap and a rainbow-striped muffler that hung down to the floor.

Next to Qwilleran sat a plump woman with two pairs of glasses hanging from ribbons around her neck.

"This is my first auction," he said to her. "Do you have any advice for a greenhorn?" The woman had been designed with a compass: large round pupils in round eyes in a round face. She gave him a half-circular smile. "Don't scratch your ear, or you'll find you've bought that pier mirror." She pointed to a narrow mirror in an ornate frame that towered a good fourteen feet high and leaned against the balcony rail. "I was afraid I'd miss the auction. I had to go to the eye doctor, and he kept me waiting. He put drops in my eyes, and I can't see a thing." "What's the finial that everyone's talking about?" She shivered. "Don't you know about Andy's accident?" "I heard he fell off a ladder." "Worse than that!" She made a pained face. "Let's skip the details. It makes me sick to my stomach…. At first I thought you were an out-of-town dealer." "I'm from the Daily Fluxion." "Really?" She smoothed her ash-colored hair and turned adoring pupils in his direction. "Are you going to write up the auction? I'm Iris Cobb. My husband runs The Junkery down the street." "You must be the people with the apartment to rent." "Are you interested? You'd love it! It's furnished with antiques." The woman kept glancing toward the door.

"Wonder if my husband is here yet. I can't see a thing." "What does he look like?" "Tall and nice-looking and probably needs a shave. He'll be wearing a red flannel shirt." "He's standing at the back, next to a grandfather's clock." The woman settled back in her chair. "I'm glad he got here. He'll do the bidding, and I won't have to worry about it." "He's talking to a character in a Santa Claus cap." "That must be Ben Nicholas. Ben rents one of our apartments and runs a shop called Bit o' Junk." With an affectionate smile she added, "He's an idiot!" "Anyone else I should know? There's a blond guy on crutches, all dressed in white." "Russell Patch, the refinisher. He never wears anything but white." She lowered her voice. "In front of us — the thin man — he's Hollis Prantz. He has a new shop called Tech-Tiques. The man with the briefcase is Robert Maus, attorney for the estate." Qwilleran was impressed. The firm of Teahandle, Burris, Hansblow, Maus and Castle was the most prestigious in the city.

"Mr. Maus has a personal interest in Junktown," Mrs. Cobb explained. "Otherwise — " The rapping of a gavel interrupted the conversation in the audience, and the auctioneer opened the sale. He wore a dark business suit with a plaid shirt, string tie, and Texas boots.

"We have a lot of good goods here today," he said, "and some smart cookies in the audience, so bid fast if you want to buy. Please refrain from unnecessary yakking so I can hear spoken bids. Let's go!" He struck the lectern with an ivory hammer. "We'll start with a Bennington hound-handle pitcher — collector's dream — slight chip but what's the difference? Who'll give me five? Five is bid — now six? Six is bid — do I hear seven? Seven over here. Eight over there — anybody give nine? — eight I've got — sold for eight!" There were protests from the audience. "Too fast for you clods, eh? If you want to buy, keep on your toes," the auctioneer said crisply. "'We've got a lot of stuff to move this afternoon." "He's good," Mrs. Cobb whispered to Qwilleran.

"Wait till he really gets wound up!" Every sixty seconds another item went down under the hammer — a silver inkwell, pewter goblets, a pair of bisque figures, a prayer rug, an ivory snuffbox. Three assistants were kept busy up and down the aisles, while porters carried items to and from the platform.

"And now we have a fine, fat, cast-iron stove," said the auctioneer, raising his voice. "We won't lug it to the platform, because your eagle eyes can see it on the stair landing. Who'll give me fifty?" All heads turned to look at a sculptured black monster with a bloated silhouette and bowlegged stance.

"Fifty I have — who'll say seventy-five? — it's a beauty…. Seventy-five is bid — do I hear a hundred? — you're getting it cheap…. I have a hundred — what do I hear?… Hundred and ten — it's worth twice the price…. Hundred- twenty is bid…. Hundred-thirty back there — don't lose this prize — a nice big stove-big enough to hide a body….

Hundred-forty is bid — make it a hundred-fifty…. Sold for a hundred-fifty." The auctioneer turned to the assistant who recorded sales. "Sold to C. C. Cobb." Mrs. Cobb gasped. "That fool!" she said. "We'll never get our money out of it! I'll bet Ben Nicholas was bidding against him. The bids were going up too fast. Ben didn't want that stove. He was bidding just to be funny. He does it all the time. He knew C. C. wouldn't let him have it." She turned around and glared with unseeing eyes in the direction of the red flannel shirt and the Santa Claus cap.

The auctioneer was saying, "And now before we take an intermission, we'll unload a few items of office equipment." There were reference books, a filing cabinet, a portable tape recorder, a typewriter-mundane items that had little interest for the crowd of junkers. Mrs. Cobb made a hesitant bid on the tape recorder and got it for a pittance.