Max's answer was barely audible. "I don't see the harm. I'm not going to get to use them, it looks like."

"You don't believe in anarchy, surely? Our whole society is founded on entrusting grave secrets only to those who are worthy. But don't feel sad. Each brother, when he is issued his tools, deposits an earnest with the bursar. In my opinion, since you are the nearest relative of Brother Jones, we may properly repay the earnest to you for their return. Carl."

The young man appeared again. "The deposit monies, please." Carl had the money with him--he seemed to earn his living by knowing what the High Secretary was about to want. Max found himself accepting an impressive sheaf of money, more than he had ever touched before, and the books were taken from him before he could think of another objection.

It seemed time to leave, but he was motioned back to his chair. "Personally, I am sorry to disappoint you, but I am merely the servant of my brothers; I have no choice. However ..." The High Secretary fitted his finger tips together. "Our brotherhood takes care of its own. There are funds at my disposal for such cases. How would you like to go into training?"

"For the _Guild?_"

"No, no! We don't grant brotherhood as charity. But for some respectable trade, metalsmith, or chef, or tailor--what you wish. Any occupation not hereditary. The brotherhood will sponsor you, pay your 'prentice fee and, if you make good, lend you your contribution when you are sworn in."

Max knew he should accept gratefully. He was being offered an opportunity free that most of the swarming masses never got on any terms. But the cross-grained quirk in him that had caused him to spurn the stew that Sam had left behind made this generous offer stick in his craw. "Thanks just the same," he answered in tones almost surly, "but I don't rightly think I can take it."

The High Secretary looked bleak. "So? It's your life." He snapped his fingers, a page appeared, and Max was led quickly out of the Hall.

He stood on the steps of the Guild Hall and wondered dejectedly what he should do next. Even the space ships on the field at the foot of the street did not attract; he could not have looked at one without feeling like crying. He looked to the east instead.

A short distance away a jaunty figure leaned against a trash receptacle. As Max's eyes rested on the man he straightened up, flipped a cigarette to the pavement, and started toward him.

Max looked at him again. "Sam!" It was undoubtedly the wayfarer who had robbed him--well dressed, clean shaved--but Sam nonetheless. Max hurried toward him.

"Howdy, Max," Sam greeted him with an unembarrassed grin, "how did you make out?"

"I ought to have you arrested!"

"Now, now--keep your voice down. You're making yourself conspicuous."

Max took a breath and lowered his voice. "You stole my books."

"_Your_ books? They weren't yours--and I returned them to their owners. You want to arrest me for that?"

"But you ... Well, anyhow you ..."

A voice, civil, firm, and official, spoke at Max's elbow. "Is this person annoying you, sir?" Max turned and found a policeman standing behind him. He started to speak, then bit off the words as he realized the question had been addressed to Sam.

Sam took hold of Max's upper arm in a gesture that was protective and paternal, but quite firm. "Not at all, officer, thank you."

"Are you sure? I received word that this chico was headed this way and I've had my eye on him."

"He's a friend of mine. I was waiting for him here."

"As you say. We have a lot of trouble with vagrants. They all seem to head for Earthport."

"He's not a vagrant. He's a young friend of mine from the country and I'm afraid he's gotten a bit confused. I'll be responsible."

"Very well, sir."

"Not at all." Max let himself be led away. When they were out of earshot Sam said, "That was close. That nosy clown would have had us both in the bull pen. You did all right, kid--kept your lip zipped at the right time."

They were around the corner into a less important street before Sam let go his grip. He stopped and faced Max, grinning. "Well, kid?"

"I should a' told that cop about you!"

"Why didn't you? He was right there."

Max found himself caught by contradictory feelings. He was angry with Sam, no doubt about it, but his first unstudied reaction at seeing him had been the warm pleasure one gets from recognizing a familiar face among strangers--the anger had come a split second later. Now Sam looked at him with easy cynicism, a quizzical smile on his face. "Well, kid?" he repeated. "If you want to turn me in, let's go back and get it over with. I won't run."

Max looked back at him peevishly. "Oh, forget it!"

"Thanks. I'm sorry about it, kid. I really am."

"Then why did you do it?"

Sam's face changed suddenly to a sad, far-away look, then resumed its cheerful cynicism. "I was tempted by an idea, old son--every man has his limits. Some day I'll tell you. Now, how about a bit to eat and a gab? There's a joint near here where we can talk without having the nosies leaning over our shoulders."

"I don't know as I want to."

"Oh, come now! The food isn't much but it's better than mulligan."

Max had been ready with a stiff speech about how he would not turn Sam in, but he certainly did not want to eat with him; the mention of mulligan brought him up short. He remembered uneasily that Sam had not inquired as to _his_ morals, but had shared his food.

"Well ... okay."

"That's my boy!" They went on down the street. The neighborhood was a sort to be found near the port in any port city; once off the pompous Avenue of the Planets it became more crowded, noisier, more alive, and somehow warmer and more friendly despite a strong air of "keep your hand on your purse." Hole-in-the-wall tailor shops, little restaurants none too clean, cheap hotels, honky-tonks, fun arcades, exhibits both "educational" and "scientific," street vendors, small theaters with gaudy posters and sounds of music leaking out, shops fronting for betting parlors, tattoo parlors fronting for astrologers, and the inevitable Salvation Army mission gave the street flavor its stylish cousins lacked. Martians in trefoil sunglasses and respirators, humanoids from Beta Corvi III, things with exoskeletons from Allah knew where, all jostled with humans of all shades and all blended in easy camaraderie.

Sam stopped at a shop with the age-old symbol of three golden spheres. "Wait here. Be right out."

Max waited and watched the throng. Sam came out shortly without his coat. "Now we eat."

"Sam! Did you pawn your coat?"

"Give the man a cigar! How did you guess?"

"But ... Look, I didn't know you were broke; you looked prosperous. Get it back, I'll ... I'll pay for our lunch."

"Say, that's sweet of you, kid. But forget it. I don't need a coat this weather. Truth is, I was dressed up just to make a good impression at--well, a little matter of business."

Max blurted out, "But how did you ...", then shut up. Sam grinned. "Did I steal the fancy rags? No. I encountered a citizen who believed in percentages and engaged him in a friendly game. Never bet on percentages, kid; skill is more fundamental. Here we are."

The room facing the street was a bar, beyond was a restaurant. Sam led him on through the restaurant, through the kitchen, down a passage off which there were card rooms, and ended in a smaller, less pretentious dining room; Sam picked a table in a corner. An enormous Samoan shuffled up, dragging one leg. Sam nodded, "Howdy, Percy." He turned to Max. "A drink first?"

"Uh, I guess not."

"Smart lad. Lay off the stuff. Irish for me, Percy, and we'll both have whatever you had for lunch." The Samoan waited silently. Sam shrugged and laid money on the table, Percy scooped it up.