“And what is that?”

“Evidence enabling me to define this world as hostile within the meaning of Space Regulations.”

“Well, can’t we arrange that somehow?” Without waiting for a reply, the ambassador continued, “Every crew has its incurable trouble-maker. Find yours, give him a double shot of Venusian cognac, tell him he’s being granted immediate leave—but you doubt whether he’ll enjoy it because these Gands view us as reasons why people dig up the drains. Then push him out of the lock. When he comes back with a black eye and a boastful story about the other fellow’s condition, declare this world hostile.” He waved an expressive hand. “And there you are. Physical violence. All according to the book.”

“Regulation 148A, emphasizing that opposition by force must be systematic, warns that individual brawls may not be construed as evidence of hostility.”

The ambassador turned an irate face upon the senior civil servant: “When you get back to Terra—if ever you do get back—you can tell the appropriate department how the space service is balled up, hamstrung, semiparalyzed and generally handicapped by bureaucrats who write books.”

Before the other could think up a reply complimentary to his kind without contradicting the ambassador, a knock came at the door. First Mate Morgan entered, saluted smartly, offered Captain Grayder a sheet of paper.

“First liberty roll, sir. Do you approve it?”

Four hundred twenty men hit the town in the early afternoon. They advanced upon it in the usual manner of men overdue for the bright lights, that is to say, eagerly, expectantly, in buddy-bunches of two, three, six or ten.

Gleed attached himself to Harrison. They were two odd rankers, Gleed being the only sergeant on leave, Harrison the only tenth engineer. They were also the only two fish out of water since both were in civilian clothes and Gleed missed his uniform while Harrison felt naked without his bicycle. These trilling features gave them enough in common to justify at least one day’s companionship.

“This one’s a honey,” declared Gleed with immense enthusiasm. “I’ve been on a good many liberty jaunts in my time but this one’s a honey. On all other trips the boys ran up against the same problem—what to use for money. They had to go forth like a battalion of Santa Clauses, loaded up with anything that might serve for barter. Almost always nine-tenths of it wasn’t of any use and had to be carted back again.”

“On Persephone,” informed Harrison, “a long-shanked Milik offered me a twenty-karat, blue-tinted first-water diamond for my bike.”

“Jeepers, didn’t you take it?”

“What was the good? I’d have had to go back sixteen light-years for another one.”

“You could do without a bike for a bit.”

“I can do without a diamond. I can’t ride around on a diamond.”

“Neither can you sell a bicycle for the price of a sportster Moon-boat.”

“Yes I can. I just told you this Milik offered me a rock like an egg.”

“It’s a crying shame. You’d have got two hundred to two fifty thousand credits for that blinder, if it was flawless.” Sergeant Gleed smacked his lips at the thought of so much moola stacked on the head of a barrel. “Credits and plenty of them—that’s what I love. And that’s what makes this trip a honey. Every other time we’ve gone out, Grayder has first lectured us about creating a favorable impression, behaving in a spacemanlike manner, and so forth. This time, he talks about credits.”

“The ambassador put him up to that.”

“I liked it, all the same,” said Gleed. “Ten credits, a bottle of cognac and double liberty for every man who brings back to the ship an adult Gand, male or female, who is sociable and willing to talk.”

“It won’t be easily earned.”

“One hundred credits to whoever gets the name and address of the town’s chief civic dignitary. A thousand credits for the name and accurate location of the world’s capitol city.” He whistled happily, added, “Somebody’s going to be in the dough and it won’t be Bidworthy. He didn’t come out of the hat. I know—I was holding it.”

He ceased talking, turned to watch a tall, lithe blonde striding past. Harrison pulled at his arm.

“Here’s Baines’ place that I told you about. Let’s go in.”

“Oh, all right.” Gleed followed with much reluctance, his gaze still down the street.

“Good afternoon,” said Harrison, brightly.

“It ain’t,” contradicted Jeff Baines. “Trade’s bad. There’s a semifinal being played and it’s taken half the town away. They’ll think about their bellies after I’ve closed. Probably make a rush on me tomorrow and I won’t be able to serve them fast enough” [It may be, of course, that the floor did not slope, but that the museum was built into the side of a hill.—Ed.]

“How can trade be bad if you don’t take money even when it’s good?” inquired Gleed, reasonably applying what information Harrison had given him.

Jeff’s big moon eyes went over him slowly, then turned to Harrison. “So he’s another bum off your boat. What’s he talking about?”

“Money,” said Harrison. “It’s stuff we use to simplify trade. It’s printed stuff, like documentary obs of various sizes.”

“That tells me a lot,” Jeff Baines observed. “It tells me a crowd that has to make a printed record of every ob isn’t to be trusted—because they don’t even trust each other.” Waddling to his high stool, he squatted on it. His breathing was labored and wheezy. “And that confirms what our schools have always taught—that an Antigand would swindle his widowed mother.”

“Your schools have got it wrong,” assured Harrison.

“Maybe they have.” Jeff saw no need to argue the point. “But we’ll play safe until we know different.” He looked them over. “What do you two want, anyway?”

“Some advice,” shoved in Gleed, quickly. “We’re out on the spree. Where’s the best places to go for food and fun?”

“How long you got?”

“Until night fall tomorrow.”

“No use.” Jeff Baines shook his head sorrowfully. “It’d take you from now to then to plant enough obs to qualify for what’s going. Besides, lots of folk wouldn’t let any Antigand dump an ob on them. They’re kind of particular, see?”

“Look,” said Harrison. “Can’t we get so’much as a square meal?”

“Well, I dunno about that.” Jeff thought it over, rubbing several chins. “You might manage so much—but I can’t help you this time. There’s nothing I want of you, so you can’t use any obs I’ve got planted.”

“Can you make any suggestions?”

“If you were local citizens, it’d be different. You could get all you want right now by taking on a load of obs to be killed sometime in the future as and when the chances come along. But I can’t see anyone giving credit to Antigands who are here today and gone tomorrow.”

“Not so much of the gone tomorrow talk,” advised Gleed. “When an Imperial Ambassador is sent it means that Terrans will be here for keeps.”

“Who says so?”

“The Empire says so. You’re part of it, aren’t you?”

“Nope,” said Jeff. “We aren’t part of anything and don’t want to be, either. What’s more, nobody’s going to make us part of anything.”

Gleed leaned on the counter and gazed absently at a large can of pork. “Seeing I’m out of uniform and not on parade, I sympathize with you though I still shouldn’t say it. I wouldn’t care to be taken over body and soul by other-world bureaucrats, myself. But you folk are going to have a tough time beating us off. That’s the way it is.”

“Not with what we’ve got,” Jeff opined. He seemed mighty self-confident.

“You ain’t got so much,” scoffed Gleed, more in friendly criticism than open contempt. He turned to Harrison. “Have they?”

“It wouldn’t appear so,” ventured Harrison.

“Don’t go by appearances,” Jeff advised. “We’ve more than you’d care to guess at.”