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not proper for him to play such games with a slave. What Martin thought shouldn’t matter.
    Another father and son and slave, people Henry did not recognize, stepped in to examine Martin. The boy said something and Martin smiled and bent to speak with him. He glanced up and met Henry’s eyes over the top of the boy’s head. Henry felt a sharp pang of jealousy and wished he could push the strange boy away. He didn’t want any other boys talking to Martin, touching him, even looking at him. He opened his mouth and then shut it again—there was nothing he could do or say. He had no claim on Martin.
    Father said, “Timothy, come here,” and Timothy went. Henry stood aside while Timothy conferred with Father and Paulsen. The three of them pointed at various of the slaves on the dais, discussing their finer points. Father did not so much as glance at Henry, who was beginning to feel somewhat desperate.
    Paulsen said, “If you have any further questions, sir, I should be happy to answer them.” After a brief pause during which Father did not respond, Paulsen added, “If these candidates are not to your liking, perhaps I might show you something else…?”
    “I think we’ve seen enough.” Father closed the catalog, folded it in half, and put it in his pocket. “Thank you for your time.” He headed for the door, Timothy in his wake, and there was nothing for Henry to do but follow.
    On the way out, they passed slave after slave being exposed, fondled, probed. As Henry approached and then walked past, a boy pushed a slick finger between the bare buttocks of the slave who was bent over before him, and, with a sharp intake of breath, Henry understood this maneuver was meant to determine whether the slave’s ass would be a fitting place for the boy’s cock. Feeling his cheeks grow hot, he wished he’d been brave enough to put his hands on Martin, to check his fitness for the position. He turned his head for one last look and saw Martin looking back at him, his expression solemn.
    Father declared that he was in need of refreshment and so the three of them repaired to Father’s club, four doors down from the auction house. Timothy sat at the table with them, he and Father both sipping thick coffee from demitasse cups while Henry drank a lemon soda and kept sullenly quiet.
    “Perhaps we should see what the other Houses are offering,” Father mused, setting his cup back in its saucer.
    “If you’d like, Sir,” Timothy said agreeably. “I might go ahead and let them know you’re coming.” He was already pushing back from the table, prepared to leave on the instant.
    “Hmm, not just yet,” Father decided. He turned to Henry then, startling him. “What do you say, Henry? Do we need to look any further?”
    Henry blushed and looked down at the tabletop. “No, sir. I don’t think it’s necessary.”
    “Is that so? You liked the one called Martin,” Father said, not asking. “You didn’t even look at the others, did you?” Again, it was not a question. “Yes, yes…a Ganymede boy.” Father nodded at Timothy, toward the blue House mark framed by Timothy’s collarless shirt. “He would serve you well. You’ll never go wrong with Ganymede.” Timothy flushed with quiet pride.
    Henry felt enormous relief—it seemed that Father approved of his choice. He would not be made to go to other Houses or even to consider other Ganymede slaves. He had only a moment’s respite from worry, however, before he became concerned that they might be outbid. He did not know how high Father would be willing to go, and he could not think of a way to ask. Father could pay anything, but whether or not he would was another matter.
    The auction was scheduled for noon. Henry could not begin to think of how he would get through the intervening time and became very restless, shifting in his seat and fiddling with his soda straw. At Timothy’s gentle insistence, he ate a sandwich and a piece of cake. Father made clear his plans to read