Read Citizen of the Galaxy for Free Online Page B

won't do, son. That accent!”
    “I'm doing my best,” Thorby answered sullenly.
    “I know. But I want the message understood. See here, do you remember a time when I made you sleepy and talked to you?”
    “Huh? I get sleepy every night. I'm sleepy now.”
    “So much the better.” Baslim put him into a light trance -- with difficulty, as Thorby was not as receptive as he had been as a child. But Baslim managed it, recorded the message in the sleep instructor, set it running and let Thorby listen, with post-hypnotic suggestion that he would be able to say it perfectly when he awakened.
    He was able to. The second and third versions were implanted in him the following night Baslim tested him repeatedly thereafter, using the name of a skipper and a ship to bring each version forth.
    Baslim never sent Thorby out of the city; a slave required a travel permit and even a freedman was required to check in and out. But he did send him all over the metropolis. Three ninedays after Thorby had learned the messages Baslim gave him a note to deliver in the shipyard area, which was a reserve of the Sargon rather than part of the city. “Carry your freedman's tag and leave your bowl behind. If a policeman stops you, tell him you're looking for work in the yards.”
    “He'll think I'm crazy.”
    “But he'll let you through. They do use freedmen, as sweepers and such. Carry the message in your mouth. Who are you looking for?”
    “A short, red-hailed man,” Thorby repeated, “with a big wart on the left side of his nose. He runs a lunch stand across from the main gate. No beard. I'm to buy a meat pie and slip him the message with the money.”
    “Right.”
    Thorby enjoyed the outing. He did not wonder why Pop didn't viewphone messages instead of sending him a half-day's journey; people of their class did not use such luxuries. As for the royal mails, Thorby had never sent or received a letter and would have regarded the mails as a most chancy way to send a note.
    His route followed one arc of the spaceport through the factory district. He relished that part of the city; there was always so much going on, so much life and noise. He dodged traffic, with track drivers cursing him and Thorby answering with interest; he peered in each open door, wondering what all the machines were for and why commoners would stand all day in one place, doing the same thing over and over -- or were they slaves? No, they couldn't be; slaves weren't allowed to touch power machinery except on plantations -- that was what the riots had been about last year and the Sargon had lifted his hand in favor of the commoners.
    Was it true that the Sargon never slept and that his eye could see anything in the Nine Worlds? Pop said that was nonsense, the Sargon was just a man, like anybody. But if so, how did he get to be Sargon?
    He left the factories and skirted the shipyards. He had never been this far before. Several ships were in for overhaul and two small ships were being built, cradled in lacy patterns of steel. Ships made his heart lift and he wished he were going somewhere. He knew that he had traveled by starship twice -- or was it three times? -- but that was long ago and he didn't mean traveling in the hold of a slaver, that wasn't traveling!
    He got so interested that he almost walked past the lunch stand. The main gate reminded him; it was twice as big as the others, had a guard on it, and a big sign curving over it with the seal of the Sargon on top. The lunch stand was across from it; Thorby dodged traffic pouring through the gate and went to it.
    The man behind the counter was not the right man; what little hair he had was black and his nose had no wart.
    Thorby walked up the road, killed a half-hour and came back. There was still no sign of his man. The counterman noticed the inspection, so Thorby stepped forward and said, “Do you have sunberry crush?”
    The man looked him over. “Money?”
    Thorby was used to being required to prove his