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evening head dress, he looked more like Pop . . . except for one thing. "Pop . . . your eye."
    "Oh, that. It comes out as easily as it went in. I look better with two eyes, don't I?"
    "I don't know." Thorby stared at it worriedly. "I don't think I like it."
    "So? Well, you won't often see me wear it. As long as you are awake you can help."
    Thorby was not much help; everything Pop did was new to him. First Baslim dug tanks and trays from a food cupboard which appeared to have an extra door in its back. Then he removed the false eye and, handling it with great care, unscrewed it into two parts and removed a tiny cylinder, using tweezers.
    Thorby watched the processing that followed but did not understand, except that he could see that Pop was working with extreme care and exact timing. At last Baslim said, "All done. Now we'll see if I got any pictures."
    Baslim inserted the spool in a microviewer, scanned it, smiled grimly and said, "Get ready to go out. Skip breakfast. You can take along a piece of bread."
    "Huh?"
    "Get moving. No time to waste."
    Thorby put on his make-up and clout and dirtied his face. Baslim was waiting with a photograph and a small flat cylinder about the size of a half-minim bit. He shoved the photo at Thorby. "Look at it. Memorize it."
    "Why?"
    Baslim pulled it back. "Would you recognize that man?"
    "Uh . . . let me see it again."
    "You've got to know him. Look at it well this time."
    Thorby did so, then said, "All right, I'll know him."
    "He'll be in one of the taprooms near the port. Try Mother Shaum's first, then the Supernova and the Veiled Virgin. If you don't hit, work both sides of Joy Street until you do. You've got to find him before the third hour."
    "I'll find him, Pop."
    "When you do, put this thing in your bowl along with a few coins. Then tell him the tale but be sure to mention that you are the son of Baslim the Cripple."
    "Got it, Pop."
    "Get going."
    Thorby wasted no time getting down to the port. It was the morning following the Feast of the Ninth Moon and few were stirring; he did not bother to pretend to beg en route, he simply went the most direct way, through back courts, over fences, or down streets, avoiding only the sleepy night patrol. But, though he reached the neighborhood quickly, he had the Old One's luck in finding his man; he was in none of the dives Baslim had suggested, nor did the rest of Joy Street turn him up. It was pushing the deadline and Thorby was getting worried when he saw the man come out of a place he had already tried.
    Thorby ducked across the street, came up behind him. The man was with another man—not good. But Thorby started in:
    "Alms, gentle lords! Alms for mercy on your souls!"
    The wrong man tossed him a coin; Thorby caught it in his teeth. "Bless you, my lord!" He turned to the other. "Alms, gentle sir. A small gift for the unfortunate. I am the son of Baslim the Cripple and—"
    The first man aimed a kick at him. "Get out."
    Thorby rolled away from it. "—son of Baslim the Cripple. Poor old Baslim needs soft foods and medicines. I am all alone—"
    The man of the picture reached for his purse. "Don't do it," his companion advised. "They're all liars and I've paid him to let us alone."
    " 'Luck for the jump,' " the man answered. "Now let me see . . ." He fumbled in his purse, glanced into the bowl, placed something in it.
    "Thank you, my lords. May your children be sons." Thorby moved on before he looked. The tiny flat cylinder was gone.
    He worked on up Joy Street, doing fairly well, and checked the Plaza before heading home. To his surprise Pop was in his favorite pitch, by the auction block and facing the port. Thorby slipped down beside him. "Done."
    The old man grunted.
    "Why don't you go home, Pop? You must be tired. I've made us a few bits already."
    "Shut up. Alms, my lady! Alms for a poor cripple."
    At the third hour a ship took off with a whoosh! that dopplered away into subsonics; the old man seemed to relax. "What ship was that?"