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. 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
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