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."
"Or feed him to the fish!"
" 'Or feed him--' Oh, you are witty, noble sir!"
"I'm bored. What makes you think that sorry item is worth anything? Your son, perhaps?"
The auctioneer forced a smile. "I would be proud if he were. I wish I were permitted to tell you this lad's ancestry--"
"Which means you don't know."
"Though my lips must be sealed, I can point out the shape of his skull, the perfectly rounded curve of his ears." The auctioneer nipped the boy's ear, pulled it.
The boy twisted and bit his hand. The crowd laughed.
The man snatched his hand away. "A spirited lad. Nothing a taste of leather won't cure. Good stock, look at his ears. The best in the Galaxy, some say."
The auctioneer had overlooked something; the young dandy was from Syndon IV. He removed his helmet, uncovering typical Syndonian ears, long, hairy, and pointed. He leaned forward and his ears twitched. "Who is your noble protector?"
The old beggar Baslim scooted near the corner of the block, ready to duck. The boy tensed and looked around, aware of trouble without understanding why. The auctioneer went white--no one sneered at Syndonians face to face . . . not more than once. "My lord," he gasped, "you misunderstood me."
"Repeat that crack about 'ears' and 'the best stock.' "
Police were in sight but not close. The auctioneer wet his lips. "Be gracious, gentle lord
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