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. 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
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