The auctioneer sighed. “I beg you to remember, gentlefolk, that I must answer to my patron. But we’ll start still lower. Ten stellars–yes, I said. ‘Ten.’ Fantastic!”
He looked amazed. “Am I growing deaf? Did someone lift a finger and I fail to see it? Consider, I beg you. Here you have a fresh young lad like a clean sheet of paper; you can draw any design you like. At this unbelievably low price you can afford to make a mute of him, or alter him as your fancy pleases.”
“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. My children would starve. I quoted a common saying–not my opinion. I was trying to hasten a bid for this chattel . . . as you yourself urged.”
The silence was broken by a female voice saying, “Oh, let him go, Dwarol. It’s not his fault how the slave’s ears are shaped; he has to sell him.”
The Syndonian breathed heavily. “Sell him, then!”
The auctioneer took a breath. “Yes, my lord.” He pulled himself together and went on, “I beg my lords’ and ladies’ pardons for wasting time on a minor lot. I now ask for any bid at all.”
He waited, said nervously, “I hear no bid, I see no bid. No bid once . . . if you do not bid, I am required to return this lot to stock and consult my patron before continuing. No bid twice. There are many beautiful items to be offered; it would be a shame not to show them. No bid three–”
“There’s your bid,” the Syndonian said.
“Eh?” The old beggar was holding up two fingers. The auctioneer stared. “Are you offering a bid?”
“Yes,” croaked the old man, “if the lords and ladies permit.”
The auctioneer glanced at the seated circle. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Why not? Money is money.”
The Syndonian nodded; the auctioneer said quickly, “You offer two stellars for this boy?”
“No, no, no, no, no!” Baslim screamed. “Two minims!”
The auctioneer lacked at him; the beggar jerked his head aside. The auctioneer shouted, “Get out! I’ll teach you to make fun of your betters!”
“Auctioneer!”
“Sir? Yes, my lord?”
The Syndonian said, “Your words were ‘any bid at all.’ Sell him the boy.”
“But–”
“You heard me.”
“My lord, I cannot sell on one bid. The law is clear; one bid is not an auction. Nor even two unless the auctioneer has set a minimum. With no minimum, I am not allowed to sell with less than three bids. Noble sir, this law was given to protect the owner, not my unhappy self.”
Someone shouted, “That’s the law!”
The Syndonian frowned. “Then declare the bid.”
“Whatever pleases my lords and ladies.” He faced the crowd. “For lot ninety-seven: I heard a bid of two minims. Who’ll make it four?”