Citizen of the GalaxyRobert A. HeinleinCopyright 1957Chapter 1"Lot ninety-seven," the auctioneer announced. "A boy."The boy was dizzy and half sick from the feel of ground underfoot The slaveship had come more than forty light-years; it carried in its holds the stink ofall slave ships, a reek of crowded unwashed bodies, of fear and vomit and ancientgrief. Yet in it the boy had been someone, a recognized member of a group,entitled to his meal each day, entitled to fight for his right to eat it in peace.He had even had friends.Now he was again nothing and nobody, again about to be sold.A lot had been knocked down on the auction block, matched blonde girls,alleged to be twins; the bidding had been brisk, the price high. The auctioneerturned with a smile of satisfaction and pointed at the boy. "Lot ninety-seven.Shove him up here."The boy was cuffed and prodded onto the block, stood tense while his feraleyes darted around, taking in what he had not been able to see from the pen. Theslave market lies on the spaceport side of the famous Plaza of Liberty, facing thehill crowned by the still more famous Praesidium of the Sargon, capitol of theNine Worlds. The boy did not recognize it; he did not even know what planet he wason. He looked at the crowd.Closest to the slave block were beggars, ready to wheedle each buyer as heclaimed his property. Beyond them, in a semi-circle, were seats for the rich andprivileged. On each flank of this elite group waited their slaves, bearers, andbodyguards and drivers, idling near the ground cars of the rich and the palanquinsand sedan chairs of the still richer. Behind the lords and ladies were commoners,idlers and curious, freedmen and pickpockets and vendors of cold drinks, anoccasional commoner merchant not privileged to sit but alert for a bargain in aporter, a clerk, a mechanic, or even a house servant for his wives."Lot ninety-seven," the auctioneer repeated. "A fine, healthy lad, suitable aspage or tireboy. Imagine him, my lords and ladies, in the livery of your house.Look at--" His words were lost in the scream of a ship, dopplering in at thespaceport behind him.The old beggar Baslim the Cripple twisted his half-naked body and squinted hisone eye over the edge of the block. The boy did not look like a docile houseservant to Baslim; he looked a hunted animal, dirty, skinny, and bruised. Underthe dirt, the boy's back showed white scar streaks, endorsements of former owners'opinions.The boy's eyes and the shape of his ears caused Baslim to guess that he mightbe of unmutated Earth ancestry, but not much could be certain save that he wassmall, scared, male, and still defiant The boy caught the beggar staring at himand glared back.The din died out and a wealthy dandy seated in front waved a kerchief lazilyat the auctioneer. "Don't waste our time, you rascal. Show us something like thatlast lot.""Please, noble sir. I must dispose of the lots in catalog order.""Then get on with it! Or cuff that starved varmint aside and show usmerchandise.""You are kind, my lord." The auctioneer raised his voice. "I have been askedto be quick and I am sure my noble employer would agree. Let me be frank. Thisbeautiful lad is young; his new owner must invest instruction in him. Therefore--"The boy hardly listened. He knew only a smattering of this language and what wassaid did not matter anyhow. He looked over the veiled ladies and elegant men,wondering which one would be his new problem.
"--a low starting price and a quick turnover. A bargain! Do I hear twentystellars?"The silence grew awkward. A lady, sleek and expensive from sandaled feet tolace-veiled face, leaned toward the dandy, whispered and giggled. He frowned, tookout a dagger and pretended to groom his nails. "I said to get on with it," hegrowled.The auctioneer sighed. "I beg you to remember, gentlefolk, that I must answerto 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 tosee it? Consider, I beg you. Here you have a fresh young lad like a clean sheet ofpaper; you can draw any design you like. At this unbelievably low price you canafford 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 werepermitted 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, theperfectly rounded curve of his ears." The auctioneer nipped the boy's ear, pulledit.The boy twisted and bit his hand. The crowd laughed.The man snatched his hand away. "A spirited lad. Nothing a taste of leatherwon'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, andpointed. 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. Theboy tensed and looked around, aware of trouble without understanding why. Theauctioneer went white--no one sneered at Syndonians face to face . . . not morethan 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. Iwas 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'snot 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 andwent on, "I beg my lords' and ladies' pardons for wasting time on a minor lot. Inow ask for any bid at all."He waited, said nervously, "I hear no bid, I see no bid. No bid once . . . ifyou do not bid, I am required to return this lot to stock and consult my patronbefore continuing. No bid twice. There are many beautiful items to be offered; itwould 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. "Areyou 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 forthis boy?""No, no, no, no, no!" Baslim screamed. "Two minims!"The auctioneer lacked at him; the beggar jerked his head aside. The auctioneershouted, "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 anauction. Nor even two unless the auctioneer has set a minimum. With no minimum, Iam not allowed to sell with less than three bids. Noble sir, this law was given toprotect 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?""Four," stated the Syndonian."Five!" a voice called out.The Syndonian motioned the beggar to him. Baslim moved on hands and one knee,with the stump of the other leg dragging and was hampered by his alms bowl. Theauctioneer started droning, "Going at five minims once . . . five minims twice . ..""Six!" snapped the Syndonian, glanced into the beggar's bowl, reached in hispurse and threw him a handful of change."I hear six. Do I hear seven?""Seven," croaked Baslim."I'm bid seven. You, over there, with your thumb tip. You make it eight?""Nine!" interposed the beggar.The auctioneer glared but put the bid. The price was approaching one stellar,too expensive a joke for most of the crowd. The lords and ladies neither wantedthe worthless slave nor wished to queer the Syndonian's jest.The auctioneer chanted, "Going once at nine . . . going twice at nine . . .going three times--sold at nine minims!" He shoved the boy off the block almostinto the beggar's lap. "Take him and get out!""Softly," cautioned the Syndonian. "The bill of sale."Restraining himself, the auctioneer filled in price and new owner on a formalready prepared for lot ninety-seven. Baslim paid over nine minims--then had tobe subsidized again by the Syndonian, as the stamp tax was more than the sellingprice. The boy stood quietly by. He knew that he had been sold again and he wasgetting it through his head that the old man was his new master--not that itmattered; he wanted neither of them. While all were busy with the tax, he made abreak.Without appearing to look the old beggar made a long arm, snagged an ankle,pulled him back. Then Baslim heaved himself erect, placed an arm across the boy'sshoulders and used him for a crutch. The boy felt a bony hand clutch his elbow ina strong grip and relaxed himself to the inevitable--another time; they always gotcareless if you waited.Supported, the beggar bowed with great dignity. "My lord," he said huskily, "Iand my servant thank you.""Nothing, nothing." The Syndonian flourished his kerchief in dismissal.From the Plaza of Liberty to the hole where Baslim lived was less than a li,no more than a half mile, but it took them longer than such distance implies. Thehopping progress the old man could manage using the boy as one leg was even slowerthan his speed on two hands and one knee, and it was interrupted frequently byrests for business--not that business ceased while they shuffled along, as the oldman required the boy to thrust the bowl under the nose of every pedestrian.Baslim accomplished this without words. He had tried Interlingua, Space Dutch,Sargonese, half a dozen forms of patois, thieves' kitchen, cant, slave lingo, andtrade talk--even System English--without result, although he suspected that theboy had understood him more than once. Then he dropped the attempt and made his
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