The Apprentice
New Worlds Science Fiction, #99 Oct 1960
(1960)
James White

Chapter One

	Up until eleven thirty a.m. Arthur Richard Nicholson, the personnel manager of Coop's department store, had had a fairly average day.

	He was savoring that warm, pleasant and positive feeling of one who both enjoys and is completely on top of a job, when the sound of feet and voices came through to him from the outer office,

	The voices were low, but the quick, irregular thudding of four feet on the waiting room carpet told him that Harnrigg was in trouble again. All his pleasure was swept away by a wave of irritation. Striding across to the connecting door, he yanked it open and snapped, "Come inside, please. And sit down.  Those who can," he added sourly.

	The trio which filed into his office was composed of Redmond, the ground-floor supervisor, a good-looking salesgirl whose make-up had been wrecked by tears, and Harnrigg. Harnrigg entered last, clumping softly across the carpet to stand between the chairs taken by Redmond and the girl. Watching the being, Nicholson could not decide whether it resembled a furry walrus with hooves, or an outsize skunk with arms. Harnrigg's physical aspect was centaurlike—four legs, two arms and a head which had eyes, nose and mouth in the usual positions. In addition it possessed a dark-brown furry pelt, dramatically marked by a broad white line which ran along the spine and into the tail, which was large and bushy. Chest and arms were almost manlike, and were topped by a head which might have come from a furry sea lion. The most obvious features were the eyes, which were very large and sad.

	Part of the sadness might be due to the fact that Harnrigg was some thirty-seven light-years from home.

	"What's the trouble this time?" Nicholson said.

	Redmond cleared his throat. He said, "Horseplay at the music counter, I'm afraid. Miss Clarke and Mr. Harnrigg were, er, dancing to one of the demonstration tapes. My arrival startled them, they lost balance and a display stand was knocked over, by Mr. Harnrigg's tail. Estimated cost of damage seven pounds, three shillings and sixpence. Including tax."

	Some of the other floor supervisors would have elaborated on a case like this for fifteen minutes or more, but Redmond preferred assisting misplaced shoppers and placating children who had lost their mammas to putting his staff on the carpet. That had been one of Nicholson's reasons for placing Harnrigg on Redmond's floor; only serious misdemeanors would be reported, and maybe he would get a rest from this extraterrestrial apprentice and his troubles.

	But that, apparently, was not to be.

	"Well?" he said sharply to Harnrigg and the girl.

	"I ... I'm sorry, Mr. Nicholson," Miss Clarke said, on the verge of tears again. "We were only tapping our feet. At ... at first, that is … I mean, there were no customers about ..."

	"It was my fault entirely," Harnrigg broke in, his tremendous bass voice filling the office. "I like Earth music very much, and this piece was such that some form of rhythmic movement was forced on me. I asked Miss Clarke if she would teach me to boop-jog." 

	"I see," said Nicholson.

	It was common knowledge that Harnrigg's race derived intense enjoyment from earthly music—their culture, although very advanced in many ways, was musically starved. Placing the being at that counter had seemed a good idea. The Clarke girl had not objected and it was Nicholson's private conviction that the people who bought the currently popular boop-jog recordings were so far gone already that being served by a furry centaur would not even make them blink. Working so close to all that music should have made Harnrigg very happy.

	Apparently it had made him delirious.

	Nicholson addressed the girl. His remarks varied little from those used on similar occasions. Miss Clarke was a fully trained member of the selling staff. As well as being courteous, personally tidy and conscientious in her duties, an assistant was required to show a good example to trainees placed in her charge, especially when the trainee in question was an extraterrestrial. Miss Clarke should be ashamed of herself, Nicholson concluded.

	Stopping just short of pronouncing sentence, he turned to Harnrigg. "And as for you," he went on, "I can only say that I am disappointed and very angry, You came here seeking a job which would let you meet Earth people and see the planet, and insisting that you wanted to be treated as one of the boys. Well I can tell you that if you were being treated as one of one of the boys on this occasion you would have been on the street five minutes ago! Wait outside, both of you," he concluded grimly. "I have to discuss this matter with your floor supervisor."

	When Miss Clarke and the centaur had gone, Nicholson said, sighing: "I know Harnrigg's record. Is there anything previous against the girl?"

	Redmond shook his head.

	"What do you advise doing with these ... these boop-joggers?" Nicholson asked impatiently. "For my part, I'd run them out, Harnrigg anyway. I'm a bit sorry for the awkward so-and-so, to tell the truth, but this Harnrigg character has caused nothing but trouble ..."

	"I know," Redmond put in quietly. "But he grows on one, and the trouble wasn't always his fault. And the Clarke girl is very good at her job."

	"Whose side are you on?" said Nicholson irritably.

	Redmond grinned. "Theirs."

	Nicholson rose and headed for the outer office, then changed his mind and sat down again. He felt angry, indecisive and discontented. These feelings seemed to have been with him more and more frequently since Harnrigg had arrived. But Nicholson told himself that he couldn't go blaming the apprentice for his moodiness and fits of bad temper.

	Angrily he forced his thoughts into more constructive channels. He cleared his throat and prepared to rid himself both of the problem and this soft-hearted floor supervisor who insisted on acting like a defense counsel when it was his duty to side with the prosecution.

	"Tell them they're suspended until Friday, pending my final decision," Nicholson said briskly. "That will give them a couple of days to stew in their own juice. On Friday give them a good lecture. And none of your fatherly more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger routines, d'you hear? My reason for suspending them," he ended, "is to have time to find another spot for Harnrigg."

	When Redmond and the others had gone Nicholson tried to work himself into a pleasant, engaging and forceful frame of mind. He was going to try selling Harvey of the Toy department the idea of taking Harnrigg into his section again.

	The Toy buyer was a "good boss." Nicholson hoped that his good nature would extend to centaurs.

	"Oh, no!" Harvey protested when Nicholson phoned him. "I had him the first two weeks he came here. He's awkward. Some of the children are frightened by him, and others want to ride him like a donkey, which frightens their parents. Apparently you drummed this customer-is-always-right stuff into him so thoroughly that he was willing to give a kid a ride around the department if it would help him sell a doll's house. Some of my girls thought this an unfair advantage," Harvey added reflectively. "Harnrigg was away ahead of them with commission. Space behind my counters is cramped and with the Christmas stocks coming in it will be more so. We'd trip over him and he'd break things. I'll take him if you insist, but I'd as soon not ..."

	When Nicholson let the receiver drop he had decided that Harvey's objections were sound. His next call was to Furniture.

	While waiting for Fielding, the Furniture buyer, to be brought to the phone Nicholson visualized the great department, which covered nearly all the fourth floor. There was a big central aisle along which stood lines of tables, couches and assorted dining and bedroom suites. The side aisles were also wide, though there were a few awkward corners here and there. Nicholson was becoming adept at estimating Harnrigg's powers of maneuverability in any given space, and he decided that there would be a few scratched surfaces before the being got used to the place, but then what was the polishing shop for? He prepared to be very charming to the Furniture buyer.

	"I won't have him!" Fielding burst out. "I don't want that hairy brute dancing about in my department. Oh, yes, I heard all about it. You should have fired him!" Fielding had stomach trouble and it showed in his disposition.

	"Fielding, yours is one of the few departments where he could turn around without breaking something …"

	"I won't have him near me! Why doesn't he go home!"

	The Radio and TV department he considered and dismissed at once, and also China, Electrical and the other sections which dealt in valuable and easily damaged merchandise. Jewelry, Cosmetics and Lingerie were out also; Harnrigg would have looked ridiculous in those surroundings. Men's Wear would have been ideal—their buyers raised no objections and the floor space between their stock fixtures was ample—but in those departments the assistant was often the arbiter in matters of fit, style and appearance, and what customer would believe an assistant whose dress consisted only of a watch and four hoof protectors! Pharmacy required special training and Grocery was out. The sight of meat, even tinned meat, made Harnrigg ill.

	After an hour's solid telephoning, Nicholson had the possibilities narrowed down to three: Blankets, Garden Implements and Carpets. But the buyers concerned were not very cooperative. They had nothing personal against Harnrigg, but all were men close to retirement age who ran good, paying departments, and they were too set in their ways to welcome a disturbing influence.

	The selling end was beginning to look hopeless, but the store employed a small army of clerical and maintenance staff. There were repair men, painters, carpenters and cleaners. Making Harnrigg a cleaner seemed the ideal solution.	,

	But would he take a job like that?

Chapter Two

	At the initial interview Harnrigg had told him that he wanted to meet people and see the sights of Earth, and that he would work hard to earn the money to do so. He further stated that it was a point of honor with him that he earn what money he received, and he wanted no special privileges. Harnrigg was a proud type despite the donkey-rides and the boop-jogging.

	Contact had been made with his species ten years previously, but even now there was only a handful of his race on Earth at any given time. This meant that, despite the request that no special consideration be given him, Harnrigg was in effect a guest of the planet.

	One did not set one's guests to polishing floors and mopping out washrooms.

	Nicholson was still trying to find the answer, and was rapidly losing his temper in the process, when his phone rang. The abrasive quality of the voice identified the caller as Hammond, the store manager himself.

	"Nicholson! I hear you suspended our extraterrestrial, and may fire him. Why?"

	"Er, some disciplinary action seemed necessary ..." Nicholson began.

	"Disciplinary action my foot!" Hammond''s  voice  blared. "You were told to find a place here where he could work happily and efficiently, and that is your job! The fact that Harnrigg is on e-t may entail a little more work for you, but that is all." The voice became quieter, but with a dangerous edge to it as Hammond went on: "This is the first time one of Harnrigg's race has come here to work at an ordinary job. As I've already explained to you, his presence at the store is publicity for us of the most valuable and subtle kind. We aren't using him as part of some cheap advertising stunt, but are employing him as an ordinary member of the staff. He has trade-union protection, shares in sickness and superannuation benefits, and receives the usual apprentice's wages. This demonstrates our initiative, farsightedness and racial tolerance. We do not want to lose him."

	"I've been trying—" began Nicholson again. 

	"Obviously not hard enough!" Hammond snapped, and hung up.

	Nicholson banged down his own receiver with a force which threatened to shatter the plastic. So he wasn't trying hard enough! What had he been doing for the past hour? Bouncing out of his chair, he stamped out of the office. He was fed up with this job, the store and everyone in it. He was going out to lunch before he hit somebody.

	During the meal Nicholson calmed down but his feeling of angry discontent would not leave him, which was strange. He had always preferred dealing with people as people rather than as adjuncts to increasing business, and had sought promotion in the administrative rather than the selling side. Well, he had risen as far as it was possible to go. If he had not been scared of the dog-eat-dog atmosphere of the selling side, he might have been in Hammond's place today.

	By the time Nicholson got back from lunch he was fed up with himself too.

	There was a spaceman waiting in his office.

	"Good afternoon," said Nicholson respectfully. The sight of the trim black uniform with the tight, silver-edged beret and surgeon-commander's insignia gave him a funny feeling in his chest. It was like meeting royalty. The things this man has seen, Nicholson thought; the places he's been ... Despite the spaceport being only twenty miles away, this was the first time he had spoken to a space officer.

	"My name is Telford," said the visitor, smiling and getting to his feet. "Friends, including a mutual acquaintance called Harnrigg, shorten it to Joe."

	Harnrigg again! Abruptly the aura of glamour died from around the commander.

	Telford ignored Nicholson's expression and said cheerfully, "Harnrigg has to bunk at the spaceport— none of the hotel or boarding-house people will accept members of his race, I'm ashamed to say. When I saw him wandering about during working hours I asked him what was wrong. He wouldn't tell me. What is wrong?"

	In spite of the light tone it was obvious that the commander was deeply concerned for the alien. So Nicholson gave him a quiet, objective resume of the apprentice's record to date.

	"I suppose I could tolerate having him here because of the prestige," Nicholson went on, "but none of the department heads want him, which means he isn't going to have a happy time wherever I send him. I'm beginning to think that staying here is a punishment he doesn't deserve."

	"He isn't a criminal," said Telford drily.

	"I know that!" Nicholson snapped. Irritably he went on, "He's a fairly normal type, not too young, unmarried and with itchy feet. The Earth team on his planet distributed a lot of illustrated literature, translated copies of the National Geographic and so on, and he fell in love with Niagara Falls or the Matterhorn. I've had several long interviews with him, you know, and once I had to listen to him being homesick for a solid hour. Wouldn't it be kinder," Nicholson went on seriously, "to take him out of this place? There are very few centaurs on Earth at the moment, and all except Harnrigg seem to be getting the red-carpet treatment. Why not send him on a conducted tour as a goodwill gesture, and then pack him off home? Why does he have to work?"

	Telford leaned forward to give emphasis to his reply. He said soberly, "Because Harnrigg is the most important centaur to visit us to date, and he must earn his keep."

	"But if he's such a VIP …"

	"He isn't. On the contrary, Harnrigg is a very ordinary, not-too-intelligent and slightly maladjusted type."

	I agree with you there, Nicholson said under his breath. Despite the awe he felt for the other's rank and profession, he wanted to tell the commander to talk sense.

	Nicholson tried not to fidget as Telford began talking about Earth's first contacts with the centaur race. Gradually he began to realize that the commander had been talking sense.

	During the years which followed the first contact, scientists and other great minds of both races had exchanged visits, Telford explained, and those exchanges were still going on. The beings concerned, both centaur and human, were very much aware of their responsibilities and were careful not to do or say anything which might offend the other party. And because they were sane and highly intelligent beings, these people displayed a code of ethics which was not representative of their respective planets …

	"A fair analogy," Telford went on drily, "would be that of an old-time captain of a warship visiting a foreign port. The mayor and other leading citizens are impressed and delighted by the charm, politeness and friendliness of the captain and his officers and feel more than favorably inclined toward his country of origin. Then the ship's crew get twelve hours' shore leave and wreck the place!" The commander sat back and continued more quietly: "At present a millionaire couldn't afford the trip to the centaur planet, but twenty years from now a man in your own position could do so at least once in his lifetime. Thousands of people will be visiting each other's planets then, and they will be ordinary people. Friction will occur, misunderstanding, possibly war. We are hoping," Telford ended, "that by presenting the worst as well as the best facets of our respective cultures from the very beginning, both sides will have a fuller understanding by the time the stage of a mass exchange of tourists is reached."

	"I see," said Nicholson, getting to his feet. He felt that he had to walk around, or do some physical exercise, to relieve the excitement building up inside him. That a problem of such vast scope, affecting as it did the future well-being of two whole solar systems, was being discussed in his office!

	He sat down again, laughed nervously, and said: "So Harnrigg is an average alien, holding down an ordinary job so that he is forced to mix with ordinary Earth-people. I can't help feeling sorry for my centaur opposite number, with an Earthman apprentice to contend with."

	"There aren't any, yet," the commander said morosely. "Oh, we've had volunteers, but they're the starry-eyed idealist type—they aren't average at all! The kind we want is the person who is a good mixer, fairly adaptable and even-tempered. When I mentioned the worst and the best back there I didn't mean that we were going to use criminals or hopeless psychotics. But Harnrigg is our immediate problem. Or one of them," Telford added, with an uncomfortable glance at Nicholson. "You see, he has three friends."

	"On Earth?"

	The commander shook his head. "It happened during the first week he was at the store, before he began to get into trouble. He was enthusiastic about the place and wrote letters home to that effect. Three of his friends decided that they would like to work on Earth also, and asked our mission there if this could be arranged. We arranged it. They'll be arriving in ten weeks."

	"Not … here?" said Nicholson, aghast.

	Telford nodded, and began to speak rapidly. Coop's store had been chosen for Harnrigg because it was the largest on the planet and offered the widest variety of openings for an alien who would almost certainly have trouble adapting to any kind of Earth job. More important, it was a pleasant and easy firm to work for. This in turn was due to its personnel manager, who had also been investigated thoroughly and passed with flying colors. It was due to Nicholson rather than Hammond that the e-t was here, and if Coop's was the best possible choice for the first alien apprentice it followed that the other three should at least serve there for a short time. He did not have to stress the importance of the situation which was being worked out, they were sorry that the problem had been dumped in Nicholson's lap, but the decision had been taken at such a very high level that he was one of the few people qualified to handle it.

	Meanwhile, what was he intending to do about Harnrigg?

	Nicholson did not reply for a few minutes. He was thinking that this surgeon-commander was a very smooth operator. Telford had begun by dazzling him with the scope and importance of the problem, then stabbed him in the back with the news that three more centaurs were coming, and had ended with a hefty shot of flattery.

	He said: "If I tell you what I intend doing with Harnrigg we'll discuss it awhile, during which time you will say that there is no point in waiting until Friday before bringing him back to work. Then I will find that, by some odd coincidence, you happen to have Harnrigg with you, waiting downstairs! Wouldn't it save time if you brought him up, Commander? Then I could show you what I'm going to do."

	Telford looked startled. He left the office without a word.

	Nicholson did not know which of the three possible openings—Blankets, Garden Implements and Carpets—would best suit the extraterrestrial. Something which Telford had said about experiencing the worst with the best set his mind off on a tangent. Hitherto he had been trying to fit Harnrigg into departments where the work and people suited him. But suppose he put him in a tough section? That way Harnrigg might appreciate the good departments more, and behave accordingly.

	When the commander and Harnrigg returned, Nicholson came straight to the point. He said, "Mr. Harnrigg, I'm sending you to the Dugout. It's the section in the basement near the TV repair workshops which services the air-conditioning system, the elevator motors, and sundry other jobs. In charge are a senior and junior maintenance engineer, the rest of the personnel being unskilled. I must warn you that some of these people are likely to feel antagonistic toward you," Nicholson went on briskly. "They are that type. Also, you will hear figures of speech which will puzzle you. Don't go asking what they mean, just forget them if you can— they will be of the kind never used in polite company."

	The expression in Harnrigg's eyes, the only features not covered by a concealing mask of fur, told Nicholson that the e-t had heard all about the Dugout, and that he wasn't happy about being sent there. Nicholson decided that it was time to soft-pedal a little.

	"The move is temporary," he continued, in a slightly warmer tone, "and your conduct will determine your length of stay in that department. Frankly, I want you out of my hair for a while."

	"I understand, sir," Harnrigg boomed. Even when he was being submissive his voice almost rattled the windows.

	"Very well," said Nicholson. "Go to Mr. Redmond, who will introduce you to your new section."

	Harnrigg left and Nicholson made the phone calls necessary to arrange the transfer. The commander waited patiently until he had finished.

	"What's so terrible about your Dugout?" he asked.

	"The people, chiefly. When something goes wrong they have to work hard, very hard, but major breakdowns are rare. This means that they also have more leisure time during working hours than anyone else, and as they are tucked away in an inaccessible corner they do pretty much as they like."

	Gambling went on, Nicholson explained, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. The Dugout had an early-warning system, fitted by one of the electricians. It was foolproof, and the floor supervisors had long ago given up the idea of catching them gambling. Nicholson did not mind a little surreptitious card-playing during lunchtimes, providing it was for pennies and he didn't catch anyone at it, but the sums which changed hands in the Dugout were too large. Nicholson would have fired practically everybody in the section, including the two engineers, if only he could have caught them at it.

	But he could not, no matter how hard or how often he tried. All that he could do was to see that the Dugout was staffed by people who would not be hurt too badly by its lawless environment: men without dependent relatives who wouldn't mind losing most of their wages in a game.

	"I am hoping it will teach Harnrigg two lessons," Nicholson summed up. "The first is to make him appreciate the good spots he's been in by putting him in a rough one. The second ... well, the Dugout men do practically every 'Don't' in the staff rulebook and get away with it. Maybe the association will teach him how to get out of trouble after he's gotten into it"

	The commander rose to his feet, shook hands with Nicholson, dropped a card on to the desk and turned to go. "If you need information on his home planet, or anything at all, let me know. Good afternoon."

Chapter Three

	For a long time Nicholson sat staring at the door through which the commander had passed, planning his next moves. Several department heads would have to be sold the idea of taking centaurs into their sections, and starting tomorrow he would begin applying the good old butter. Departmental buyers were always wanting something—more staff, their sections redecorated, extra display space for slow-selling goods—and if necessary Nicholson could wangle these things for them. For a return favor, of course. It was blackmail, a scandalous abuse of his authority, but Nicholson did not care. They could say what they liked about him, but gradually they would all get the idea that employing an e-t in their departments paid.

	Harnrigg was here already. Three others were expected shortly, and Nicholson felt it in his bones that there would be more to come. He had to make openings for them—the things Telford had told him made it imperative.

	Perhaps it would be wiser to get Hammond's backing before he brought pressure on his buyers. The store manager was interested in e-t's only for their prestige value. Providing Nicholson put it to him properly first, Hammond would shout down any of his buyers' objections to e-t's as assistants.

	Nothing happened next day, or on the one following. The weekend came and still Harnrigg had not got himself into trouble—or any that Nicholson knew about. On Sunday Nicholson drove out to the spaceport, partly on impulse and partly because he had always wanted to have a closer look at the ships and now he had a name to drop which might get him past the outer gate. He was pleasantly surprised. Telford must have been expecting him to call and had left word with the guards that Nicholson was to be admitted at any time.

	The commander was a very important person, Nicholson realized, as Telford met him and suggested a tour of the port.

	Telford took him through one of the larger interstellar ships, showing him the hyperdrive engines, the sleeping and recreational quarters, and ending in the control room. He indicated an acceleration chair—the captain's—and asked Nicholson to sit down. Taking the astrogator's position himself, he began to talk about some of the problems of navigation over interstellar distances. He made no attempt to talk down to Nicholson, or be offhand, or to show off. It was obvious that to Telford this ship was wonderful and the places he had been were wonderful. Nicholson's wonder was a pale thing by comparison.

	When they finally left the ship, two hours later, Telford began talking about Harnrigg's home world. Nicholson had seen the pictures, of course: the strange, fleecy trees, seas that were like blue milk, and the fantastic cloud effects. But Telford's quiet, expressive voice gave the remembered pictures new depth and color. Nicholson was entranced.

	"Here we are in the quarters used by Harnrigg and other visiting centaurs," the commander explained as Nicholson stared around him, trying to identify objects in that alien room. "He's paying a call on the crew of the centaur vessel on Apron Six, but I have a standing invitation here."

	The dissimilarities were what Nicholson noticed first: the largeness of the rooms to accommodate a being who was much less maneuverable than a human; the low, wide doors and the fact that there were tables in the usual places but no chairs. Harnrigg's kind could relax quite comfortably on their feet, and if necessary go to sleep on them. Nicholson was very pleased with himself when after only two minutes in one of the rooms he identified a large square of brightly colored foam rubber set flush with the floor as a bed.

	There were books, TV, and pictures scattered about in comfortable disorder. Most of the pictures were of people rather than places. To Nicholson, who could not tell one centaur from another, they seemed to be all of the same person. But there was one landscape, or seascape—the famous Three Islands taken just after sunrise.

	As the commander was taking him back to the main gate Nicholson said suddenly, "I can't understand why anyone would want to leave a world like that."

	"Oh, I don't know," said Telford, grinning. "We have a few attractions, too. Like snow, or moonlight, or boop-jog!"

	Nicholson did not sleep very well that night—he was too excited by all the things he had seen and by the knowledge that he was taking part in an extremely important project. His departmental store seemed to be an unlikely place to work out centaur-human sociological problems, but that was exactly what was happening. Harnrigg's presence was an exciting challenge.

	On Monday morning Nicholson began laying the groundwork for bringing in more e-t's. It was a gradual process, involving personal visits to department heads instead of the customary phone calls, carefully dropped words and half promises, and a peculiar mixture of threats, cajolery and near-blackmail. He became so absorbed in it that Wednesday came and went before he realized that Harnrigg had been almost a week in his new section without getting into trouble. He felt that this was too good to be true.

	But on Friday morning Redmond phoned.

	"Harnrigg wants to see you," said the floor supervisor in a strained voice. "He, ah, it looks as if he has the mange."

	A horrible picture of the centaur running about like an outsize, mangy dog, of some terrible extraterrestrial disease running rife among the staff, rose up before Nicholson. Then he remembered that centaurs and humans were supposed to be immune to each other's germs. That made him feel better. He said, "What does he want?"

	Nicholson heard Redmond relaying the question and the booming voice of the e-t as he replied. Apparently Harnrigg's superior had not liked having a centaur landed on him and had taken it out on the e-t by setting him to check elevator cables—a particularly messy job. Harnrigg had performed this work satisfactorily, but the detergents he had been forced to use to clean his fur had bleached his coat, causing unsightly patches of gray and yellow. He wanted to know if it would be possible for him to be supplied with protective overalls like the other maintenance staff.

	"Certainly," said Nicholson, relieved. "Send him along to Tailoring. They'll have to make him a set."

	"He wants to see you about a personal matter also," said Redmond.

	Nicholson did some careful thinking before he replied. A point which the e-t was probably not aware of was that, in his workmates' eyes, people who visited the personnel manager's office for anything but a ticking off were suspect. Nicholson did not want them to get the idea that Harnrigg was telling tales.

	"Send him to be measured," he said. "I'll be down in Tailoring shortly and will see him there."

	Nicholson arrived in the Tailoring department to see Harnrigg rolling about on his back on the floor while two assistants chewed their pencils and made notes. When Nicholson appeared the centaur rolled on to his side, and struggled to his feet, displaying his bleached and scraggy coat.

	"We've finished the measuring, sir, and are working out how best to fasten the garment," the senior assistant explained. "We think he should lie on his back, pull on the hind legs, then the forelegs, and finally the arms. Once upright he can fasten the garment, which will join along his back. The tail was a problem, but we've decided that it will have to be tied so as to lie flat along the spine. This, he assures us, will cause him no discomfort. There will be two pockets in the breast and two special tool pockets on each flank."

	Nicholson nodded and the salesman went on enthusiastically, "It takes eleven and a half yards of material for him! Why can't we get all these centaurs interested in wearing clothes while visiting Earth?"

	"It's an idea," said Nicholson, "but not my department, I'm afraid. And now I'd like to have a word alone with Mr. Harnrigg."

	The salesman and interested observers moved out of earshot, and Nicholson turned to the centaur. He said, "Something is bothering you?"

	Harnrigg wagged his head up and down. He made several attempts to say something, but failed to get past the second word. The expression in his eyes was of confusion and appeal. Nicholson felt himself warming to this four-legged apprentice.

	Choosing his words carefully, Nicholson said: "Everything which goes on down there is known to me sooner or later—but by hearsay, so that I can't take official action. For instance, someone brought in a bottle of whisky three days ago and one of the electricians got so drunk that he was unable to clock out until eight thirty. I also know, unofficially, about the gambling. So if you are afraid of implicating someone by telling me your trouble, I can listen unofficially, too. Did they clean you out?" Nicholson ended bluntly. "Are you short of money?"

	"Oh, no!" Harnrigg exclaimed; then, in response to Nicholson's frantic signal, he forced his voice down to a loud, discordant whisper. "Somebody started the rumor that my race is telepathic and they won't let me play."

	"You were lucky," said Nicholson. "But what is the trouble?"

	Apparently it was a problem belonging to two other people. One, a young mechanic called Sinclair who worked with him, had become emotionally involved with a girl in Hosiery. They were going steady and saving up—at least, the girl was; Sinclair found it impossible to give up his poker and betting on horses. In Harnrigg's opinion, if Sinclair could be transferred to a department where it wasn't so easy to slip out to the bookies and where there was no poker game, this would have a beneficial effect on his character and future hopes of promotion.

	"I see," said Nicholson when he had finished. "Did he ask you to do this for him?"

	Harnrigg shook his head. "I found out about it because Mr. Sinclair and a few others discuss this sort of problem with me. I'm supposed to have an objective viewpoint where human love is concerned. Taking the long-term view, I decided that transferring Sinclair away from Maintenance would be a good thing."

	"Well, well" thought Nicholson. This was a completely unexpected development. Harnrigg had been sent to Maintenance as a punishment, and now the e-t was intent on showing his irresponsible colleagues the error of their ways—the salvageable ones, anyway.

	Nicholson was about to put him in his place when he saw the hurrying figure of Redmond approaching, closely followed by Chambers, the Bedding-and-Linen buyer. Both their faces were red.

	They began talking at once while they were still a dozen yards away, Chambers complaining and demanding and Redmond trying to tone down the other's demands and complaints. Nicholson suggested that they all go to his office and discuss the matter less publicly, but Chambers wouldn't have that; he wanted a showdown right now.

	Gradually Nicholson began to understand what all the shouting was about. Two members of the Bedding-and-Linen sections—of opposite genders, Chambers explained delicately—had been sent into their stockroom to check off a delivery. An hour later Chambers had gone into the stock room and had been horrified to find them holding hands. Chambers had very strict views.

	"Send them up to my office," Nicholson said with a sigh. "I'll deal with them there."

	"Fire them!" Chambers cried. "Make an example of them!"

	"I don't think such drastic action is necessary," Redmond put in.

	Within seconds the two men were yelling at each other. Nicholson thought that the whole argument was highly undignified, when Harnrigg chimed in.

	"If I might make an observation," he said in a conversational tone for him, but which drowned out everyone else, "a store of this size represents a system of checks and balances similar, though on a smaller scale, to the ecological balance of a continent or planet. Causing large numbers of people of opposite genders to work in close proximity and then inhibiting the attraction which they feel appears to me to be an unnatural practice, and one likely to seriously upset the ecological balance of the store …"

	Chambers had gone plum-red with rage and Redmond's face was only a shade lighter—from suppressed laughter. But Harnrigg was warming to his subject and his tone was no longer conversational. Possibly here were a few people at the other end of the building who could not hear him now, but Nicholson doubted it.

	"Take Jewelry, for instance, whose buyer keeps a special room where members of the staff can choose engagement rings—in secret, if they prefer it that way, and most do. The buyer takes care of store personnel himself, which proves that the staff trade must make up a fair proportion of his total turnover. According to a breakdown of last year's trading figures, which I read a few days ago, engagement-ring sales to store employees accounted for five and a quarter per cent of—"

	Nicholson gave Harnrigg's flank a thump with his fist in an attempt to make him shut up.

	"I am not advocating unrestrained lovemaking," the extraterrestrial went on in stentorian tones. "Only that certain physical contact, when people are caught at it, should not be considered an offense of such gravity as to require dismissal. If this were so the staff would not patronize the jewelry department, the trading figures would go down and the buyer would not be pleased. Neither would Mr. Hammond."

	The silence which followed was broken by someone at the other end of the department clapping his hands. Nicholson glared in that direction and the applause ended abruptly. Before Chambers could get in a counterblast he said hurriedly, "Mr. Harnrigg, you are being insubordinate. Return to your section! And I suggest that you go back to your department also, Mr. Chambers. You, Mr. Redmond, bring the two offenders to my office in half an hour."

	As Nicholson was leaving, Redmond caught up with him and kept pace for a few yards. "Man, that was lovely! And bringing Hammond into it at the end was a masterstroke. I'll be afraid to tick off an apprentice for bad writing now in case I upset the ecological balance—"

	"That's enough, Redmond," Nicholson said sharply.

Chapter Four

	Back in his office, Nicholson decided to adopt Harnrigg's suggestion and transferred Sinclair to Garden Implements.

	Basically the extraterrestrial was a nice type. His attempts to gain a transfer for Sinclair proved that. Altogether, Nicholson put him down as a kindly but suggestible type—which was why his role of champion of the oppressed workers had Nicholson worried.

	No store likes agitators, extraterrestrial or otherwise.

	Harnrigg had settled in and been accepted by the rough characters of Maintenance—his request for overalls rather than a transfer proved that. He had made friends down there, but there must still be some who did not like him. Forbidding him to play poker suggested superstitious distrust on someone's part, and superstition and hatred were almost synonymous. That same person or persons had also learned that Harnrigg was suggestible, excitable and believed everything he was told. Somebody in Maintenance was busily feeding him with ideas which must ultimately get him fired.

	According to Telford, and Nicholson agreed, the extraterrestrial apprentice was a test case. His reactions to average people, and their reactions to him, were pointers to where their respective cultures were heading when unrestricted contact became possible. The alternatives were friendship or distrust, peace or eventual war. It was crazy that a matter of such tremendous importance should depend on the workings of some malicious joker's mind. There must be something he could do.

	On impulse, Nicholson phoned Maintenance and asked for the chief. In his best official voice he told him that the apprentice Harnrigg had been down there mainly as a punishment, that the e-t must have learned his lesson by now, and that he was considering moving him out again.

	"He's doing all right," the Maintenance chief replied. "Naturally he got underfoot at first, but now I think he likes being here."

	"Let me speak to Harnrigg, please," said Nicholson.

	He got nowhere; Harnrigg liked it in Maintenance. If it was at all possible, he did not want to be moved.

	There were three ways only in which he could transfer a member of the staff: by permission or at the request of a department head, at the request of the person wanting the transfer, or if the person concerned had misbehaved and was being transferred for disciplinary reasons. Harnrigg's chief wanted him to stay. Harnrigg wanted to stay, and since going to Maintenance he had kept out of trouble. Nicholson's hands were therefore tied, and the unknown joker who was angling Harnrigg into trouble would have a free hand.

	He decided to call Telford.

	"I didn't know so much cloak-and-dagger stuff went on in a store," the commander said after Nicholson had given him the details of what had been happening. "I'm afraid I can't help, I'm just not qualified to cope with Borgia-type intrigues on this scale. You are."

	"You're a big help!" said Nicholson witheringly; then he hesitated for a moment. "One thing has been bothering me, however," he went on. "I know, of course, that Harnrigg's race is not telepathic. But since he came here I've noticed a change in my feelings. I used to like this job very much and now, well, I don't know. The effect seems to increase the more I see of him. Could there be some subtle emanation given off by members of his race which—"

	"No!" Telford snapped. It was the first time Nicholson had known him to show anger. "Start talking like that and the next thing people will be saying they eat babies."

	"I didn't mean it like that," began Nicholson.

	"Sorry, I know you didn't," Telford replied. "But talk like that from a person in your position can do great harm."

	Two days later Harnrigg got into, of all things, a religious argument. It began in the Time Office when he was clocking out for lunch and developed so quickly that the e-t dismissed the special truck which took him to and from the spaceport so as to continue it in the staff canteen.

	Over the preceding five years the staff canteen had remained the same size while the number of employees had increased, so the obstruction and disorganization Harnrigg caused was considerable. Nicholson expected the catering manageress to be banging on his door within minutes of the e-t's arrival in the canteen. But no, the catering manageress made only a faint, ritual protest by telephone, and when Harnrigg went to the canteen next day to continue the debate one of the aisles between tables had been specially widened for him.

	But as the days went on the arguments which Harnrigg got into increased. He would argue about anything. At the same time he was not opinionated, and would admit that he was wrong if the other party could prove it. He argued indiscriminately, excitedly and innocently. Harnrigg ranting against income tax or giving advice— usually very good advice—to lovelorn human salesgirls was not serious, but he was just as likely to pick more explosive subjects.

	For three weeks Nicholson sweated, trying desperately to put the brakes on Harnrigg's enthusiasm, and hoping that the arguments would stay confined to lower-rank personnel.

	In the middle of the fourth week, it happened.

	Redmond, who had tried unsuccessfully to intervene, gave Nicholson the details. Harnrigg had been talking to Harvey, the easy-going Toy-department buyer, about the ideal working conditions in Maintenance and had stated that, relatively, the staff in Toys were cowed and oppressed. Harvey, for the first time in seven years, had lost his temper. For ten minutes he matched Harnrigg decibel for decibel, and had proved to the e-t's satisfaction that if there were any oppressed minorities in this department it was himself and his charge assistant.

	"Harnrigg apologized humbly then," Redmond went on. "Everything would have been all right then if Harnrigg hadn't said that if ho ever came back to Toys he would be a model worker for Mr. Harvey. And when his friends arrived he would see to it, if they came to Mr. Harvey's department, that they would be the same."

	"Oh, no," said Nicholson faintly.

	"Harvey asked what friends," Redmond continued. "When Harnrigg told him, the ceiling was all that kept him from going into orbit. Now it's all over the store. Every buyer in the place is up in arms, there's talk of running Harnrigg out, and of calling for a strike. Did you know that we're getting fifty more centaurs?"

	"Yes!" said Nicholson savagely. "But nobody else was supposed to know, yet. And it is three, not fifty. Try and spread that around, will you. And get that unprintable Harnrigg up here at once!"

	"Why did you have to blab about your friends coming?" Nicholson yelled before Harnrigg was past the door. "You must have known I wanted that kept quiet until I had places for them. Now the staff are hostile as well as the buyers. Where the blazes am I going to put your friends when they come?"

	"Two of them," said Harnrigg timidly, "are interested in TV. They are repair men—they could talk knowledgeably about the new sets that we're getting. Since Earth has begun to copy our full-color TV system the manufacturers are making a big thing out of the fact that the designs originated on our planet. I thought that it might tie in nicely with the advertising to have two centaurs selling the sets."

	When Harnrigg had taken his rhetorical question literally and started answering it, Nicholson had been startled. Then he began to see the sense of what Harnrigg was saying, and his rage cooled, even though he realized that this was the effect that Harnrigg must be striving for. The four-legged so-and-so is handling me, he thought.

	But before he could develop that thought the phone rang. It was the store manager. Hammond wanted to know what all this was about the store importing cheap labor from the stars, the trade-union district organizer was in his office threatening strike action, and what the blazes had Nicholson done now?

	Covering the mouthpiece, Nicholson said, "Get out!" Then he began replying to the store manager's questions one by one.

Chapter Five

	Next day feelings were still running high, though not against Harnrigg personally. There was a tension in the air that gave it an almost static charge and the staff were being too polite, keeping too busy. Some sort of diversion was needed.

	Using as his reason the fact that Harnrigg no longer returned to the spaceport each midday, and in the circumstances not to build a special washroom would be needless cruelty, Nicholson requested and was granted permission to install washroom faculties for Harnrigg in the basement. The maintenance section were to handle the job and work was to begin immediately. When that got out, practically everyone in the store found an excuse to visit the basement to see what a centaur washroom consisted of.

	So the staff had something to speculate on, and the humorists among them had a field day. Nicholson was able to use the time to scotch the exaggerated rumors which had been going about, and to regain some of the ground which he had lost. He was with the head of the Radio and TV department when he was told he was wanted in the store manager's office.

	Commander Telford and the store manager were there when he arrived.

	"I met the commander as he was coming in," Hammond said. "He was going to wait for you in your officer—imagine that!" The implication in his tone was that such an important person must feel slighted at having to wait in Nicholson's small, dingy office. "This is Surgeon-Commander Telford, the director of a group studying centaur-human relations and the man responsible for Harnrigg and the others coming here. Commander Telford, this is my personnel manager, Mr. Nichol—"

	"Hi, Joe," said Nicholson, for the purpose of seeing what effect such familiarity toward a space commander would have on Hammond. Hammond was stricken speechless.

	"Hello, Arthur," said Telford, catching the ball neatly. "I have just been telling your chief that my group has decided that for the next four or five years Coop's store will receive all centaur immigrants. They will probably arrive at the rate of three a year. But only if we are assured that they will be reasonably happy working here. Can you absorb that number in your—"

	"He'll have to!" Hammond broke in. "It's his job to do so, and if he falls down on it I can find another personnel manager."

	Telford looked uncomfortable. He said, "I don't think he can be blamed too much for failing to solve a unique and extremely difficult problem." He turned to Nicholson. "How have you been making out?"

	Nicholson knew that he would have exerted himself to the utmost on the problem, and Hammond's threat of the sack only angered him. If he hadn't had what he thought was the answer to the problem, now would have been the perfect time to duck out by telling Hammond what to do with his job. But Nicholson had been doing some heavy thinking over the past few days and he thought he had the problem licked. Harnrigg had to stay out of trouble until Nicholson put his plan into effect.

	He was on the point of answering Telford's question when the store manager's intercom bleeped and an excited voice shouted, "Sir! I can't find Mr. Nicholson and there's a riot in the Dugout! They've locked the door but you can hear them all over the ground floor, Harnrigg anyway. Mr. Redmond says will he send for an ambulance, and the police?"

	"No!" Nicholson yelled, before Hammond could react. "I'm coming down!" He headed for the elevator, with Telford and Hammond close behind him.

	The man who had phoned met them on the ground floor and ran with them toward the basement stairs. He said breathlessly, "Mr. Redmond is trying to get through to them. H-Harnrigg's gone mad! Listen to him, he must be murdering all around him. No lousy centaur is going to—"

	"Don't do or say anything until I know what has happened!" Nicholson snapped at him.

	The noise of human shouts was loud even here, and the sounds which Harnrigg was making were something which Nicholson had never heard him make before. Altogether it sounded like a bloody massacre. But still he clung to the hope that there would be an innocent explanation.

	Redmond had sent to Hardware for an ax and had just about finished demolishing the door. It swung open as they came level with him.

	Harnrigg was in the middle of a struggling, punching mob of maintenance staff, invisible but deafeningly audible. There were a few bodies lying about on the fringe of the mob, and one man was crawling about on his hands and knees and splattering the floor with blood from his nose. There was a lot of loose money and spilled playing cards on the floor, too. But Nicholson was relieved to see that so far nobody had been killed.

	"Stop this!" he thundered. "Stop at once!"

	Nobody heard him. Harnrigg was making too much noise.

	"They're killing him!" Telford shouted into his ear, and dived into the struggling mass of bodies. Redmond and Nicholson followed. Nicholson did not waste time trying to separate any of the fighters; he merely shoved them out of the way or tripped them up. Telford and the floor supervisor both had split lips by the time they reached Harnrigg.

	The e-t was prancing about furiously, his heavy tail protruding from the tatters of his new overalls and whipping about viciously. The furry covering made it resemble a sandbag as a weapon, Nicholson thought as it thumped him in the back and knocked him to his knees. Harnrigg was also flailing away with both hands and roaring his head off. Nicholson shouted again but still could not make himself heard. Telford caught his eye, shook his head, and dived across Harnrigg's back.

	Nicholson saw his hands prodding rapidly into the fur along Harnrigg's spine. Then Telford balled one of his fists suddenly and swung it down. Harnrigg jerked convulsively, keeled over on to his side and lay gazing along the floor with a bewildered expression in his eyes.

	"That's dirty fighting!" yelled a burly maintenance man, and swung at Telford. The commander ducked sideways and the blow skidded off his cheekbone.

	Nicholson shouted: "Quiet! That's enough!"

	This time they heard him.

	"Redmond, get the medical kit," Nicholson said briskly. "And any of you men who have been injured, line up here and we'll have a look at you. Commander, will you attend to the ones on the floor?"

	"I'm a psychologist," Telford growled, fingering his raw cheek. But he moved to obey. Nicholson returned to the shattered door to speak to the store manager. This was a horrible mess, and what little hope there was in it lay in his being able to handle it alone. He had to get rid of the s.m.

	"I don't want you to think I'm ordering you around, sir," he said respectfully, "but I need someone at the head of the stairs to keep everybody out until I can find out what has happened. Someone with authority and a level head, who can quell any tendency toward panic among the staff up there ..."

	Hammond left and Redmond came up to Nicholson. He said: "None of the men are hospital cases. Apparently we arrived before things got out of hand."

	Before he could reply, Telford came across. "Bloody noses, minor cuts and bruises is all," he said soberly. "Cold compresses, sticking-plaster and aspirin is what they need. But how will this affect the Harnrigg business?"

	The extraterrestrial came wobbling over to them at that point, apparently none the worse for Telford's judo punch. He began, "I'm sorry, Mr. Nicholson—"

	"Not another word!" said Nicholson sharply. He pointed to a door leading into a large storeroom and snapped, "Go in there and wait. You men with nothing wrong with you, wait there also. When we've attended to your friends I'm going to get to the bottom of this." He turned and began applying surgical tape to the face of the junior maintenance engineer. As the man was turning to go he added, "I don't want it to be said that I was unfair about this business, that I questioned any of you while you were still dazed or otherwise mentally confused. So I'm going to give you all fifteen minutes to gather your wits. You are all," he went on grimly, "guilty of two crimes which, together with dishonesty, make up the three which bring with them instant dismissal: fighting, and gambling for money. The penalty applies to humans and non-humans alike."

	A few minutes, later the rest of the men had been taped up and sent into the storeroom with the others. A rising hum of talk came through the thick door, frequently interspersed with Harnrigg's louder tones, reached a crescendo, died and rose again. Nicholson paced up and down nervously, kicking at the loose cards and money lying around on the floor and not daring to think beyond the next fifteen minutes.

	The noise coming through the door was building up to a new high.

	"It's a pity it didn't work out," Telford said sadly. "You tried hard, I know, but even I know that a store can't have this sort of thing going on. You'll fire him, of course, but don't you think you'd better keep an eye on those people in there? You said most of them will lose their jobs over this, and if they decide that Harnrigg is the cause they might turn nasty. If they injure him seriously it could mean the first interstellar incident."

	Nicholson walked up and down again without speaking; then he said, "Look around, you can almost see what happened. I bet they let him play poker for the first time, and he had beginner's luck—otherwise there would have been no fight. Somebody, a loser, of course, remembered that rumor about him being telepathic and accused him of cheating—maybe hit him. But Harnrigg has a lot of friends down here, so the riot started. Trouble is, will I be able to prove all this? You see," he went on quickly, "this wasn't the usual sort of fracas. There were no boots, clubs or hooves used—only fists. Apparently even his enemies did not want to hurt him too much. You remember that character who slugged you because you gave him that rabbit punch in the back? If rough types like those could agree to rules for a free fight maybe they could agree—"

	"Listen to them!" said Telford urgently. "Even if they didn't want to hurt him then, now it's different. Now they're all going to be fired. They'll kill him!"

	Nicholson shook his head. "I know what I'm doing, I think," he said worriedly. "Anyway, their fifteen minutes are up."

	When he entered the storeroom the maintenance staff were ranged against the opposite wall, with Harnrigg slightly front and centre. Obviously he was to be their spokesman. Considering his growing reputation for winning arguments, Nicholson thought drily, the e-t was the logical choice. If Harnrigg couldn't talk them out of this fix, nobody could.

	Harnrigg made the opening move. "This trouble is entirely my fault, sir," he said miserably. "It came about through my ignorance, and also through the mistaken kindness of my friends here."

	"I'm getting tired of hearing that everything is your fault," Nicholson broke in. "Maybe it pleases you to be a martyr, but the free-for-all we have just witnessed was not being fought solely by you, and the gambling required more than one participant."

	"But we weren't gambling," Harnrigg boomed passionately. His eyes were large, soft and sincere. "I brought the playing cards in with me, seeking instruction, and thought that perhaps some of my friends would be able to help. My interest is purely academic, I assure you. Commander Telford knows that we have nothing resembling cards on my home planet."

	Telford nodded dumbly. Redmond seemed in danger of choking at the thought of the maintenance people merely explaining cards to anyone. Nicholson was thinking, What a beautiful liar he is. If only he can keep it up.

	"There was a large amount of money lying around," he said coldly. "Proof, I submit, of gambling."

	"It must have been shaken out of our pockets during the fighting—"

	"So there was fighting?"

	Harnrigg shook his head ponderously. "Not exactly, sir. Fighting among the staff is an offense punishable by instant dismissal, I understand. But I am intensely curious about all forms of earthly activities, not only music, literature and drama. Car racing, for instance, and chess. I realize now that I should not have talked my friends into demonstrating boxing for me during working hours, but out of politeness to an extraterrestrial they agreed."

	"You mean to say," said Nicholson witheringly, "that all these people were merely showing you how to box?"

	Harnrigg remained silent, but all the battered and bloody faces behind him nodded or otherwise signaled assent.

	Nicholson kept sternly to his role of Public Prosecutor, but inwardly he was jubilant. He said: "This story appears somewhat fantastic, but I haven't the time to go into obvious flaws at the moment. Mr. Hammond is upstairs trying to keep the staff from leaving in panic. They don't know what has been happening here and suspect that you are running berserk. It is more important just now that I help him calm them down. But rest assured that I'll get to the bottom of this. The day after tomorrow I'll hold a full investigation which will last, if necessary, a week!"

	As Nicholson was heading toward the basement stairs again, Telford said, "I don't understand. You ... you don't believe him?"

	"Of course not," said Nicholson, grinning. "But by the day after tomorrow I'll have no choice. Maintenance people stick together, and the electricians next door are as bad. Come the investigation, there will be a dozen electrical boys ready to swear blind that a few minutes before we broke in, everyone in here was either teaching Harnrigg how to play patience or discussing the last Killer Colgan fight, or both. I'll have to transfer him again, of course."

	Telford shook his head numbly. "Then he isn't being fired? There's still a chance."

	Nicholson sent Redmond on ahead. Then he said: "I was about to tell you that I had the answer to the whole centaur business when the riot started. I'm going to transfer him all around the store, a couple of weeks to every department in turn. Everyone is going to have experience of centaurs and he's going to experience every job. If I think it necessary I'll make him do the round two or three times."

	"But you can't keep moving him around," Telford objected. "That's not finding him a position."

	"No," Nicholson agreed. "But it is necessary training for the job I have in mind for him. If we're going to be flooded with centaurs I need an adviser who knows all the jobs from the centaur point of view. And he's good with humans. That is why, eventually, I'll make him assistant personnel manager."

	They were at the bottom of the stairs. Telford halted him with a hand on his arm and said warmly, "Neat, Arthur, very neat. I think you've got it. But ... but don't you realize that if what you say is true about him handling humans, you've worked yourself out of a job?"

	Nicholson shrugged. "I don't think I care."

	Telford squeezed his arm. He said, "And I think I know why. I'll give you a job myself. You would have to take a demotion, of course."

	The store manager, Redmond and assorted members of the sales staff were crowded around the head of the stairs, and Hammond was glaring down at him impatiently. That was why Nicholson did not realize the implications behind Telford's parting words until later.

	"But you'll be too far away for anyone in Coop's to hear about your drop in status. And anyway, I don't suppose that you'll remain an apprentice any longer than Harnrigg did."

The End