strange notions."

"You've been around," she remarked. "Though I don't know what's strange about the notions."

"Cynic!" The pineapple got another pass in her direction. "If you feel that I'll be burdening you with an ob that you'll have to pay off you can do it in seemly manner here and now. All I want is some information."

"What is it?"

"Just tell me where I can put my finger on the ripest cheese in this locality."

"That's easy. Go round to Alec Peters' place, middle of Tenth Street." With that

she helped herself to the dish.

"Thanks. I was beginning to think that everyone was dumb or afflicted with the funnies." He carried on with his own meal, finished it, lay back expansively. Unaccustomed nourishment persuaded his brain to work a bit more dexterously and after a minute an expression of chronic doubt clouded his face and he inquired, "Does this Peters run a cheese warehouse?"

"Of course." Emitting a sigh of pleasure, she pushed the empty dish aside.

He groaned low down, then informed, "I'm chasing the mayor."

"What is that?"

"Number one. The big boss. The sheriff, pohanko, or whatever you call him."

"I'm still no wiser," she said, genuinely puzzled.

"The man who runs this town. The leading citizen."

"Make it a little clearer," she suggested, trying hard to help him. "Who or what should this citizen be leading?" "You and Seth and everyone else." He waved a hand to encompass the entire burg.

Frowning, she asked, "Leading us where?"

"Wherever you're going."

She gave up, beaten, and signed the white-coated waiter to come to her assistance.

"Matt, are we going any place?"'

"How should I know?"

"Well, ask Seth then."

He went away, came back with, "Seth says he's going home at six o'clock and

what's it to you?"

"Anyone leading him there?" she inquired.

"Don't be daft," Matt advised. "He knows his own way and he's cold sober."

Harrison chipped in. "Look, I don't see why there should be so much difficulty

about all this. Just tell me where I can find an official, any official-the police chief, the city treasurer, the mortuary keeper or even a mere justice of the peace." "What's an official?" asked Matt, openly baffled.

"What's a justice of the peace?" added the brunette.

His mind side-slipped and did a couple of spins. It took him quite a time to reassemble his thoughts and try another tack. "Let us suppose," he said to Matt, "that this joint catches fire. What would you do?"

"Fan it to keep it going," retorted Matt, fed up and making no effort to conceal the

fact. He returned to the counter with the air of one not inclined to waste words on a congenial halfwit.

"He'd put it out," informed the brunette. "What else would you expect him to do?"

"Suppose that he couldn't?"

"He'd call in others to help him."

"And would they?"

"Of course." She surveyed him with a touch of pity. "They'd jump at the chance.

They'd be planting a nice, big crop of strong obs, wouldn't they?"

"Yes, I guess so." He began to feel completely stalled but made a last desperate

shot at the problem. "What if the fire were much too big and fast for passers-by to tackle?"

"Seth would summon the fire squad."

Defeat receded, triumph replaced it.

"Ah, so there is a fire squad? That's what I meant by something official. That's

what I've been after all along. Quick, tell me where I can find its headquarters."

"Bottom end of Twelfth Avenue. You can't miss it."

"Thanks!" He got up in a hurry. "See you again sometime." Going out fast, he grabbed his bicycle, shoved off from the curb.

The fire depot proved to be a big place containing four telescopic ladders, a spray tower and two multiple pumps, all motorized on the usual array of fat rubber balls. Inside, Harrison came face to face with a small man wearing immense plus fours.

"Looking for someone?" asked the small man.

"Yes, the fire chief."

"Who's he?"

By now prepared for this sort of thing, Harrison spoke as one would to a child. "See here, Mister, this is a fire-fighting outfit. Somebody bosses it. Somebody organizes the whole affair, fills forms, presses buttons, shouts orders, recommends promotions, lacks the shiftless, grabs all the credit, transfers all the blame and generally lords it around. He's the most important man in the bunch and everybody knows it." His forefinger tapped imperatively on the other's chest "And he is the fellow I'm going to talk to if it's the last thing I do."

"Nobody is more important than anyone else. How can he be? I think you're crazy."

"You're welcome to think what you please but I am telling you that--"

A shrill bell clamored, cutting off his sentence. Twenty men appeared as if by magic, boarded a ladder and a multiple pump, roared into the street.

Squat, basin-shaped helmets formed the only article of attire that the crew had in common. Apart from these, they plumbed the depths of sartorial iniquity. The man with the plus fours, having gained the pump in one bold leap, was whirled out standing between a fat fire-fighter wearing a rainbow-hued cummerbund and a thin one sporting a canary yellow kilt. A latecomer decorated with ear-rings resembling little bells hotly pursued the pump, snatched at its tailboard, missed, sourly watched the outfit disappear from sight. He mooched back, swinging his helmet from one hand.

"Just my lousy luck," he griped at the gaping Harrison. "The sweetest, loveliest call of the year. A big brewery. The sooner they get there the bigger the obs they'll plant on it." Licking his lips at the thought, he sat on a coil of canvas hose. "Oh, well, maybe it's for the good of my health."

"Tell me something," Harrison probed. "How do you make a living?"

"There's a dopey question. You can see for yourself. I'm on the fire squad."

"I know. What I mean is, who pays you?"

"Pays me?"

"Gives you money for all this."

"You talk mighty peculiar. What is money?"

Harrison rubbed his cranium to assist the circulation of blood through the brain.

What is money? Yeouw! He tried another angle.

"If your wife needs a new coat, how does she get it?"

"Goes to a store that's carrying fire-obs, of course. She knocks off one or two for

them."

"But what if no clothing store has had a fire?"

"You're pretty ignorant, brother. Where in this world do you come from?" His ear-

bells swung as he studied the other a moment. "Almost all stores have fire-obs. It they've any sense they allocate so many per month by way of insurance. They look ahead, just in case, see? They plant obs on us in advance so that when we rush to the rescue we've got to wipe out a dollop of theirs before we can plant any new ones of our own. That stops us overdoing it and making hogs of ourselves. Sort of cuts down the stores' liabilities. It makes sense, doesn't it?"

"Maybe, but--"

"I get it now," interrupted the other, narrowing his eyes. "You're from that spaceship. You're a lousy Antigand."

"I'm a Terran," informed Harrison with suitable dignity. "What's more, all the folk

who originally settled this planet were Terrans."

"Are you trying to teach me history?" He gave a harsh laugh. "You're wrong.

There was a five percent strain of Martian."

"Even the Martians are descended from Terran stock," Harrison riposted.

"So what? That was a devil of a long time ago. Things change, in case you haven't

heard. We've no Terrans or Martians on this world-except for your crowd which has barged in unasked. We've all Gands here. And you nosey-pokes are Antigands."

"We aren't anti-anything that I know of. Where did you get that idea?"

"Myob!" said the other, suddenly determined to refuse further argument. He tossed his helmet to one side, spat on the floor.

"Eh?"

"You heard me. Go trundle your scooter."