* * * * *

After depositing Charley in the ship, he bought clean clothes and
registered for a room at the Spaceport Hotel. After a bath, a shave
and a civilized meal he felt more human than he had for many lonely
months. He transferred his belongings to the new clothes, and opened
his billfold to audit his dwindling resources. After the hotel and the
new clothes and the storage-rent at the spaceport for his ship, there
was barely enough for even a bust of limited dimensions. It would have
to do.

As he replaced the money a battered photograph fell out. It was the
picture of Laird Martin's child. A girl, not over four. She was plump
and pretty in the vague way children are plump and pretty. An old
picture, of course; faded and worn from frequent handling. Dirty and
not too clear. How could anyone trace a small orphan girl on Earth
with the picture and the incomplete address? She would be older, of
course; maybe six or seven. Schools do keep records and lists of the
pupils' names might be available if he had money to investigate. Which
he hadn't.

His ship carried three months of supplies. Beside the money in his
billfold, he had nothing else. Nothing but Charley, and the sales of
him had always backfired. At best, a moondog was not readily
marketable. Besides, could he part with Charley?

Maybe if he looked into those old Martian workings, the money would be
forthcoming. After all, the dying Laird Martin had only asked that a
share be reserved for his daughter. Put some aside for the kid. Use
some to find her. Keep careful accounting and give her a fair half.
More if she needed it and there wasn't too much. It was a nice
thought. Denver felt warm and decent inside.

For the moment some of his thoughts verged upon indecencies.

He lacked the price but it cost nothing to look. He called it
widow-shopping, which was not a misnomer in Crystal City. There were
plenty of widows, some lonely, some lively. Some free and uninhibited.
And he did have the price of the drinks.

The impulse carried him outside to a point near the X-like
intersection of streets. Here, the possibilities of sin and evil
splendor dazzled the eye.

Pressured atmosphere within the domed city was richer than Tod Denver
was used to. Oxygen in pressure tanks costs money; and he had
accustomed himself to do with as little as possible. Charley helped
slightly. Now the stuff went tingling through nostrils, lungs and on
to h