th
that same happy smile while two hotel security guards walked up and
stood beside him, having been called by the manager's signal.

Again it took the manager a little time to realize what Morgan had
said. He blinked. "Advantage of it?" he repeated haphazardly.

* * * * *

Harry Morgan's smile vanished as though it had never been. His blue
eyes seemed to change from the soft blue of a cloudless sky to the
steely blue of a polished revolver. Oddly enough, his lips did not
change. They still seemed to smile, although the smile had gone.

"Manager," he said deliberately, "if you will pardon my using your
title, you evidently cannot read."

The manager had not lived in the atmosphere of the Earth's Citizen's
Welfare State as long as he had without knowing that dogs eat dogs. He
looked back at the card that had been delivered to his desk only
minutes before and this time he read it thoroughly. Then, with a
gesture, he signaled the Security men to return to their posts. But he
did not take his eyes from the card.

"My apologies," Morgan said when the Security police had retired out
of earshot. There was no apology in the tone of his voice. "I perceive
that you can read. Bully, may I say, for you." The bantering tone was
still in his voice, the pseudo-smile still on his lips, the chill of
cold steel still in his eyes. "I realize that titles of courtesy are
illegal on earth," he continued, "because courtesy itself is illegal.
However, the title 'Commodore' simply means that I am entitled to
command a spaceship containing two or more persons other than myself.
Therefore, it is not a title of courtesy, but of ability."

[Illustration]

The manager had long since realized that he was dealing with a Belt
man, not an Earth citizen, and that the registration robot had sent
him the card because of that, not because there was anything illegal.
Men from the Belt did not come to Earth either willingly or often.

Still unable to override his instincts--which erroneously told him
that there was something "wrong"--the manager said: "What does the
'Sir' mean?"

Harry Morgan glowed warmly. "Well, now, Mr. Manager, I will tell you.
I will give you an analogy. In the time of the Roman Republic,
twenty-one centuries or so ago, the leader of an Army was given the
title _Imperator_. But that title could not be conferred upon him by
the Senate of Rome nor by anyone else in power. No man could call
himsel