or so," Ivo was saying, "Sirian actors will be coming to Earth in droves, making the native performers look sick—"

Paul smiled wisely. "Now, Ivo, you know Equity would never stand for that."

"Equity won't be able to help itself. Public pressure will surge upward in a mounting wave and—" Ivo stopped. "Sorry. I was ranting again, wasn't I? It's being out in the open air that does it. I need to be bounded by the four walls of a theater."

"That's a fallacy," Paul began. "On the Greek stage—"

"Save that for the stars, fella," Ivo smiled. "You've got to leave before it gets light." Then he wrung Paul's hand. "Good-by, kid," he said. "You'll knock 'em dead on Sirius."

"Good-by, Ivo." Paul returned the grip. Then he got inside and closed the airlock door behind him. He did hope Ivo would correct that tendency toward declamation; on the other hand, it was certainly better than mumbling.

Paul put a Sirian-in-a-jiffy record on the turntable, because he might as well start learning the language right away. Of course he'd have no one to talk to but himself for many months, but then, when all was said and done, he was his own favorite audience. He strapped himself into the acceleration couch and prepared for take-off.

"Next week, East Lynne," he said to himself.