"Nope, he couldn't," declared Jensen. "The rats from Thirty-seven wouldn't stand for it."
"They couldn't do a thing about it," declared the other man. "Meek's been here six weeks today. That makes him a resident. Six Earth weeks, the law says. And all that time he's been in sector Twenty-three. They wouldn't have a leg to stand on. They might squawk but they couldn't make it stick."
"You're certain of that?" demanded Jensen.
"Dead certain," said the other.
Meek saw them looking at him, felt a queasy feeling steal into his stomach.
"I couldn't," he told them. "I couldn't do it. I ... I...."
"You go right ahead, Oliver," said Gus. "I wanted to play, of course. Sort of set my heart on that cup. Had the mantel piece all dusted off for it. But if I can't play, there ain't another soul I'd rather have play in my place than you."
"But I don't know a thing about polo," protested Meek.
"You taught it to us, didn't you?" bellowed Jensen. "You pretended like you knew everything there was to know."
"But I don't," insisted Meek. "You wouldn't let me explain. You kept telling me all the time what a swell coach I was and when I tried to argue with you and tell you that I wasn't you yelled me down. I never saw more than one game in all my life and the only reason I saw it then was because I found the ticket. It was on the sidewalk and I picked it up. Somebody had dropped it."