Someone called his name, and then a hand grasped his sleeve. It was Speros Moulios, the grey little tobacco dealer, whose two sons drank too much. "Mr. Cudyk, please, what do you think? Should we go, like he says?"
The others of the group followed him; in a moment Cudyk was surrounded. He felt helpless. "I can't advise you, Mr. Moulios," he said. "To be truthful, I don't know what I am going to do myself."
Nobilio Villaneuva, the druggist, said, "I have worked fifteen years, saved all my money. What am I going to do with it if I go to this New Earth? And what about my daughter?"
Someone came elbowing his way through the crowd. He signaled to Cudyk. "Laszlo!" It was bald, cheerful Mike Moskowitz, one of the Quarter's two doctors. He said, "Some of the fellows want to form a delegation, to go back and ask Rack some questions. They asked me to serve, but I've got to get back to the hospital. Same thing with Seu, he's got six things on his hands already. Father Exarkos isn't here. Will you take over? Good. I'll see you later."
Cudyk sighed. The men around him were watching him expectantly. He stepped over to the bar, picked up an empty glass and rapped with it on the counter until the room quieted.
"It's been suggested," he said, "that a delegation be formed to ask Captain Rack for more information. Do you all want that?"
There was an affirmative murmur.
"All right," said Cudyk. "Nominations?"
They ended up with a committee of five: Cudyk as spokesman, Moulios, Chong Yin, the painter Prokop Vekshin, and the town clerk, Martin Paz. Cudyk had slips of paper passed out, and collected a hundred-odd questions, most of them duplicates and some of them incoherent. Paz made a neat list of those that remained, and the delegation moved toward the stairs.