"May I speak to you?" asked Plato, with school-taught politeness.
"What about, bud? I'm busy."
"Well, I've been wanting to get Captain Halverson's autograph. He's on the Space Symphony—"
"So what?"
"Well, the thing is, they won't let me past the gate. So I thought that if I wore a messenger's uniform—"
The other boy glared at him. "Are you off your Norbert? I wouldn't let you wear this uniform for a zillion credits."
Plato swallowed nervously, and said in desperation, "I don't have a zillion credits, but I've got eight, and I'll give them to you if you let me wear it. Just half an hour, that's all it'll take. It's the last chance I'll have to ask him. He's bound for Rigel, and he won't be back for five years, and you see—"
His voice tapered to a thin, tearful squeak as the messenger looked at him.
"You're offering me eight space-lousy credits?"
"It's all I have. We'll just change clothes for a few minutes, and that'll be all. Please, I've got to see him. I know that if I do, he'll give me his autograph."