The slave market resembled an open-air theatre minus the seats. The same cosmopolitan crowd which Norman had observed on the streets eddied about the block. He caught sight of a figure clad in civilian clothes. It was Vermeer, the black-headed Outlander whom he had been sure was instrumental in the Jupiter's capture.
"Who's that?" he asked the Martian pointing to Vermeer.
"A Venusian Export Lines man. The Dohlmites needed an outlet for much of the material they captured. They established their own line of trading ships under a Venusian register because they are so much less strict on Venus. By the way, keep away from anyone connected with that company. Never talk sedition in front of them. Those men belong to the Dohlmites body and soul."
Just then the auctioneer, a lean, yellow-skinned Venusian, moved to the block. Two men led Dr. Pequod from the wings. The flaming shorts were gone. He was clad in exactly nothing. The doctor stalked to the block, glared at the buccaneers who had clustered around him.
"What am I offered?" began the auctioneer. "A little scrawny but sound and with a heart of gold."
The free booters cackled.
"A hundred notes," said the representative of the Dohlmites dryly. He was seated on the platform with the auctioneer.
"A hundred notes. I'm offered a hundred notes. Who'll say a hundred and ten—A hundred and five? Going for a hundred notes. Going. Going. Gone!" He cracked his gavel down. Dr. Pequod was led back into the wings.
The next three passengers were purchased by the agent of the Dohlmites for the standard one hundred notes. There was some lively bidding for the ex-chef of the Jupiter, who was finally knocked down to a big-bellied pirate. He hauled his prize off with triumph.
Then Norman's heart jumped. The sixth passenger to be led to the block was Jennifer. She was barefooted, the metal band gleaming about her naked ankle. A cape had been thrown about her erect shoulders.