"And twenty-five more," a hitherto-silent circus proprietor said.
Herndon scowled. Now that he had entered into the situation, he was—as always—fully committed to it. He would not let the others get the proteus.
"Four hundred," he said.
For an instant there was silence in the auction-ring, silence enough for the mocking cry of a low-swooping sea-bird to be clearly audible. Then a quiet voice from the front said, "Four-fifty."
"Five hundred," Herndon said.
"Five-fifty."
Herndon did not immediately reply, and the Agozlid auctioneer craned his stubby neck, looking around for the next bidder. "I've heard five-fifty," he said crooningly. "That's good, but not good enough."
"Six hundred," Herndon said.
"Six-twenty-five."
Herndon fought down a savage impulse to draw his needler and gun down his bidding opponent. Instead he tightened his jaws and said, "Six-fifty."