Ian said, "I came across my jug. Remember when we were trying to make it to the White House? Al, we have to try once more. Honest to God, I can't go on like this; I can't stand to be a failure at what we agreed was the most important thing in our lives." Panting, he mopped at his forehead with his handkerchief, his hands trembling.

"I don't even have my jug any more," Al said presently.

"You must. Well, we could each record our parts separately on my jug and then synthesize them on one tape, and present that to the White House. This trapped feeling; I don't know if I can go on living with it. I have to get back to playing. If we started practicing right now on the 'Goldberg Variations' in two months we -"

Al broke in, "You still live at that place? That Abraham Lincoln?"

Ian nodded.

"And you still have that position down in Palo Alto, you're still a gear inspector?" He could not understand why his brother was so upset. "Hell, if worse comes to worst you can emigrate. Jug-playing is out of the question; I haven't played for years, since I last saw you in fact. Just a minute." He dialed the knobs of the mechanism which controlled the papoola; near the sidewalk the creature responded and began to return slowly to its spot beneath the sign.

Seeing it, Ian said, "I thought they were all dead."

"They are," Al said.

"But that one out there moves and -

"It's a fake," Al said. "A puppet. I control it." He showed his brother the control box. "It brings in people off the sidewalk. Actually, Luke is supposed to have a real one on which these are modeled. Nobody knows for sure and the law can't touch Luke because technically he's now a citizen of Mars; they can't make him cough up the real one, if he does have it." Al seated himself and lit a cigarette. "Fail your relpol test," he said to Ian, "lose your apartment and get back your original deposit; bring me the money and I'll see that you get a damn fine jalopy that'll carry you to Mars. Okay?"

"I tried to fail my test," Ian said, "but they won't let me. They doctored the results. They don't want me to get away."

"Who's 'they'?"

"The man in the next apartment. Ed Stone, his name is. He did it deliberately; I saw the look on his face. Maybe he thought he was doing me a favor… I don't know." He looked around him. "This is a nice little office you have here. You sleep in it, don't you? And when it moves, you move with it."

"Yeah," Al said, "we're always ready to take off." The police had almost gotten him a number of times, even though the lot could obtain orbital velocity in six minutes. The papoola had detected their approach, but not sufficiently far in advance for a comfortable escape; generally it was hurried and disorganized, with part of his inventory of jalopies being left behind.

"You're just one jump ahead of them," Ian mused. "And yet it doesn't bother you. I guess it's all in your attitude."

"If they get me," Al said, "Luke will bail me out." The shadowy, powerful figure of his boss was always there, backing him up, so what did he have to worry about? The jalopy tycoon knew a million tricks. The Thibodeaux clan limited their attacks on him to deep-think articles in popular magazines and on TV, harping on Luke's vulgarity and the shoddiness of his vehicles; they were a little afraid of him, no doubt.

"I envy you," Ian said. "Your poise. Your calmness."

"Doesn't your apartment building have a sky pilot? Go talk to him."

Ian said bitterly, "That's no good. Right now it's Patrick Doyle and he's as bad off as I am. And Don Klugman, our chairman, is even worse off; he's a bundle of nerves. In fact our whole building is shot through with anxiety. Maybe it has to do with Nicole's sinus headaches."

Glancing at his brother, Al saw that he was actually serious. The White House and all it stood for meant that much to him; it still dominated his life, as it had when they were boys. "For your sake," Al said quietly, "I'll get my jug out and practice. We'll make one more try."

Speechless, Ian gaped at him in gratitude.

Seated together in the business office of the Abraham Lincoln, Don Klugman and Patrick Doyle studied the application which Mr. Ian Duncan of no. 304 had filed with them. Ian desired to appear in the twice-weekly talent show, and at a time when a White House talent scout was present. The request, Klugman saw, was routine, except that Ian proposed to do his act in conjunction with another individual who did not live at Abraham Lincoln.

Doyle said, "It's his brother. He told me once; the two of them used to have this act, years ago. Baroque music on two jugs. A novelty."

"What apartment house does his brother live in?" Klugman asked. Approval of the application would depend on how relations stood between the Abraham Lincoln and the other building.

"None. He sells jalopies for that Loony Luke – you know. Those cheap little ships that get you just barely to Mars. He lives on one of the lots, I understand. The lots move around; it's a nomadic existence. I'm sure you've heard."

"Yes," Klugman agreed, "and it's totally out of the question. We can't have that act on our stage, not with a man like that involved in it. There's no reason why Ian Duncan can't play his jug; it's a basic political right and I wouldn't be surprised if it's a satisfactory act. But it's against our tradition to have an outsider participate; our stage is for our own people exclusively, always has been and always will. So there's no need even to discuss this." He eyed the sky pilot critically.

"True," Doyle said, "but it is a blood relative of one of our people, right? It's legal for one of us to invite a relative to watch the talent shows… so why not let him participate? This means a lot to Ian; I think you know he's been failing, lately. He's not a very intelligent person. Actually, he should be doing a manual job, I suppose. But if he has artistic ability, for instance this jug concept – "

Examining his documents, Klugman saw that a White House scout would be attending a show at the Abraham Lincoln in two weeks. The best acts at the building would of course be scheduled that night… the Duncan Brothers and Their Baroque Jug Band would have to compete successfully in order to obtain that privilege, and there were a number of acts which – Klugman thought – were probably superior. After all, jugs… and not even electronic jugs, at that.

"All right," he said aloud to Doyle. "I agree."

"You're showing your humane side," the sky pilot said, with a grin of sentimentality which disgusted Klugman. "And I think we'll all enjoy the Bach and Vivaldi as played by the Duncan Brothers on their inimitable jugs."

Klugman, wincing, nodded.

On the big night, as they started into the auditorium on floor one of Abraham Lincoln Apartments, Ian Duncan saw, trailing along behind his brother, the flat, scuttling shape of the Martian creature, the papoola. He stopped short. "You're bringing that along?"

Al said, "You don't understand. Don't we have to win?"

After a pause, Ian said, "Not that way." He understood, all right; the papoola would take on the audience as it had taken on sidewalk traffic. It would exert its extra-sensory influence on them, coaxing out a favorable decision. So much for the ethics of a jalopy salesman, Ian realized. To his brother, this seemed perfectly normal; if they couldn't win by their jug-playing they would win through the papoola.

"Aw," Al said, gesturing, "don't be your own worst enemy. All we're engaged in here is a little subliminal sales technique, such as they've been using for a century – it's an ancient, reputable method of swinging public opinion your way. I mean, let's face it; we haven't played the jug professionally in years." He touched the controls at his waist and the papoola hurried forward to catch up with them. Again Al touched the controls -