“Amazing,” said Moore, as he sat with Bullard and watched the show. “Why, the fellow is an arrant mountebank!”
“Quite so,” agreed Bullard, “but the men seem to like it. Come, let’s go.”
The next day saw a very different atmosphere in the ship. About two thirds of the crew had heard the preaching, the remainder being on duty. Those went about their tasks silently and thoughtfully, as if pondering their manifold sins. They had to take an enormous amount of kidding from their shipmates and a good many black eyes were in evidence by the time the ship slid down into her landing skids at Juno Skydock. Bullard did not let that disturb him; to him it was a healthful sign.
As soon as the ship was docked, he went out and met the dockmaster, who, as he had suspected, was an incompetent drone. No,
