* At three o'clock in the afternoon of the first Tuesday in November, almost everyone in Australia except Shirley Byrd stops work. Twenty or thirty horses line up on a fine, green racecourse in the south west, and the nine or ten million people trapped by the sun on Australia's fairly inhospitable brown earth give up all battles and gather by radios-or TV sets now, if they are lucky-to wait for one of those horses to win the Melbourne Cup. Almost everyone except Shirley Byrd has a ticket in a sweep, and even if the nation loses an unbelievable number of manhours that day, many Australians take home with them that night undeniable evidence of profit. I have been in a Melbourne Cup sweep every year since I was a boy of eleven, and I have missed hearing only one race since I was sixteen. The year I missed was the year I began working for the Department of Lands, in Sydney-the year Bill Wotton and Shirley and I all began there, in fact, though Shirley was the first of us. At three o'clock on Cup Tuesday, Mr. Little and Mr. Bullock and Bill and the rest of them were down near Roberta's desk-Roberta, at Bill's request, had brought in a black and gold beach portable for us all to listen by over afternoon tea-and, just as I came in, Mr. Bullock called out to Shirley to stop her typing because they couldn't hear. Down by the sunny windows at the far end of the long office they turned back to their radio then, and at her desk by the door Shirley