"A shame. But old Orvenalix's taste is improving." The merchant stared at her approvingly.

Kitten turned to Mal. "That settles your question. He's innocent!" The freighter-captain groaned.

"Innocent?" said Kingsley uncertainly. "Then I am presumed guilty of some- wrongdoing?" He shifted to a sitting position on the lounge, looked questioningly at Mal.

"Okay, okay. Let's eat first, as voted. I confess I've been overruled by my innards, also. I'm famished."

The others were playing with dessert. Mal was cleaning off his fourth leg of Garvual, a large, carnivorous wading bird, when their host cocked an inquiring eye at him. Mal had long since decided that subtlety would be as useful with Kingsley as it had been with Rose. For different reasons. He wiped his hands and mouth with a hot towel, stifled most of a gargantuan belch, and began.

"Chatham, I found a consignment of drugs mixed in with theUmbra's last cargo. That shipment was 92% yours. We completely deshipped at Largess, so I know it came aboard there. It included a significant milling of refined bloodhype. Yes, bloodhype. Nearly pure, I'm told. Also a number of other nasty types, but nothing in jaster's class. Don't try and play coy with me. I know you'd be aware of the stuff's reintroduction onto the market."

Kingsley tapped delicately about the corners of his mouth with a towel. "It is true I am not entirely uninformed where information concerning trade in this section of the Arm is concerned." He sat back and folded his hands contentedly over an emerging pot-belly. "Cordials will be forthcoming. Your implication, then, is that I arty somehow involved in this traffic?"

"Are you?"

"No."

"Why wouldn't you be? You live conveniently close to Dominic Rose, who we know is responsible for distributing the stuff."

"We live on the same planet, that's true."

"This is too serious for sarcasm, Chatham."

"Pomposity invites sarcasm."

"Okay. Look, modern transport reduces a planet to nothing, distancewise. Your contacts are broader than his, better established, legitimate across the lanes, and have strong financial- support. With his illegal connections, the two of you are logical partners in an enterprise capable of pulling astronomical profits."

"I'd heard rumors that it was that old reprobate who'd been transshipping the stuff, but there was no way to confirm any of them. He covers himself too well. Or did, apparently. You're wrong on several counts.

"For openers, much as I respect Rose's business sense and his ability to handle complex transactions across parsecs with a maximum of secrecy, I personally bate his guts. That would put a crimp in any relationship of needs founded on complete trust. Second, I'm doing quite well, thank you, trading in legitimate goods. Too well to risk jeopardizing everything for a single line. However profitable. And don't think I don't envy him the margin of that trade. I do. Not That I'm averse to handling something a little off-grain, understand. I'm no saint. A respectable stimulant like Kepong, now. The authorities frown on it, but it is not, strictly speaking, under edict."

"According to whose lawyers," said Kitten.

"Yes, a point of contention. But while the powers that be debate, I see no harm in making hay while the sun shines, as the saying goes. Wonder what 'hay' is? But bloodhype? That's a little too filthy. A decent gun will kill a man honestly. That stuff eats as it kills. The thing that finally dies isn't a man anymore. Or whatever race. No, no. Absolutely not."

"What about your son?" broke in Philip. He'd finally turned away from a close inspection of the window view.

Kingsley swiveled in surprise. "Russell? My son, I fear, is not interested in anything remotely indicative of work. He is averse to business in all its manifestations, excepting his allowance." The merchant sighed. "A deficiency which I fear I encourage overmuch."

"Among other things," Kitten said flatly.

"You've met him then, Kitten?"

"Briefly . Twice."

"I'm not surprised." The trader helped himself to a flagon of imported honey-pollen brandy from Calm Nursery. A second human servant had arrived with a rolling cart of drinkables. Clearly, people were still regarded as a status symbol on Repler. Porsupah opted for a tall bottle of Bitterind, a common mixer, and poured himself a straight glass.

"Yes, Russell would hardly miss a new arrival arranged like yourself, Kitten." The trader chuckled. "The lad's a terror with the ladies, I'm told."

"Chatham," began Kitten, "you don't know the half of it. Matter of fact-"

Mal interrupted hastily. "It's not that I don't believe you, Chatham ...

Porsupah put a restraining paw on Kitten's arm, felt the tensed muscles relax. "Softly treading now, smoothskin. The other is clearly not present. It is bad manners to think of killing the son of one's host.

Especially while drinking with him."

"Relax, Pors. Obviously if he was around the old boy would have presented him. As for manners, I'm not going to consult a book of etiquette the next time I meet that chap. I'll be very polite at his funeral."

"Sssss! Listen, for a change."

"I've as much as given my word on this drug thing," said Kingsley amiably. "However, if you like, I'll provide the strongest proof. I will post a bond with an intermediary to the effect that, should I ever be implicated of trafficking bloodhype or any of the commonly fatal drugs, you will receive thrice your payment for this last shipment from my estate, if need be."

"A grand gesture, Chatham. You almost convince me. I'll take that offer. You'd better hope no one tries to frame you."

Kingsley chuckled. "On the day someone manages that, I will hire in with an AAnn consortium as kitchen inspector. The bond will be drawn up tonight. By tomorrow morning it will be posted with the central exchange computer here and at annexes on Terra and Hivehom."

"Fine." Mal downed a straight glass of orange Couperanian brandy. He could trace its tactile path down his throat and into his stomach. It formed a pool of glowing warmth there, a small non-nuclear furnace.

"There now," said Kingsley expansively, polishing off the remainder of his own drink. "If everyone is suitably fueled, I'll give evidence of my openness in another manner. To all of you." A conspiratorial tone had entered the trader's voice. "I confess the action will not be entirely unselfish. I need some fresh, outside opinions. Surely you can't do any worse than my own technicians."

"Is it interesting or just profitable, your proof?" Kitten inquired.

"A deal of both, my dear. Come and decide for yourself."

Leaving their silverware and glasses and such behind, awkward alien shapes in the smooth furry sea, they followed the merchant to the central elevator. Kitten noticed he limped slightly. The conveyance dropped them another ten levels but did not stop there. Instead, a series of lights running horizontally across the control panel blinked on. Apparently they were traveling parallel to the surface, deep into island bedrock.

Kitten estimated that they had traveled roughly twothirds of the way into the island and slightly downward, when the doors finally slid back. The trader led them out.

Two men stood ready to greet them. They both relaxed at the sight of the merchant.

"Good evening, sir," offered the one on their left.

"Evening Willus, Rave. Taking some guests to see the salvage." Both guards hefted heavy, no-nonsense weapons: Paxton Five's. The thick-bodied guns launched tiny self-propelled missiles with explosive warheads. They were clumsy and awkward at close range, but reflective laser armor would be useless against them.

There were guards at two more checkpoints, located at sharp turns in the tunnel.

"Never been through here before," Mal said staring at the smooth, machined walls. "Quite a hidey-hole.

What do you keep down here, your trousseau?"

"Abandoned any need for that when my credit account first passed six figures. There are several storage chambers of varying size cut into the rock. We're headed for the biggest."

Mal nodded. "I noticed several other passageways branching off when we left the elevator."

"This one is particularly well fortified. I use it to store the more expensive imports and exports. Also goods which require controlled atmosphere, peace and quiet. Delicate scientific apparatus, for example.

Just now it happens to house a very intriguing hunk of cosmic jetsam a pair of shuttle-pilots-semi-regular employees of mine -found drifting in indifferent orbit. They had the good sense to plant a salvage beacon on it and contact me right away ... The thing they hauled down is interesting more than as a mere representative of alien manufacture. You'll see why."

They turned another corner abruptly and stood in the described room. There was a thick door, retracted into the ceiling. Several other men and thranx were already there.

"Engineers and technical consultants from my staff in Repler City," said Kingsley at an inquiring glance from Kitten. "Brought away from their regular jobs to work on this thing. Expensive." He pointed. "That's it."