The borrowed raft sped rapidly over the calm sea. They reached Repler City ten minutes earlier than Mal had estimated. This was due at least in part to Kitten's habit of making turns around intervening islands and reefs that threatened to overturn the craft. Fortunately the hoverafts were practically incapable of capsizing.

She almost managed it. Twice.

Instead of docking at the City harbor, they headed straight for the auxiliary landing nearest the shuttleport itself.

The Port was located on a long peninsula. The surface had been planed off, smoothed over, and pitted with sheds, warehouses, cooking areas, launch pits, hangers, fuel balloons, and a small but growing atmosphere dock. It could handle shuttlecraft of all but the largest classes. The fine-grained paving ran a running battle with the profuse island vegetation. The flora took advantage of every crack and bare spot to press a vigorous, verdurous counterattack.

The Port harbor area, for ships and hovercraft, wasn't designed to handle much in the way of cargo.

Those activities were carried on mostly at the central city landings. But there was plenty of room for small commercial and pleasure craft. Some of the island's wealthier inhabitants had yachts and personal submarine vehicles moored there. The landing was located in a small manmade cove at the U where the peninsula met the mainland: Commercial buildings rose to the right, with private homes and hotels behind and to the left, hidden behind carefully controlled vegetation.

There was a muted thrumming. Mal glanced briefly upwards. To their right a shuttle of medium class was descending on a tail of fire. He'd watched thousands of similar landings and equally conventional liftoffs.

There'd been a time when such displays filled him with wonder. Now only a few figures passed through his mind. He could estimate the amount of thrust the shuttle was putting out, its probable mass, even the position of its mother ship. All in an unfamiliar atmosphere-. Given a visual check of the mother vessel, he could probably gauge its home port and basal cargo.

There was a single check at the cove entrance. Kitten and Porsupah's military credentials eased them past that. Kitten docked the raft with a flair that displayed either tremendous skill or fantastic luck, sliding in and spinning between two larger craft. They were so close their cushions brushed.

A fast walkaway brought them to the Port Control buildings. They were a humorous parody of the giant complexes maintained on major trading worlds. As was typical of such smaller ports, certain offices were often combined. This proved true of salvage and registry. The office itself was no different from dozens of others they'd passed. Once inside, they were greeted by a thirty-ish gentleman of nondescript physiognomy and few words. He was casually attired in mesh and tropical lederhosen.

"Sit yourselves down. Be with you in a sec."

The slightly pallid official escorted them into an even tinier inner office cluttered with charts and microfiles. A plethora of pins, tacks and variegated markers swarmed over the maps and diagrams cluttering the walls.

"What'll I have for you, then?" he sighed, propping his feet up on the desk. On a major planet the official would have crossed his hands, not his ankles.

"Well..." began Mal.

"We'd like to confirm," interrupted Kitten, "the validity of a recently reported salvage claim."

"You got the beacon number?"

Kitten prepared to consult her vocorder. She didn't even get a chance to activate it.

"Never mind," the man said. "It's sixty-two."

"Yes. How the hell did you know?" asked Mal.

The official smiled slightly. "Wasn't hard. You're all clearly extra-Replerian visitors. This is die first registry we've had reported in several years. It seemed logical enough you wouldn't be interested in any several years old ... I can tell you everything's in order. It's quite legal. Fees were paid almost immediately after the beacon was registered. Registration and claim are already recorded on Terra."

"Still, we want to make absolutely sure it's valid," persisted Kitten. "Not that we've any thoughts of claim jumping, or anything along those lines."

"Perish forbid," the man grinned. "Wouldn't be my business if you did."

"In order to be valid," she continued doggedly, "all details on the registration regarding location must coincide with the beacon's actual positioning in space, right?"

"Naturally."

"Well, I'd like to have a check made on it. It's pretty important to us." She purred, a semi-vocalization she was astonishingly good at, having perfected it after considerable use: "We'd be ever so grateful."

"I'm sure you would, but I'm afraid I'm not permitted to pass around that sort of information, m'lady."

Kitten breathed deeply and dropped her voice an octave. "Not even for special requests from special friends?"

The official leaned close and breathed deeply. He lowered his voice an octave.

"No."

Mal couldn't help grinning. If Mitten was fazed, she didn't show it. Instead, she removed the vulcanite band from inside her left sleeve. On it was the embossed symbol of the United Church: an hourglass enclosed by a circle, with her name, number, and rank imprinted beneath it.

"Of course, if you put it that way, your command is my wish." He pulled a bit of paper from a pad, swiveled, and began punching buttons on a computer console.

"Isn't that saying the other way 'round?" queried Mal.

"I'm inherently masochistic." The official pulled a card from the printout slot, viewed it on a small gray screen, then handed it to Mal. The freighter-captain gave it a brief glance, nodded to the man.

"Thanks, old boy. You've been a help," said Kitten. They rose and turned to leave.

"Curiously speaking," said the official hurriedly, "why didn't you just tell me you were Church authority in the first place?"

"April Fool," said Kitten.

"But it's August."

"See?" She shut the door gently.

It was raining out, a warm, humid drizzle. They tools a private transit car to the Port Library. Mal had informed them that it would do as well and be quicker than returning to the Umbra. He checked charts and figures while Porsupah and Kitten amused themselves by thumbing through samples of the local literature-bad shorts, mediocre novels, some good poetry and fair dream schemes.

Mal shifted his notes to a time-renting station and did some fast figuring with the aid of the computer.

After a bit he sat back, staring at the readout screen. He was still staring some time after the green light on top, indicating time-stop, had gone out.

"Well," said Kitten finally.

"Well, hell."

"I'm already aware of the proverbial location for the traditional one. We're supposed to be looking for one a bit more localized."

He looked over at her, past the anxious Porsupah. "Guess where our intergalactic boojum has chosen to hole up?"

"The governor's mansion," offered Porsupah, almost hopefully.

"Funny. Here." He pointed to a chart covered with rough lines and scribbling, half in and half out of the printout slot. "Somewhere right offshore the AAnn Concession."

"So?" she said.

"So? So?" He rose suddenly and stood glaring eye to eye with her. Hands tightly clenched on hips, he controlled his anger with an effort. "Do you have any idea what can happen to you if our peace-loving neighbor lizards acquire even temporary possession of you?"

"Captain," she said boredly, turning her head away slightly, "kindly keep in mind that I am an officer in the armed forces of the United Church. I am fully aware of the consequences of being discovered without permission within a diplomatic sanctuary. I am also more conversant than most with the oh-so-delightful hobbies and habits of our reptilian friends. Including their less savory ones. We shall avoid all potential unpleasantness through a simple expediency."

"Oh? And what might that be?"