Then he used to wander through similar warehouses (which towered so much greater in his childhood memories) and dream of the days he might visit planets with magic names like Terra, Hivehom, Almaggee, Long Tunnel, Horseye and Entebbe.

He'd had little idea that one day he'd be transporting similar goods himself. Too often the planets had proven dull and unattractive. But there was enough spice in the life to make things interesting. (Besides, you crazy hypocrite, you hated pro ball. Being the best goalie who ever maintained parallax with a ball was hardly fit epitaph for a man.)

Anyhow, it was important that the luxury goods be easily accessible for tomorrow, in case that old pirate Chatham and the others wanted an early look.

A good percentage of the cases were emblazoned with the CK crest of arms, customs stamps, impression of destination and planet of origin. A few were consigned to small dealers on Rapier, some to members of the crew, and a number were sealed in the crimson of the Commonwealth. There was even one small aquamarine case of holy goods for the Church. Mostly biochemical and oceanographic instrument parts, plus a few specimens of Largessian life.

Another section of the gigantic warehouse was filled with a massive shipment headed of-planet. Idly, he wondered who'd pulled off that job.

Old Chatham's success had been due in large part to his policy of hiring free-lance cargo vessels or those of small companies to transport his goods, rather than acquiring his own fleet. It was a risky way to do business, circa be was entirely dependent on the will of men who were not beholden to anyone.

Cargos could disappear with sobering swiftness an short or nonexistent notice. And a merchant or trader who operated in such fashion built nothing in the way of transportation equity.

At the same time, the system offered unequaled flexibility without fear of loss in manpower or chips.

Some few men could make a success of the arrangement, while those with a huge investment in ships and men might go broke in spectacularly short periods of time. Chatham was one who'd spent a lifetime mastering the first system.

The huge outgoing shipment sat there, its noble immobility staring back at him. Maybe Scottsdale had landed the job. Or crazy Alapka N'jema. He'd heard tumors that AI's ship, theSimba , had been operating this far out. Although the last he'd seen of her she'd beau headed Centerward. There was always the possibility that the merchant or merchants involved hadn't contracted with anyone yet.

And the possibility that they had their own ship, idiot.

Still, it was an appealing thought. If the cargo were available and he could sign it, maybe they'd give film an advance on estimated profit. That, coupled with what he would make off the Largess expedition, eight to provide enough to refinish the entire screen. Plus getting an ultrawave booster for Hen, theUmbra' s comm operator. Ben would give his left arm and part of his soul for even a pre-war booster. For a new one from, say, GC, his shouts of pleasure would be heard all the way to Alpha C.

The silver plastic of an especially bright casing caught his eye. He saw himself reflected in the moulding and smiled, running the revised balance for the ship over again ' in his mind.

Reflected in the plastic, Mal Hammurabi was a big man. Not particularly tall, he was structured much like a number twelve symbo-speech printed dictionary-unabridged. Or a collection of children's blocks, tossed together in a haphazard rectangular shape and dipped in half-wet glue. Sandy-brown hair was cut square in back and receded slightly from the high forehead, which overshadowed deep-set amber eyes.

The remainder of that face was an insane collection of rough angles, juts and points. The only honest curve in the whole assemblage was the thick walrus mustache which drooped from beneath the nose.

Combined with a rather remarkable build, the ship-master looked like a surreal cross between a land-tank and a basset bound.

Equally incongruous was the group of peppermint sticks which protruded from the left pocket of his leather jacket. Hammurabi neither smoked nor flashed. His I vices were confined to milder liquors such as ale, fine ones like brandy, and sweets ... not all of them peppermint, nor in stick form.

There was a lot of cargo; the lanes of crates and casings were long, high, and shadowed. So he didn't notice the thieves until he was right on top of them.

There were two, totally absorbed in rifling the contents of a yellow-orange plastic case bound with metal strips. The container was the size and shape of a coffin, which it wasn't. Mal would remember loading a stiff. Melted plastic showed at one end where the seal had been burnt away.

Mal could have done several things. He might have taken another two steps forward and inquired in his most sepulchral ship-master's tones as to the object of the gentlemen's intrusion. He could have walked over and offered casual, even flippant commentary. He could have slipped quietly away and buzzed for the port police.

However, men who spend their lives riding the saddle of an artificial field with the mass of a sun (a) know when men will and when they will not react favorably to orders, (b) are aware that the derring-do of tri-dee heroes, when attempted in real life, seduces suicide, and (c) do not ran for help.

So what Hammrlrabi did was gut his hundred and twenty-five kilos under a crate not quite as big as himself and heave it in the direction of the two preoccupied paracreds. Thin by way of vetting them off-balance.

Unfortunately, the ship-master once again misjudged his own strength. The crate was intercepted by the skull of the nearest man, who had chosen that moment to sense Hammurabi's presence and whirl, gun in hand. It was an unequal contest, which the man lost. Bout crashed to the floor.

The other intruder made a dive for the dropped laser and reached it jest as Mal landed on his bat's. The thief gained the weapon and lost his breath simultaneously. He squirmed.

Mal got the arm with the vicious-looking little gun in a modified arm-bar, one knee planted firmly at the shoulder joint. He raised the arm a little, up and back. The man screamed shrilly and dropped the pistol.

Leaning carefully forward, Mal reached down and gathered in the gun. The stock was still warm.

Obviously it had been used recently. He hoped it had only been used on the crate.

The thief was fifteen cms shorter and a good sixty kilos lighter than the ship-master. He looked around wildly, as much as his awkward position permitted, and moaned. Apparently he'd caught sight of his companion. Mercifully, the box hid moat of the other, bur it didn't hide the large pool of red that stained the ferroconcrete to one side. Mal noticed the small man's glance.

"I didn't mean to be so messy with your friend. Nor fatal. But there ware two of you and I like odds in my favor. Don't worry, I'll be much neater with you." He placed the muzzle of the pistol behind the man's right ear.

"Now, you've got just thirty seconds to come up with a real good reason why I shouldn't send you bustling after your partner ... spiritually speaking, of course."

The man moaned again, his voice tight from the pain in his arm. "Go ahead! You're going to kill me anyway!"

"Nonsense! Don't be any dumber than you are. If I wanted you dead I'd have killed you, oh, minutes ago. I'd just as soon see you alive. I didn't mean to pass your friend on to the supervision of the Church, either, but I'm not fond of thieves. See, I was stolen myself once. No... tell you what. You cheerfully tell me what you were hunting for-and don't tell me this was a general expedition; you pulled that crate out of a hundred tons of similar ones-that, and who sent you for it, and maybe I'll let you depart rare instead of well-done." He pressed the pistol a little harder into the man's neck. "I suspect you'll have enough trouble avoiding the attentions of your employer, who will doubtless send you greetings when he finds out how sadly you've bungled."

The thief said nothing.

"Or," Mal continued conversationally, increasing his pressure on the spindly arm, "we could make this even more interesting and do it by pieces. I think this arm would be a good place to start. Then, if I lower the power on this toy and turn it in a little instead of down (he did so), I can start on one side of your head and fry you slowly to the other, maybe spiraling around. Sort of artistic like, you know?"

"All right!" the man screamed. "All right!" Mal let up slightly on the arm. "Rose."

"What? Stop whimpering, man and speak up."

"Rose. He's the one sent me and Wladislaw."

"Dominic Rose? The dragger?"

The man nodded, slightly.

"How very interesting. You're working for an especially disgusting employer, did you know that? What did the dyspeptic slug want with my cargo?"

The man was gasping painfully. Mal let the arm drop and the thief immediately clutched it protectively.

"There was something about a mixup in ship transfer. That's all I know, God's truth!"

"Your piety rings as truthful as your kind intentions. This supposedly misshipped shipment originated on Largess?"

"Yes. No. Maybe, I don't know. Believe me, I don't!"

"Stop whining. I'm not going to hit you. Yes. No. Maybe. I believe you. You don't strike me as a policy maker."

"Let me go," the man begged. "Resell have me killed if I'm caught in the capitol."

"Patience. I'm here and he's not. And if you don't stop stalling and tell me what you were sent for, I will kill you!"

"We were supposed to find a small blue container, uncrested and umarked. That's all the information I was given, I swear!"

Mal got off the thief's back. He moved back slowly, keeping the gun trained on the back of the man's neck.

"Okay, you've got thirty minutes to get wherever it is you'd best like to get to. After that I give your description and my charges to Port Authority. I'm finished with you. You'd better start thinking about Rose and his delightful associates. But Repler's a pretty empty planet. With luck you might..."

But the man was already running full speed for the main entrance, apparently uncaring of being seen by Port guards. His right arm swayed limply at his side. Damn, Hammurabi, when will you learn to watch yourself! If you'd broken the arm any worse the man might have fainted on you. Then you'd be stuck trying to revive him before a patrol arrived.

He turned back to the vandalized crate. Except for the unpleasant problem of disposing of the remaining body, things had been pretty much cleared up. He was curious to know what a slimeworm like Rose might have transshipped from a place as dull and straitlaced as Largess. Dull enough, obviously, to cause him to send two mm to break into a government-owned warehouse and crack a private shipment to find.

He had an uncomfortable moment as he bent to look into the opened casing. Suppose the small puttered had pulled one on him and the crate was full of nothing but small blue boxes? He could have saved the worry. There was only one blue container in sight. As the man had described, it was unmarked and small.