Troblum's worn old toga suit rippled around his vast body as he raised his arms. "Do I look smaller?"

"Hey, come on, I'm just fucking with you. What I got, it entitles me."

"What you claim you've got."

"Man, just shove that stake in a little farther; I don't think it went right through my heart. How are you, man? It's been a while." Stubsy gave Troblum a hug, arms reaching almost a third of the way around, squeezing like he was being reunited with a parent.

"Too long," Troblum suggested.

"Still got your ship. Sweet ship. You Higher guys, you live the life, all right."

Troblum looked down on Stubsy's head. "So come and join us."

"Wowa there! Not quite ready for that. Okay? Man, don't even joke about it. I'd need to spend a decade wiping all my bad memories before they'd let me set foot on the Central worlds. Hey, you want a drink? Couple of sandwiches, maybe? Alcinda, she knows how to boss a culinary unit around." He lowered his voice and winked. "Not the only thing she knows her way around, huh?"

Troblum tried not to grimace in dismay. "Some beer, maybe."

"Sure, sure." Florac gestured to some chairs beside a table. They sat down while one of the girls brought over a large mug of light beer. "Hey, Somonie, bring the case out for my man, will you."

A girl in a vivid pink bikini gave a short nod and went inside.

"Where did you find it?" Troblum asked.

"A contact of mine. Hey, have I been retrofitted without a brain and somebody not tell me? If I tell you about my people, what's left for me in this universe?"

"Quite."

"You know I've got a network pumping away down there in the civilized Commonwealth. This week it's some guy; next it's another. Who knows where shit is going to appear? You want to stab me in the back, first you got to build your own network."

"I already have."

Florac blinked, his best-friends smile fading. "You have?"

"Sure. Hundreds of guys like you."

"You kill me, you know that?" He laughed too loudly and raised his glass. "People like me. Ho, man!"

"I meant, what planet was it recovered from? My record search confirmed Vic Russell handed it back in to the Serious Crimes Directorate when he returned from the Boongate relocation. It was obsolete by then. The SCD would have disposed of it."

"Beats me," Florac said with a shrug. "Guess there were people like you and me around even back in those days."

Troblum said nothing. The salvager could be right. For all his personality faults and distasteful lifestyle, he had always provided bona fide items. A large number of artifacts in Troblum's museum had come from Florac.

Somonie returned from the villa carrying a long stable-environment case. It was heavy; her arm muscles were standing proud. She put it on the table in front of Troblum and Stubsy.

"Before we go any further," Troblum said, "I have the SCD serial code. The genuine one. So do you still want to open the case?"

"I don't give a shit what fucking number you think you got, man. This is for real. And hey, guess what, you aren't the only asshole in the Commonwealth that creams himself over this shit. I come to you first because I figure we got a friendship going by now. You want to call me out, you want to crap all over my reputation, and you know what, fat boy, you can roll all the way back to your ship and fuck the hell off this world. My fucking world."

"We'd better look at it, then," Troblum said. "I'd hate to lose your friendship." He did not care about Stubsy Florac; there were dozens of scavengers just like him. But it was an interesting claim; he'd never really thought there were other collectors outside museums. He wondered idly if they could be persuaded to sell. Perhaps Florac could inquire.

Florac's u-shadow gave the case a key, and the top unfurled to reveal an antique ion rifle. A protective shield shimmered faintly around it, but Troblum could clearly see the meter-long barrel that ended in a stubby black metal handle that had several attachment points and an open induction socket on the bottom.

"Yeah, well," Stubsy said with a modest grimace that almost could have been embarrassment. "The other bit is missing. Obviously. But what the fuck, this is the business end, right? That's what counts."

"There is no 'other bit,'" Troblum said. "This is designed to be used by someone in an armor suit; it clips onto the lower arm."

"No shit?"

It was an effort for Troblum to speak calmly. The weapon certainly looked genuine. "Would you turn off the field, please."

The shimmer vanished. Troblum's field function swept across the antique rifle. Deep in the barrel's casing were long chains of specifically arranged molecules spelling out a unique code. He licked the sweat from his upper lip. "It's real," he whispered hoarsely.

"Yo!" Stubsy slapped his hands together in victory. "Do I ever let you down?"

Troblum couldn't stop staring at the weapon. "Only in the flesh. Would you like payment now?"

"Man, this is why I love you. Yes. Yes, please. I would very much like payment now, please."

Troblum told his u-shadow to transfer the funds.

"You want to stay for dinner?" Stubsy asked. "Maybe party with some of the girls?"

"Put the protective field back on, please. This humidity is inimical."

"Sure thing. So which one do you like?"

"You don't have any idea how important this artifact is, do you?"

"I know its value, man; that's what counts. The fact some policeman shot an alien with it a thousand years ago doesn't exactly ding my bell."

"Vic Russell worked with Paula Myo. And I know you've heard of her."

"Sure, man, this planet's living nightmare. Didn't know she was around in those days, too."

"Oh, yes, she was around even before the Starflyer War. And it wasn't an alien Vic shot, it was Tarlo, a Directorate colleague who had been corrupted by the Starflyer and betrayed Vic and his wife. Tarlo is one of the most arguably important Starflyer agents there ever was."

"Ozzie, now I get it: This was the gun that killed him. That connects you."

"Something like that."

"So are you interested in genuine alien stuff as well?"

"Anything that is part of the Starflyer's legacy. Why, have you located another section of its ship?"

Stubsy shook his head. "'Fraid not, man. But one of my neighbors, she specializes in weird alien technology and other interesting little chunks. You know, the odd sample that crews on pathfinder missions pick up, stuff you never get to hear about in the unisphere, stuff ANA and the navy like to keep quiet. You want I should put you in touch, I got a unisphere code. She's very discreet. I'll vouch for her."

"Tell her if she ever comes across any Anomine relics, I'll be happy to talk," he said, knowing she would not. "Apart from that, I'm not interested."

"Okay, just thought I'd ask."

Troblum raised himself to his feet, quietly pleased that he did not need his biononics to generate a muscle reinforcement field. But then, this world had a point-eight standard gravity. "Could you call your capsule for me, please."

"Money's in, so sure. This is another reason I like you, man. We don't have to screw around making small talk."

"Exactly." Troblum picked up the stable-environment case. It was heavy; he could feel a mild sweat break out on his forehead and across his shoulders as he lifted it into the crook of his arm. Hadn't Stubsy ever heard of regrav?

"Hey, man, you're the only Higher I know, so I've got to like ask you this. What's ANA's take on this whole Pilgrimage thing? Is it a bunch of crap, or are we all going to get cluster-fucked by the Void?"

"ANA: Governance put out a clear statement on the unisphere. The Pilgrimage is regrettable, but it does not believe the actions of Living Dream pose any direct physical threat to the Greater Commonwealth."

"I accessed that, sure. Usual government bullshit then, huh? But what do you think, man? Should I be stocking up my starship and heading out?"

"Out where, exactly? If the anti-Pilgrimage faction is right, the whole galaxy is doomed."

"You are just one giant lump of fun, aren't you? Come on, man, give it to me straight. Are we in the shit?"

"The contacts I have inside ANA aren't worried, so neither am I."

Stubsy considered that seriously for a moment before reverting to his usual annoyingly breezy self. "Thanks, man. I owe you one."

"Not really. But if I find a way to collect, I'll let you know."

Troblum puzzled over Stubsy's question in the capsule on the way back to his ship. Perhaps he had been unwise to admit to contacts inside ANA, but it was a very general reference. Besides, he didn't really consider Stubsy to be some kind of agent working for Marius's opponents, of whom there were admittedly many. Of course the Starflyer had procured agents a lot more unlikely than Stubsy. But if Stubsy was an agent for some ANA faction, they were playing a long game, and from what Troblum understood, the Pilgrimage situation would be resolved sooner rather than later. Troblum shook his head and shifted the case slightly. It was an interesting theory, but he suspected he was overanalyzing events. Paranoia was healthy, but he wouldn't like to report that particular suspicion to Marius. More likely it was a genuine concern on Stubsy's part, one born of ignorance and popular prejudice. That was a lot easier to believe.

The capsule arrived back at Mellanie's Redemption, and Troblum carefully carried the stable-environment case into the starship. He resisted the impulse to open it for one last check but did stow it in his own sleeping cabin for the flight back to Arevalo.

The first thing Araminta knew about the failure was when a shower of sparks sizzled out of the bot's power arm, just above the wrist multisocket where tools plugged in. At the time she was on her knees beside the Juliet balcony door, trying to dismantle its seized-up actuator. The unit had not been serviced for a decade at least; when she got the casing open, every part of it was covered in grime. She wrinkled her nose in dismay and reached for the small all-function electrical tool kit she had bought from Askahar's Infinite Systems, a company that specialized in recycled equipment for the construction trade. Her u-shadow grabbed the user instructions from the kit's memory and filtered them up through her macrocellular clusters into her brain; supposedly they gave her an instinctive ability to apply the little gizmos. She couldn't even work out which one would stand a chance of cleaning away so much gunk. The cleanser utensils were intended for delicate systems with a light coating of dust, not this compost heap.

Then, as she peered closer at the actuator components, bright light flashed across them. She turned just in time to see the last cascade of sparks drizzle down on the pile of sealant sheets stacked up in the corner of the flat's lounge. Wisps of smoke began to wind upward. The bot juddered to a halt as the whole lower segment of its power arm darkened. As she watched, its pocked silvery casing tarnished rapidly from the heat inside.

"Ozzie's mother!" she yelped, and quickly started stamping on the sheets, trying to extinguish the glowing points the sparks had kindled. Her u-shadow could not get any access to the bot; it was completely dead, and now there was a definite hot-oil smell in the air. Another bot slid away and retrieved an extinguisher bulb from the kitchen. It returned and sprayed blue foam on the defunct bot's arm. Araminta groaned in dismay as the bubbling fluid scabbed over and dripped onto the floorboards, soaking in. The whole wood look was coming back in vogue; that was was why she had ordered the bot to abrade the original floorboards down to the grain. As soon as they were done, she was going to spread the sealant sheets while the rest of the room was decorated and fitted; then she would finish the boards with a veneer polish to bring out the wavy gold and rouge pattern of the native antwood.

Araminta scratched at the damp stain with her fingernail, but it did not seem too bad. She'd just have to get another bot to abrade the wood further. There were five of the versatile machines performing various tasks in the flat, all second- or thirdhand; again bought from Askahar's Infinite Systems.

Now that the immediate danger of fire was over, her u-shadow called Burt Renik, proprietor of Askahar's Infinite Systems.

"Well, there's nothing I can do," he explained after she told him what had happened.

"I only bought it from you two days ago!"

"Yes, but why did you buy it?"

"Excuse me! You recommended it."

"Yes, the Candel 8038; it's got the kind of power level you wanted for heavy-duty attachments. But you came to me rather than a licensed dealer."

"What are you talking about? I couldn't afford a new model. The unisphere evaluation library said it was dependable."

"Exactly. And I sell a lot of refurbished units because of that. But the one you bought had a manufacturer's decade warranty that expired over a decade ago. Now, with all the goodwill in Ozzie's universe, I have to tell you that you get what you pay for. I have some newer models in stock if you need a replacement."

Araminta wished she had the ability to trojan a sensorium package past his u-shadow filters, one that would produce the painburst he would get from a good smack on the nose. "Will you take part exchange?"

"I could make you an offer on any components I can salvage, but I'd have to bring the bot into the workshop to analyze what's left. I can come out, oh...middle of next week, and there would have to be a collection charge."

"For Ozzie's sake, you sold me a dud."

"I sold you what you wanted. Look, I'm only offering to salvage parts as a goodwill gesture. I'm running a business; I want return customers."

"Well, you've lost this one." She ended the call and told her u-shadow never to accept a call from Burt Renik again. "Bloody hell!" Her u-shadow quickly revised her refurbishment schedule, adding an extra three days to the expected completion date. That assumed she would not buy a replacement for the 8038. It was a correct assumption. The budget was not working out as she'd originally planned. Not that she was overspending, but stripping out all the old fittings and demode decorations was taking a lot longer than her first estimate.

Araminta sat back on the floor and glared at the ruined bot. I'm not going to cry. I'm not that pathetic.

The loss of the 8038 was a blow, though. She'd just have to trust that the remaining bots would hold out. Her u-shadow began to run diagnostic checks on them while she tried to detach the abrader mat from the 8038's foam-clogged multisocket. The attachment was expensive and, unlike the bot, brand-new. Her mood was not helped by the current state of the flat. She had been working on it for five days solid now, stripping it down to the bare walls and gutting the ancient domestic equipment. The place looked terrible. Every surface was covered in fine particles, with sawdust enhancing the dilapidated appearance. Sounds echoed around the empty rooms. After tidying things today, she could start the refurbishment stage. She was sure that would refire her enthusiasm. There had been times over the last week when she had had moments of pure panic, wondering how she could have been so stupid as to have gambled everything on this ancient cruddy flat.

The abrader attachment came free, and she pulled it out. With her u-shadow controlling them directly, two of the remaining bots hauled their broken sibling out of the flat and dumped it in the commercial refuse casket parked outside. She winced every time it bumped on the stairs, but the other occupants were out; they'd never know how the dents got there.

With the abrader plugged into another bot-a Braklef 34B only eight years old-she turned her attention back to the balcony door actuator. She knew that if she started moping over the broken bot, she'd just wind up feeling sorry for herself and never get anything done. She could not afford that.

The simplest thing, she decided, was to break the actuator down and clean the grime off manually; after that she could use the specialist tools to get the systems up to the required standard. Her other toolbox, the larger one, had a set of power keys. She set to with more determination than she had any right to without resorting to aerosols.

As she worked, her u-shadow skimmed the news, local and intersolar, and summarized topics she was interested in, feeding them to her in a quiet neural drizzle. Now that she had bought the flat, she had canceled the daily review of city property. It would be too distracting, especially if something really good appeared on the market. Debbina, the firstborn daughter of the billionaire Sheldonite Likan, had been arrested once again for lewd conduct in a public place. Hansel Industries, one of Ellezelin's top companies, was discussing opening a manufacturing district just outside Colwyn; the details were accompanied by economic projections. She could not help scanning the effect on property prices.

As far as intersolar political news was concerned, the only item was the new Senate motion introduced by Marian Kantil, Earth's Senator, that Living Dream desist from reckless action in respect to its Pilgrimage. Ellezelin's Senator responded to the motion by walking out. He was followed by the Senators from Tari, Idlib, Lirno, Quhood, and Agra-the Free Trade Zone planets. Araminta was not surprised to find that Viotia's Senator had abstained from the vote, as had seven other External worlds, all on the fringe of the zone and with large populations of Living Dream followers. The report went on to show the huge manufacturing yard on the edge of Greater Makkathran, where the Pilgrimage ships would be assembled. Araminta stopped cleaning the actuator to watch. An armada of civic construction machinery was laying down the field, flattening fifteen square miles of countryside to get it ready for its cladding of concrete. The Pilgrimage fleet was to be made up of twelve cylindrical vessels, each a mile long and capable of carrying two million pilgrims in suspension. Already Living Dream was talking about them being merely the "first wave."

Araminta shook her head in mild disbelief that so many people could be so stupid and switched to local reports of business and celebrities.

Two hours later Cressida arrived. She frowned down at the prints her shiny leather pumps with their diamond-encrusted straps made in the thick layer of dirt coating the hall floor. Her cashmere fur dress contracted around her to save her skin from exposure to the dusty air. One hand was raised to cover her mouth, with gold-and-purple nail-print friezes flowing in slow motion.

Araminta smiled up uncertainly at her cousin. She suddenly was very self-conscious standing there in her filthy overalls, hair wound up and tucked into a cap, hands streaked with black grease.

"There's a dead bot in your casket," Cressida said. She sounded annoyed.

"I know," Araminta sighed. "Price of buying cheap."

"It's one of yours?" Cressida's eyebrows lifted. "Do you want me to call the supplier and have it replaced?"

"Tempting. Ozzie knows it wasn't actually that cheap relative to my budget, but no, I'll fight my own battles from now on."

"That's my family. Stupidly stubborn to the last."

"Thanks."

"I'm here for two reasons. One, to look around. Okay, done that. Came a month too early, obviously. Two, I want all the frightful details of Thursday night. You and that rather attractive boy Keetch left very early together. And darling, I do mean all the details."

"Keetch is hardly a boy."

"Pha! Younger than me by almost a century. So tell your best cousin. What happened?"