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 run for help.

So what Hammurabi did was put 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. This by way of getting 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. Both crashed to the floor.

The other intruder made a dive for the dropped laser and reached it just as Mal landed on his back. 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 most of the other, but 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 were 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 hustling after your partner . . . spiritually speaking, of course.”