The cover sprang back to reveal ten bottles of a slightly greenish cast. Each bottle of cut crystal was filled with a different colored powder. On the inside of the box cover was a printed key. It located the bottles below and gave their contents in thranx, terranglo, symbo-speech, and formal largo:

These special spices have been carefully selected by the professional staff of Sirial Foods, Inc., to add exotic and tasteful seasoning to any organic vegetable dish with a cellulose content of at least 90%. Exceptions and/or maximum recommended servings for . . .

There followed a comprehensive list of races and species, with specialized information for each spice printed inside a small booklet resting on top of the bottles. This went into detail on which being could consume what spice and in what quantity, with effects varying from unappetizing and mildly corrosive at worst to aphrodisiacal at best. The multi-lingual instructions indicated that the contents were marketed over a wide section of the Commonwealth and perhaps even outside it. If the machined box was any indication, the spices were a high-volume item. But that didn’t jibe with its being shipped as a luxury good. Still, maybe the old man was primates for Largessian spices and wanted to insure their arrival.

He tasted the contents of the first jar, after first consulting the book to make sure it contained nothing likely to take his feet off. The dark-maroon granules had a sweet-sharp tang, an intriguing cross between ground black pepper and white mint.

Mal considered what to do. Obviously he could sit and taste spice all night. That led nowhere. One thing he was still certain of: Neither of the two men he’d surprised was a mad gourmet chef out for condiments, which would be the case if the green bottles contained nothing but spices. While attractive, the metal case was clearly in no way valuable—although alloys could be deceiving. Still, it was likely that whatever Rose was so desperately concerned with was tied in with those spices. If there were drugs present, he’d do well to stop tasting.

There was another possibility. The “key” might contain some sort of coded message. Well, Rose could cry for that. Mal tucked the box under his arm. He’d give the stuff to Japurovac and see what she could come up with.

He took a step to his left and several square meters of floor nearby exploded in haze and superheated dust. He dove behind the nearest stack of containers, rolled, and came up running. He dodged down canyons of mining machinery, around monoliths of fresh fruit, ziggurats of preserved fish. He knew what had happened. Clearly, the two thieves hadn’t been alone. The sore-armed escapee had returned with friends. No wonder he’d been willing to talk! Now he was out to see that his garrulity was rectified. Mal didn’t think he’d find the little man especially forgiving.

Pity you’re such a peaceable chap, old man, or you’d be carrying a decent gun of your own. Still, the laser he’d borrowed was nasty enough at close range. He paused abruptly behind a far corner and waited. A dim figure came tearing blindly around the bulky equipment, gun at the ready. Mal hastily remembered to readjust the pistol for a killing beam, took careful aim, and fired. The red light cut through the man at waist level as though he was a cartoon drawing and continued past to sear a black spot on the plastic cases behind him. The figure looked down at itself for several seconds, dumbfounded, and pitched forward onto the ferroconcrete floor. Mal looked at the tool in his hand with more respect. It was a good deal more powerful than its size hinted at.