“Well . . . how long?”

“Less than a day.”

“And we could leave . . . when?” she asked breathlessly.

“Immediately, if you wish.”

She turned to Porsupah. “Niki?”

“These whims of yours, Pilar. Oh well, if you think you know what you’re getting us into. Jaster is supposed to be 100 percent addictive, I recall.”

“Oh, poo! Scare rumors the Church manufactures to frighten children!” The fat man was watching her closely. “Besides, if it’s the real stuff, think what a coup I will have on the Marchioness . . . the bitchy little snippet!”

“This absurd vendetta you carry with your cousin . . . all right. But only if it all takes less than a day. I still have that flyer reserved to take us north day after tomorrow following—”

“Bother your fishing!” She turned back to the merchant.

“We accept.”

“Excellent! Then if you will permit me a few moments to pack up my simple shop, we can be off.”

“I hope your mysterious rendezvous isn’t terribly inaccessible. This outfit wasn’t made for roughing it.” She indicated the skintight black-spotted orange fur jumpsuit she was wearing, with open circlets on each leg revealing patches of skin up to her arms.

The man was folding the portatables—or rather, directing them to fold themselves. The stock automatically twisted and turned until it was contained in several odd-sized crates and rectangles. These quickly maneuvered themselves into a single featureless black block, like an automated jigsaw puzzle. He locked it, put a single CLOSED sign on the front, and started off in the direction of the sea breeze, Porsupah and Kitten following.

“Kind of chilly,” said Pors.

“As can be seen—and smelled—this amusement area is quite close to the docks,” their guide informed. Already they had left behind the hard lights and perpetual people-hum of the walkaways. Moving under their own power, they strolled along dimly lit seaside byways, kept clear of fog by City weather machinery.

Commercial craft mingled here with private vessels, each sidled close by its protective pier or slideway. They ranged from popcorn clusters of tiny one-seat water-skippers to huge bulk-fishers and transports hundreds of meters long. The farraginous flotilla threw alien city-shadows against the night sky. Phosphorescent foam the color of old newsprint lapped onto plastic hoveraft beaches.

When Repler’s two moons were in the sky, as they were now, they threw a fair amount of light. Massed together, they would have made a body a little larger than Terra’s Luna. September was nearly overhead, while August had just cleared the horizon. It would get lighter before it got darker, and the shadow of the old tom mewing on a broken piling would split.

The man led them down a long, telescoping dock. Hard by the dark water at its end rested a narrow, racy-looking hoveraft. Light showed in the open doorway and above the forecabin windows, illuminating the pebbled artificial beach. Despite its fine lines, the vessel was clearly more metal than plastine. That argued for a craft intended to transport cargo more than people. Quickly, too.