The mention of the semi-naked young man reminded Kitten of his unspeaking presence. She turned, with difficulty, to stare curiously at him. On impulse, she gave him her best helpless-young-maiden look. It must have had some effect, because the young man finally spoke.

“I’ve always had a suppressed desire to play at lower abdominal surgery without bothersome encumbrances like anesthetics,” he said smoothly. He was toying with a long thin pair of finely-crafted forceps with razor-sharp tips. They made a squeaky sound whenever the two blades snicked together. A hand came up and lifted back the black hood.

It was Russell Kingsley.

“Relax, Maijib,” Hammurabi said to his First Mate. The hoveraft sped over the slick waters. “Rose won’t try anything silly or unprofitable. He’s old, but he’s not stupid. Our best insurance is thousands of kilometers skyward. There’s no way he can get to the dust aboard the Umbra.”

“Even so,” said the diminutive Takaharu, “I’d feel a lot better about the whole business if you’d talk with him via comm and forget this needless appearance in person.”

“No good, Maj. He wouldn’t believe a word I said from the comfort of the Umbra’s forecabin. He might consent to come aboard, but he’s a tricky old devil. I’d rather not let him on ship. He needs something in the way of concrete proof of my seriousness. I’m it.”

The hoveraft slowed as Takaharu slid the rented craft slowly around the rocky circumference of the island, searching for the landing. Hammurabi noted idly that the large quasi-evergreens grew down almost to the water’s edge, where the green stalks of water plants took over from the land-dwellers. It had been the same on all the islands they’d passed thus far. It was the same on Will’s Landing, the island on which Repler City was located. It was more intense at the equator and less so nearer the poles.

The docking area sat at the head of a natural inlet. Several other vessels, one a transport of fair size, were tied up or beached at the landing. As they rounded the last point the comm buzzed and Takaharu leaned to flip the channel open. The small vidscreen lit but no picture appeared.

“You in the blue raft—identify yourself and state your business.”

Mal leaned forward into the pickup eye of the raft’s vidcast unit and spoke towards the omni-directional mike.

“Malcolm Hammurabi, Captain-Owner of the free freighter Umbra. To see Lord Dominic Rose. Business. As was earlier agreed, my pilot and I are unarmed.”

They sat quietly while someone on shore dutifully relayed this information to someone equipped to deal with it. The raft’s fans droned like an idle beehive beneath the floor.

The screen flickered briefly, then cleared. An unremarkable middle-aged man appeared on the screen glass. He was trying hard not to look bored.

“You’re early, Captain. His Lordship has just entered conference. I am instructed to direct you to land. His Lordship cannot meet you there, but there will be someone suitable to greet you dockside and conduct you to the residence. Take the third slip, please.”