“Some variables are all at the same end of the psychological spectrum. In return for cutting off future profits, which are always speculative anyway,” Mal continued, “I’ll return all the other drugs to you. You can have back your aelo, mak, heroin-B, and all the rest. I’ll mention nothing of any of this to the authorities and post a personal bondship to an independent broker to guarantee it. Only one other being on the Umbra knows what your little case of spice contains, and she won’t talk without my say-so. Records of the initial chemical analysis of the contents of the spice jars will be wiped by my own hand from the ship’s memory core.”

“How good you are! And if I do not care for your terms?”

“Then I go straight to the padre in Repler City with the drugs and every scrap of knowledge I can gather concerning their origin, destination, and method of shipping. Not to mention a certain old man whose business it is to speed such filth on its merry way.”

Rose sat quietly, smiling, thinking. The thoughts and quiet Mal could understand. The smile could be forced, or it could be genuine. A genuine smile would mean unforeseen and unplanned-for factors—to wit, an ace-equivalent in the deck. Wait and see.

Rose appeared to be fascinated by the fingers of his left hand. He turned his attention to the right, as though to assure himself that it did, indeed, match its mate.

“Now I’ll introduce a little something extra into the universe, Captain. Since you insist on playing the role of the gallant, honest, good-samaritan type—ergo, civilized . . .”

“Words again?” Hammurabi said irritably.

“ . . . I believe I shall try you on damsels-in-distress. It should prove instructive. When I entered you were absorbed in an inspection of that lovely 20th-century video set—a genuine Victor, I might add. Like myself, the insides had long since reached an advanced state of decomposition. They have been replaced with especially adapted modern equivalents. Watch it. You’ll see something.”

Rose removed a pencil that wasn’t from a breast pocket. He fiddled with it for a moment. A picture in full tridee appeared instantly. It displayed an exquisitely attractive young girl strapped naked to a low wooden table. Off to one side an alien being struggled futilely in a cocoon of surfoam. Mal’s trader encyclopedia identified it as a native of the planetary system Tolus. A fairly handsome young man, nude to the waist, held some unidentifiable metallic instrument over the girl’s body.

“Sorry to have to leave you, Russell,” Rose said into one end of the pencil. “Have you begun yet?”

The young man looked up into the screen and grinned.

“I was just about to, Uncle Rose. We’ve been having a chat.”

“Commendable,” replied Rose. “But while I don’t wish to spoil your esthetic conception—I’m sure you’ve the whole afternoon’s work well choreographed—I fear I must ask you to modify things somewhat. We’ve a slight change in plans. A guest, you see.”