“Don’t doubt it. See Commander, what this case contains is a number of kuysters—your measurement—of the pure drug bloodhype, in powder form and under pressure. If I let go of this handle, this case will fairly explode from internal pressure. I think I’m too close to you for any destructive beam to be certain of destroying all the powder without killing you too. If the least of it, however tiny an amount, reaches you, you’ll be as hooked as the worst addict in the filthiest dive on Terra or Dust-Dune. Since I currently control the only supply in the known galaxy, you’ll die later than I will, but a good deal more uncomfortably. As will your companion,” Arris stiffened, “and anyone else who breathes it . . . I presume your air circulating system is efficient. You might consider your men. I might also remind you that if my intentions had been basically antagonistic, I could have safely released the dust at any time, if my object in coming here was to do you harm.”

“You are bluffing. You are not the type to welcome suicide.”

“Commander, I invited it by coming here! If you want other proof, you can find out real quick.”

Parquit did not make Commander by hesitating in awkward situations. “All right. I grant your sanctuary.”

“Swear by your Shell and The-Sand-That-Shelters-Life.”

Parquit made the AAnn equivalent of a smile. Naturally he did not bare his teeth. “You are a knowledgeable rogue, soulless Lord.” The Commander lowered his voice, rumbled through the archaic hisses and croaks of the ancient oath.

“There. Are you satisfied?”

“You forgot the sealing of the membrane and the last three wind atonings.”

“A simple test, man. Compliments.” This time Parquit did it properly. It was impressive.

Rose nodded when the AAnn had finished. He turned, set the case down on the floor. Arris winced involuntarily when the man took his hand from the handle. Rose turned back to face them.

“You were bluffing, of course,” said Parquit.

“Don’t let the either-or keep you awake nights, Commander.” Rose looked around, helped himself to an awkwardly shaped chair.

“I might say that any being who deals in bloodhype is a living scab to all AAnn as well as to your own race.”

“Insults are a sad way to begin a long relationship, Commander. Besides, I’ve heard them all already.”

Chatham Kingsley’s island-home, Wetplace, reflected wealth—new wealth, as opposed to traditional inherited types. Kingsley could have built an old-Terra type baronial mansion (they were currently in style). But he eschewed the false reproduction and opted instead for the maximum in modern convenience. This left a good portion of the island’s interior for a wilderness garden. Most of the necessary business edifices, such as warehousing, were built offshore on a complex of struts, pylons, and floating platforms.

The central residence consisted of a single tower, which rose some 50 meters into the air while plunging an equal distance into sea and bedrock, on the side where the island fell off steeply into the shallow sea.