“A grand gesture, Chatham. You almost convince me. I’ll take that offer. You’d better hope no one tries to frame you.”

Kingsley chuckled. “On the day someone manages that, I will hire in with an AAnn consortium as kitchen inspector. The bond will be drawn up tonight. By tomorrow morning it will be posted with the central exchange computer here and at annexes on Terra and Hivehom.”

“Fine.” Mal downed a straight glass of orange Couperanian brandy. He could trace its tactile path down his throat and into his stomach. It formed a pool of glowing warmth there, a small non-nuclear furnace.

“There now,” said Kingsley expansively, polishing off the remainder of his own drink. “If everyone is suitably fueled, I’ll give evidence of my openness in another manner. To all of you.” A conspiratorial tone had entered the trader’s voice. “I confess the action will not be entirely unselfish. I need some fresh, outside opinions. Surely you can’t do any worse than my own technicians.”

“Is it interesting or just profitable, your proof?” Kitten inquired.

“A deal of both, my dear. Come and decide for yourself.”

Leaving their silverware and glasses and such behind, awkward alien shapes in the smooth furry sea, they followed the merchant, to the central elevator. Kitten noticed he limped, slightly. The conveyance dropped them another ten levels but did not stop there. Instead, a series of lights running horizontally across the control panel blinked on. Apparently they were traveling parallel to the surface, deep into island bedrock.

Kitten estimated that they had traveled roughly two-thirds of the way into the island and slightly downward, when the doors finally slid back. The trader led them out.

Two men stood ready to greet them. They both relaxed at the sight of the merchant.

“Good evening, sir,” offered the one on their left.

“Evening Willus, Rave. Taking some guests to see the salvage.” Both guards hefted heavy, no-nonsense weapons: Paxton Five’s. The thick-bodied guns launched tiny self-propelled missiles with explosive warheads. They were clumsy and awkward at close range, but reflective laser armor would be useless against them.

There were guards at two more checkpoints, located at sharp turns in the tunnel.

“Never been through here before,” Mal said, staring at the smooth, machined walls. “Quite a hidey-hole. What do you keep down here, your trousseau?”

“Abandoned any need for that when my credit account first passed six figures. There are several storage chambers of varying size cut into the rock. We’re headed for the biggest.”

Mal nodded. “I noticed several other passageways branching off when we left the elevator.”

“This one is particularly well fortified. I use it to store the more expensive imports and exports. Also goods which require controlled atmosphere, peace and quiet. Delicate scientific apparatus, for example. Just now it happens to house a very intriguing hunk of cosmic jetsam a pair of shuttle-pilots—semi-regular employees of mine—found drifting in indifferent orbit. They had the good sense to plant a salvage beacon on it and contact me right away . . . The thing they hauled down is interesting more than as a mere representative of alien manufacture. You’ll see why.”