They turned another corner abruptly and stood in the described room. There was a thick door, retracted into the ceiling. Several other men and thranx were already there.

“Engineers and technical consultants from my staff in Repler City,” said Kingsley at an inquiring glance from Kitten. “Brought away from their regular jobs to work on this thing. Expensive.” He pointed. “That’s it.”

He indicated a huge rectangular block of metal standing slightly apart near the back of the chamber. At first glance it was not particularly impressive. It stood near a host of other carefully stacked crates. One of these stood unpackaged. Mal recognized the device as a commercial class Seatoler. This was a thranx-developed instrument which could accurately predict changes in ocean currents, water temperature at various depths, and even track and predict fluctuations in the height of the thermocline. In other words, a very valuable and exclusive hunk of fishing equipment. No doubt consigned to one of the larger fishing concerns on Repler.

One of the engineers noticed their arrival, walked slowly over to greet them. Skinny afterthought arms dangled from a short-sleeved workshirt. The man had a hooked nose and artificial corneas that gave his gaze an unnatural sparkle. Kitten could make out the silvery threads that ran around the edge of the implants.

“Sir, we still cannot locate any kind of button, switch, lever, or even a sign that this thing is meant to be opened. It took us four hours just to find a seam, you know.”

“I know, Martinez. I’m paying for it. Keep at it. I’m not ready to resort to slicing it open. Not yet. Haven’t you been able to learn anything about its insides?”

“Well, the metal—we’re pretty sure now that it is metal, by the way—resists normal xerographic and skeletonay probing. But one of the guys got the idea of trying a moliflow scan at very low power. We got some interior pickup that way, enough to take rough measurements of the body inside . . .” The man wiped sweat from his brow.

“There’s a creature in that thing?” asked Kitten.

“A genuine, certified new-to-science, bonafide alien. Yes, my dear.”

“About three meters tall,” the engineer continued. “Pickup was faint, and it’s hard to hold focus at such low power. We couldn’t get much more than that. It seems to be in an excellent state of preservation. I didn’t want to take a chance on harming the tissues by using the scanner at a stronger level. As far as direct visual observation goes, we’ve only found the one transparent section that the pilot marked. The red tinting of the glass, or whatever, is heavy enough to render it opaque in spots. Even so, you can make out more than is pleasant. It’s not pretty, Kingsley.”

“I’ve seen the frozepix, Martinez, I know. As I said, keep ’em at it. This amounts to a paid holiday for some, and I won’t tolerate loafing.”

“Yes sir.”