“Oh? And what might that be?”

“We shall endeavor not to get caught.”

“Oh lovely! Universal beauty and logic! Kurita smite me if I’ve ever heard such lucidity in the midst of storm. We will avoid being shot by dodging the nerve-beams. I rhapsodize!” He was so upset he spoke in pidgin Centaurian, a tongue especially suited to flights of sarcasm.

“A poor analogy,” said Kitten.

“A poorer idea,” Mal replied.

“Well, we’re going anyway. Aren’t we, Pors?”

The Tolian sighed. “I suppose so, soft-and-warm. I know that tone too well to try mere reason on you.”

“Marvelous, fine, delightful. I hope you have a charming tour, and that when the AAnn prepare you, they use plenty of hot pepper!” He turned away from them and began refiling the charts and maps.

Kitten turned as if to leave, stopped short, and turned again, smiling. She performed one of the many small things she was adept at, that of relaxing her body in certain specific places.

“Mal? Mister Hammurabi? I . . . I’d really feel better if you’d come along. Even if only as a gesture. To sort of, well, stay on top of things, you know.”

“That won’t work with me,” he mumbled. “And stop blowing in my ear. It only gives me a headache.”

“Oh, I don’t really believe that. Besides, if you don’t come . . .” she did something educated with her tongue, “ . . . I’ll inform the Major that you’re withholding information and material evidence concerning the transfer of bloodhype. Specifically, the drug itself.”

“That’s my word against yours. And the stuff can, and will, be obliterated if anyone, anyone at all, tries to grab it.”

“Of course you can do that,” she whispered, “but the charges and resultant official actions during investigation would tie you up in orbit for the longest time. Wouldn’t that be awkward? You wouldn’t be able to perform your primary function, that of moving things from here to there in a reasonable amount of time, like your customers like you to.”

The freighter-captain wheeled slowly, like a tank, to face her.

“All right. Have done, then.” To her surprise, he smiled back. “You’ve acquired a companion candidate for suicide, I promise. And I’ll add another promise. If we get out of this with neural networks intact, I shall, despite whatever obstacles, writs, legislation, weaponry and so forth you try to put in my path, despite arguments, questionings, philosophy and couth, whale the tar out of you.”

“I knew you’d agree with me,” she said briskly. “Most people do, sooner or later. And I might add that my body contains no petroleum extracts or by-products of any kind. Nor am I affected by archaic threats which invoke the cetacea as a verb.” She stared hard.

“That’s good,” he said, deactivating the computer terminal. “You keep telling yourself that.”