It was. The system had been borrowed from the practice of ancient whaling and sealing ships on old Earth. The members of the crew received, in lieu of pay, a certain share of the profits. Fiftieth lay represented one fiftieth of the total, and so on. Even a two-thousandth lay could come to an attractive figure, if the voyage was good. Every crewman had an interest in the economic welfare of the enterprise.

Aton nodded and applied the precept of best defense. “Shipment of Taphids must remunerate well indeed.”

She smiled. “The owners, of course, take second lay—half the profit.”

“What lay does the Taphid take?”

The Captain refused to give way. “The Jocasta’s lays go on down to four-thousandth for the recruit crewman—”

“Two-thousandth, for experienced machinists,” Aton said, moving closer. “But sometimes there are hazardous duties—“

“Fractional lays have to be figured at every port—”

“And the refrigeration checked—”

“In case a crewman resigns and demands his share—”

“Or his next-of-kin demands it—”

Her eyes were gray, almost green. “Therefore the lay roster is a comprehensive manual identifying every person on the ship.”

“And all legal cargo.” Her hair seemed brighter, coppery.

“Possession by unauthorized persons is felonious—”

“As is shipment of the maggot,” Aton finished.

Her lips were firm and close. “However—” she said.

Aton kissed her.

He moved into it shrewdly, conscious of his power over this woman, prepared to complete the tacit understanding by whatever token was required. He knew that something more than mutual liability was in order; neither one could allow the other to go forth with damning intent. But this was no more than the intellectual machination of survival. On the emotional level his heart was weighed by the disappointing search for the minionette—if, indeed, she existed as such. The Captain interested him only as a complication, not as a woman.

But a strange fire took him as his lips touched hers. What had been calculated art became guileless reality. He wanted her as the woman.

She twisted free. “Why did you do it?” she asked.

Aton suppressed the frustration of sudden rejection and chose to interpret the question as business. “The lay roster? Call it the same reason you smuggle Taphids.” The debate had no interest for him now. He was angry, angry that he could be aroused and cut off so readily. But what he had said to her was the truth; their understanding did not require that their deeper motives be advertised. The two of them had a balance of a sort. It had to remain.

She leaned toward him, applying the lure again. What was the matter with her? He had to admit it was effective; already the yearning for her was reappearing. This was no woman to trifle with. He had never been subjected to such a campaign, never been susceptible to it. He declined to play the game, this time; he would not kiss her again.