“Well, one and only Swagman,” said Yorick, “did the museum on Rhinegold ever discover the one and only North Coast Princess that I forged for you?”

“It’s still sitting right there in its display case under round-the-clock guard,” replied the Swagman with a grin.

“And you’ve got the real stone?”

“Certainly.”

“Certainly,” repeated Yorick. “Lee-certain,” he said, moving the syllables around. “Cer-lee-tain.” He got to his feet and glared at the Swagman. “My courier was killed!” he said accusingly.

“Most regrettable,” said the Swagman. “I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with it.”

“You guaranteed his safety,” said Yorick sullenly.

“I guaranteed that he would gain safe entry to my fortress,” the Swagman corrected him. “What he did after he left was his own business.”

“I never got my money.”

“I paid it to the courier. My obligation to you ended with that.” He reached into his pocket. “However, I wouldn’t want us to become enemies. Will this square accounts?” He withdrew a trio of small tan seeds.

“Give give give give give give!” murmured Yorick, snatching them out of the Swagman’s hand. He raced to a dilapidated dresser, pulled open the top drawer, and tossed two of the seeds onto a pile of dirty clothing. The third he put into his mouth.

“Where the hell did you get those things?” asked Cain. “You didn’t know back on Altair that we were going to see Poor Yorick.”

The Swagman smiled. “What did you think I paid the bartender five hundred credits for?”

“Information—or so I thought.”

“Information’s worth about twenty-five credits, tops, on a dirtball like this. The rest was for alphanella seeds.”

Yorick was sitting down on his chair again, his face suddenly tranquil as he slid the seed between his cheek and his gum and let the juices flow down his throat.

“Thank you,” he said, his face relaxed, his eyes finally clear. “You know, sometimes I think the only time I’m not crazy is when I’ve got a seed in my mouth.”

“Good,” said Cain. “Just suck on it for a while. Don’t chew it until we’re through talking.”

“Whatever you say, Songbird,” replied Yorick pleasantly. “Oh, my, this is good. I don’t know how I lived before I discovered this stuff.”

“Responsibly,” suggested Cain wryly.

Yorick closed his eyes and smiled. “Ah, yes—the killer who’s hindered by a moral code. I know about you, Songbird.” He paused. “You gave my friend a pass.”

“A pass?” asked the Swagman, puzzled.

“Quentin Cicero,” said Yorick, nodding his head, his eyes still closed. “Hunted him down and then let him go. Good man, the Songbird.”

“You let Quentin Cicero go?” demanded the Swagman, turning to Cain.

“It wasn’t that open and shut,” replied Cain. “He had a hostage.”