Cain turned to Yorick. “Once I leave here, nothing that happens between the two of you is of any concern to me—but I ought to warn you that leaving three thousand credits in the same room with the Swagman is like leaving a piece of meat in the same room with a hungry carnivore.”

“I resent that,” said the Swagman, more amused than offended.

“Resent it all you like,” said Cain. “But if you’re a religious man, don’t deny it or God just might strike you dead.” He walked to the dresser and stood next to it. “What about having the hotel hold it for you until he leaves?”

Yorick smiled. “This hotel makes the Swagman look like an amateur.”

“Have you got any friends I can leave it with?”

Yorick shook his head.

“All right,” said, Cain. “What if I deposit it with the branch bank at the spaceport and tell them to release it only to you? Your voiceprint ought to be registered there.”

“That would be nice,” said Yorick. “But leave a thousand credits behind. I don’t want to go to the spaceport the first time I run out of seeds.”

“He’ll take it from you,” said Cain.

“A thousand credits? He doesn’t need it.”

“That’s got nothing to do with it.”

“It’s my money. Leave a thousand credits.”

Cain opened the drawer and took out four of the five-hundred-credit notes. “I’m going to tell them not to release this to you unless you’re alone.”

“Thank you, Songbird,” said Yorick placidly.

“Are you sure you don’t want to count the phony jewels before you leave?” asked the Swagman sardonically.

“No,” said Cain. “But I’ll have Schussler do a quick inventory of Altair of Altair’s artwork before we take off.”

Cain turned and walked out the door. The Swagman immediately walked over to the dresser, searched around for another seed, and brought it over to Yorick.

“Here,” he said. “Don’t start chewing until we’ve talked.”

Yorick removed the first seed, now a pale yellow, from his mouth and carefully set it down on his windowsill, then inserted the new one. The Swagman stepped over to the window and stared out through the rain until he could make out Cain’s figure walking back to the vehicle.

“What kind of paintings do you want, Swagman?” asked Yorick pleasantly, luxuriating in the juices of the fresh seed.

“None,” said the Swagman.

“Then what was that all about?”

“Billy Three-Eyes is dead. Peacemaker MacDougal caught up with him four months ago.”

“Poor Billy,” said Yorick, smiling tranquilly. “I loved that notch on his forehead.” He looked up at the Swagman. “Maybe you’d better go tell the Songbird.”

The Swagman shook his head. “I’m just waiting for him to get off the planet before I leave.”

“Well, nobody ever accused you of the sin of loyalty.”