A lot of people whispered that that was the real reason he’d set up shop on Port étrange, that since he couldn’t control his passion for women he’d decided to do without them and had hunted up a world with a humanoid race that willingly allowed him to commit terrible crimes of pleasure for which nobody had yet created any words.

Port étrange itself had a long and varied history. Originally a mining world, it had since been a glittering vacation spa, then a low-security penal colony, and finally a deserted ghost world. Then Stern had moved in, set up headquarters in a once luxurious hotel, and turned a small section of the human habitation into a Tradertown, while allowing the remainder to linger in a state of disrepair and decay. Despite reasonably fertile fields which sustained the native population, the citizens of the Tradertown imported all their food and drink from a pair of nearby agricultural colonies. When the men began outnumbering the women, they imported the latter, too, until Stern put a stop to it.

All this Cain learned during his first hour on Port étrange. He had landed his ship at the local spaceport—only huge worlds like Deluros VIII and Lodin XI possessed orbiting hangars and shuttle service for planetbound travelers—and rented a room at the larger of the two functioning hotels, then descended to the ground-floor tavern he’d spotted on the way in.

It was crowded, and despite the chrome tables and hand-crafted chairs—leftovers from the hotel’s halcyon days of glory—it felt as dingy and seamy as any other Tradertown bar. The only chair available was at a small table that was occupied by a short, slender man who sported a shock of unruly red hair.

“Mind if I sit down?” asked Cain.

“Be my guest,” said the man. He stared at Cain. “You new around here?”

“Yes. I just got in.” Cain glanced around the room. “I’m looking for somebody. I wonder if you can point him out to me?”

“He’s not here now.”

“You don’t know who I’m looking for,” said Cain.

“Well, if it isn’t Jonathan Stern, we’ve got a hell of a news story breaking here.” said the man with a chuckle. “He’s the only person anyone ever comes to Port étrange to see.”

“It’s Stern,” said Cain.

“Well, I suppose I can pass the word. You got a name?”

“Cain. Tell him Geronimo Gentry sent me.”

“Pleased to meet you, Cain,” said the man, extending a lean white hand. “I’m Terwilliger. Halfpenny Terwilliger,” he added as if the name was expected to mean something. He watched Cain for a reaction, discerned none, and got up. “Back in a minute.”

Terwilliger walked over to the bar, said something to the bartender, and then returned to the table.

“Okay,” he said. “He knows you’re here.”

“When can I see him?”

“When he’s ready.”