find. Like Bruth the Baker’s, it was the one spot in the neighborhood that was all lit up.
“Good evening, sir!” said what was presumably the store owner, without looking around. He sat with his back to the door, in a chair approximately at the center of the store and facing the Leewit at a distance of about twenty feet.
“…and there you can stay without food or drink till the Holy Man comes in the morning!” he continued immediately, in the taut voice of a man who has gone through hysteria and is sane again. The captain realized he was addressing the Leewit.
“Your other Holy Man didn’t stay very long!” the diminutive creature piped, also ignoring the captain. Apparently she had not yet discovered Maleen behind him.
“This is a stronger denomination — much stronger!” the store owner replied, in a shaking voice but with a sort of relish. “
The Leewit blinked her gray eyes thoughtfully at him.
“Might!” she said.
“But if you try to climb down from there,” the store owner went on, on a rising note, “I’ll chop you into bits — into little, little bits!”
He raised his arm as he spoke and weakly brandished what the captain recognized with a start of horror as a highly ornamented but probably still useful antique battle-ax.
“Ha!” said the Leewit.
“Beg your pardon, sir!” the captain said, clearing his throat.
“Good evening, sir!” the store owner repeated, without looking around. “What can I do for you?”
“I came to inquire,” the captain said hesitantly, “about that child.”
The store owner shifted about in his chair and squinted at the captain with red-rimmed eyes.
“You’re not a Holy Man!” he said.
“Hello, Maleen!” the Leewit said suddenly. “That him?”
“We’ve come to buy you,” Maleen said. “Shut up!”
“Good!” said the Leewit.
“Buy it? Are you mocking me, sir?” the store owner inquired.
“Shut up, Moonell!” A thin, dark, determined-looking woman had appeared in the doorway which led through the back wall of the store. She moved out a step under the shelves; and the Leewit leaned down from the top shelf and hissed. The woman moved hurriedly back into the doorway.
“Maybe he means it,” she said in a more subdued voice.
“I can’t sell to a citizen of the Empire,” the store owner said defeatedly.
“I’m not a citizen,” the captain said shortly. This time he wasn’t going to name it.
“No, he’s from Nikkel—” Maleen began.
“Shut up, Maleen!” the captain said helplessly in turn.
“I never heard of Nikkel,” the store owner muttered doubtfully.
“Maleen!” the woman called shrilly. “That’s the name of one of the others — Bruth the Baker got her. He means it, all right! He’s buying them!”
“A hundred and fifty maels!” the captain said craftily, remembering Bruth the Baker. “In cash.”
The store owner looked dazed.
“Not enough, Moonell!” the woman called. “Look at all it’s broken! Five hundred maels!”
There was a sound then, so thin the captain could hardly hear it. It pierced at his eardrums like two jabs of a delicate needle. To right and left of him, two highly glazed little jugs went
A brief silence settled on the store. And now that he looked around more closely, the captain could spot here and there other little piles of shattered crockery — and places where similar ruins apparently had been swept up, leaving only traces of colored dust.
The store owner laid the ax carefully down beside his chair, stood up, swaying a little, and came towards the captain.
“You offered me a hundred and fifty maels!” he said rapidly as he approached. “I accept it here, now, see — before witnesses!” He grabbed the captain’s right hand in both of his and pumped it up and down vigorously. “Sold!” he yelled.
Then he wheeled around in a leap and pointed a shaking hand at the Leewit.
“And NOW,” he howled, “break something! Break anything! You’re his! I’ll sue him for every mael he ever made and ever will!”
“Oh, do come help me down, Maleen!” the Leewit pleaded prettily.
For a change the store of Wansing the jeweler was dimly lit and very quiet. It was a sleek, fashionable place in a fashionable shopping block near the spaceport. The front door was unlocked and Wansing was in.
The three of them entered quietly, and the door sighed quietly shut behind them. Beyond a great crystal display counter Wansing was moving about among a number of opened shelves, talking softly to himself. Under the crystal of the counter and in close-packed rows on the satin-covered shelves reposed a many-colored gleaming and glittering and shining. Wansing was no piker.
“Good evening, sir!” the captain said across the counter.
“It’s morning!” the Leewit remarked from the other side of Maleen.
“Maleen!” said the captain.
“We’re keeping out of this!” Maleen said to the Leewit.
“All right,” said the Leewit.
Wansing had come around jerkily at the captain’s greeting but had made no other move. Like all the slave owners the captain had met on Porlumma so far, Wansing seemed unhappy. Otherwise he was a large, dark, sleek man with jewels in his ears and a smell of expensive oils and perfumes about him.
“This place is under constant visual guard, of course,” he told the captain gently. “Nothing could possibly happen to me here. Why am I so frightened?”
“Not of me, I’m sure!” the captain said with an uncomfortable attempt at geniality. “I’m glad your store’s still open,” he went on briskly. “I’m here on business.”
“Oh, yes, it’s still open, of course,” Wansing said. He gave the captain a slow smile and turned back to his shelves. “I’m taking inventory, that’s why. I’ve been taking inventory since early yesterday morning. I’ve counted them all seven times.”
“You’re very thorough,” the captain said.
“Very, very thorough!” Wansing nodded to the shelves. “The last time I found I had made a million maels. But twice before that I had lost approximately the same amount. I shall have to count them again, I suppose.” He closed a drawer softly. “I’m sure I counted those before. But they move about constantly. Constantly! It’s horrible.”
“You have a slave here called Goth,” the captain said, driving to the point.
“Yes, I do,” Wansing said, nodding. “And I’m sure she understands by now I meant no harm. I do, at any rate. It was perhaps a little — but I’m sure she understands now, or will soon.”
“Where is she?” the captain inquired, a trifle uneasily.
“In her room perhaps,” Wansing suggested. “It’s not so bad when she’s there in her room with the door closed. But often she sits in the dark and looks at you as you go past…” He opened another drawer, peered into it, closed it quietly again. “Yes, they do move!” he whispered, as if confirming an earlier suspicion. “Constantly…”
“Look, Wansing,” the captain said in a loud, firm voice. “I’m not a citizen of the Empire. I want to buy this Goth. I’ll pay you a hundred and fifty maels, cash.”
Wansing turned around completely again and looked at the captain. “Oh, you do?” he said. “You’re not a citizen?” He walked a few steps to the side of the counter, sat down at a small desk and turned a light on over it. Then he put his face in his hands for a moment.
“I’m a wealthy man,” he muttered. “An influential man! The name of Wansing counts for a great deal on
