to determine the authenticity of a piece from that era. His collection was on permanent display back on Deluros VIII, and had been willed to the Commonwealth upon his death. Its value had been placed at some 22 million credits, but, like all collectors, the evaluation of his collection was dealt with in terms of emotion rather than currency, for no piece would ever be offered for sale.
desk early this afternoon, and was awaiting the arrival of Baros Durmin, a dealer in antique weaponry who had supposedly come upon an unbelievably valuable cache of ancient firearms. Durmin was finding it harder to replenish his stock, and so he had proposed a trade rather than an out- and-out cash transaction. Selimund didn't know exactly what Durmin had to offer, but the man usually delivered high-quality items, and so the governor was willing at least to take a look at his wares.
Durmin, a huge man with hamlike hands and a deep, booming voice, was ushered into Selimund's office,
followed by two assistants who carried in a large, ornate container the size of a trunk. “Hello, Baros,” said Selimund. “Now, what's this fantastic find you've been raving about?” “You won't believe it until you see it, Governor,” said Durmin. “Okay, boys, open it up.” The two men unlocked the container and opened it. Selimund looked in, trying not to appear too anxious, and Durmin withdrew a small object wrapped in Toranian spider-silk. He removed the covering without a word and handed it over to Selimund, who began examining it gingerly. “A laser pistol,” he murmured, holding it up to the light. “Early Democracy ... no, make that late Republic. Handcrafted. Good for about four minutes without repowering. Trigger device fits a near-human hand, probably a little smaller. Emra IV, I'd say, or possibly Lemm.” He paused lost in thought. “No, it couldn't be Lemm. They never developed laser weapons. Probably Emran. Well-built. Looks almost new.” He looked up at Durmin. “What else have you got?” Durmin handed him another weapon.
“Lovely!” exclaimed Selimund. “Absolutely gorgeous!” He handled it as if it were made of the finest crystal, apt to shatter at any instant. “An explosive-projectile hand pistol! I've only got one in my whole collection. They went out of fashion early in the Democracy. Never understood why. It was a deadly little weapon. Where did you get all this stuff, Baros?” “Sorry,” Durmin grinned. “Professional secret.” Selimund nodded. He hadn't really expected an answer to the question. He spent the next few hours going over the remaining seventeen weapons, studying each, appraising their craftsmanship and market value in his mind. The condition of the pieces was beautiful, as if they had just been turned out of a factory that morning. Moving parts were well oiled, metal parts glistened, stocks and handles were smooth as glass. All had been used by the Emrans, or a race very similar to them, for all were made for the same type of hand: three or four fingers, with a short thumb, somewhat smaller than a human hand.
“What are you asking for the lot?'’ asked Selimund at last. “Well, Governor, if I were to name a price, it would be in the neighborhood of half a million credits,” said Durmin. “However, as I said, I'm not putting these up for cash sale. They're for trade only. I might consider the atom cannon from Doradus IV that you have on display at Deluros, plus two early Republic hand weapons from Torqual and Procyon III.” “Not the cannon,” said Selimund emphatically. “You'd have to offer twice as many weapons for that.” “That could be arranged,” said Durmin. “This isn't the sum total of the cache.” “Why not bring the rest tomorrow morning, and we'll talk business,” suggested Selimund. “Fair enough,” said Durmin. “I've got fourteen more pieces.” “Then I think we'll be able to do some dealing,” said Selimund. “If you like, you can leave these
weapons overnight. I'll have them placed under heavy guard and will personally guarantee their safely.”
Durmin seemed to be debating the matter for a moment, then agreed and left with his assistants. Selimund had a late dinner, then tried to relax with a newstape. It didn't work. His thoughts kept going back to the weapons sitting in his office, and finally he yielded to the urge to examine them again. He dismissed the guard, closed the door behind them, and carefully laid the firearms on his massive desk. He decided that three of the pieces were definitely Emran, probably as many as seven of them. The others had belonged to similar species, but he was at a loss as to why all the weapons had been unearthed in a single spot. Well, finding them was Durmin's business; his was acquiring them. And acquire them he would. Durmin's estimate had been somewhat low; he mentally priced the lot at three-quarters of a million credits, and tomorrow's addition would up the value to almost twice that. He sat back and gazed lovingly at the weapons, imagining how they would look on display at his museum back on Deluros VIII. What a find! He hadn't honestly expected to accumulate this many early Democracy and late Republic hand weapons during the remainder of his life. As for the cannon, he could always replace it, and besides, he'd never cared for it that much. Hand weapons were his specialty, and this was like a magical windfall from some benevolent deity. Carefully, lovingly, he picked up another of the old-style explosive-projectile pistols and examined it again. The balance was exquisite, and the restoration job Durmin had done was unbelievable. There was absolutely no sign of wear, of corrosion in any of the moving parts. He began disassembling it, marveling at the workmanship that had gone into it. This was no showpiece, this weapon; it had been made for one purpose and one purpose only—to destroy; and it was as neat a little engine of destruction as had ever been built. He noticed that he had gotten some fingerprints on the pistol while examining it, and he opened one of his desk drawers, withdrawing a soft cloth with which to clean it. It was as he was cleaning the barrel prior to reassembling it that he saw the powder. Something was wrong. The weapon was thousands of years old, and had been cleaned at least once in the past few weeks. There shouldn't be any trace whatsoever of gunpowder. He laid the pistol down gently and stared at it. He knew enough about the restoration of ancient weaponry to be sure that the powder wasn't a residue from the cleaning or restorative process. No, while there wasn't enough to smell or taste, there was no doubt in his mind that it was gunpowder. But why? The pistol wasn't used in target ranges; one explosive bullet from its barrel would take out the side of a building the size of a governor's mansion. He signaled for the guards, and asked them to find out if there had been any armed rebellions since the Setts went to war with the Commonwealth over the ill-conceived Bureau of Alien Affairs project. The answer came back in a matter of minutes: There had been sporadic disturbances on the Canphor Twins and perhaps a dozen other worlds, but all had been put down almost instantly. He spent the next two hours tracing Durmin's movements during the past year. Durmin was a well-traveled man, but at no time had he set foot on any of the worlds that had had disturbances.
And that meant that there was more to this than met the eye. Much more.
For one thing, it meant that there was more alien trouble brewing. For another, it meant that whoever Durmin had gotten the weapons from was pretty well supplied with firepower, or they'd never have let so many pieces go, no matter what price Durmin was willing to pay. And that implied that, far from being weaponless, the aliens had some seven millennia of firearms to draw upon, and that most if not all of them were in working order.
Which led to other thoughts. Such as: Why did Durmin want the Doradusian cannon? It wasn't worth anywhere near as much as the hand weapons—at least, not to a collector. But to a gunrunner whose clientele needed some really heavy firepower, it was probably worth hundreds of pistols. And the two pistols that Durmin wanted in addition to the cannon? His commission for effecting the trade. Not a bad commission, either, decided Selimund; they were worth about 35,000 credits for the pair. One by one Selimund began disassembling the other weapons. He couldn't tell about the laser pistols, but seven of the eleven explosive pistols showed traces of recent use. Probably these were rejects, he decided, weapons that were too inefficient to be used by the rebels. But rejects or not, they were beautiful, masterpieces of the ancient weaponers’ art. What a display they'd make at the museum! Except for the Republic laser pistol; that one would stay in his office, hermetically sealed in a transparent showcase. Possibly he'd add a little bronze plaque at its base, describing its use and manufacture.
He shook his head vigorously. That was enough pipedreaming. The first order of business was to find out where these rebel forces were, what their strength was, and when they planned to mobilize. This would then be
