Because if I thought you were serious, a freighter might bump into that tin can you call home.”

  Wally was indignant. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  The cyborg was correct, but Moms had an image to maintain. “Oh, yes I would. So shut the hell up and let Dan live his life. Mistakes and all.”

  Moms heard a click followed by silence. She sighed, rolled the cigar from one side of her mouth to the other, and started through the preflight checklist. At least that made sense.

  • • •

  Rogan watched Tran from the corner of his eye and tried to gauge her reaction. Was she happy? Sad? Excited? What? Tran seemed to sense his interest and produced a smile. It was dazzling to behold. Rogan felt warm all over. She gestured to the panorama beyond the bug-smeared windscreen. “It’s beautiful, Dan. And so big. It’s hard to believe that you live all alone.”

  Rogan grinned. “Not anymore! Besides, there’s Wally, and visitors drop in from time to time.

  • • •

  Tran felt a sudden sense of alarm. Wally? Visitors? Both represented sources of potential danger. She smiled the smile that worked every time. “Wally? What does he do?”

  “Wally lives in orbit,” Rogan said, jerking a thumb toward the sky. “He’s responsible for the planet’s mechanized systems. I guess I should tellyou that he was opposed to the ad. Don’t worry; he’ll adjust. And once he does, he’ll like you as much as I do.”

  • • •

  Wally had ordered “Bob” the maintenance bot to hardwire the grav truck’s hand mike into the open position the night before. He heard Rogan’s words as clearly as if he’d been riding in the backseat. The response was for his sensors only. “Not very damned likely, Dan. Not very damned likely.”

  • • •

  Tran made a mental note to learn more about the cyborg so she could subvert or neutralize him. She had worn an intentionally short skirt. Skin flashed as she crossed and recrossed her legs. “You mentioned visitors?”

  Rogan shrugged. “Sure, we get ’em. But not too often. My sector boss, a jerk named Elvas Werkmor, drops in from time to time, as do health inspectors, sales sentients, and religious fanatics. You’d be surprised how many lunatics are running around the Confederation.”

  “But what about the police?” Tran asked innocently. “Surely they come by every now and then.”

  “Not so far,” Rogan answered lightly. “Why? Do you need protection?”

  Tran batted her eyelashes. “I have no idea. Do I?”

  Rogan gulped and felt blood rush to his face. “Why, yes, I mean no, of course you don’t.”

  “Good,” Tran said easily. “I feel better already.”

  Rogan put the truck into a shallow dive and Tran looked out through the windshield. She saw nothing except endless rows of tall green plants. “Where’s the house? The pool? The robots?”

  “Oh, that’s fifty miles to the south,” Rogan replied carelessly. “We’ll go there next. First I want to show you something special—a sight you’ve never seen before.”

  Could it be superior to a hot bath? After weeks of recycled water? Tran didn’t think so. But she played along. “Wonderful. I can hardly wait.”

  Thousands, maybe millions of the tall green plants undulated toward the distant horizon, suggesting waves in a green ocean. Rogan brought the grav truck down near a small structure that he referred to as a pump station. The hatch opened and they disembarked. Tran had to make a conscious effort to leave the bag full of money behind. They hadn’t gone more than three yards before Tran felt her high heels sink into the soft dirt. She was in the process of falling backward when Rogan caught her. She thanked him and Rogan continued to babble as they approached the pump station. “. . . because the climate-control system works only part of the time,” Rogan explained, as he concluded a long diatribe about the weather. “Here, climb the ladder. I’ll follow you up.”

  A metal ladder had been welded to the side of the pump station, and Tran climbed. As she did so she assumed Rogan was looking up her skirt. It was only when she reached the roof and looked down that she realized that his eyes were averted. Was he gay? No, that didn’t make sense. Why would a gay man share his planet with a woman? A gentleman, then? One of the rare breed she’d heard about but never encountered? Apparently so. Tran cleared her throat.

  “Come on up.”

  Rogan turned, smiled, and clamored up the ladder. “Isn’t the view fantastic?” he inquired. “I could look at it all day long.”

  Tran hoped he wouldn’t. The plants were about fifteen feet tall, and even though she was standing on the pump house roof, the tops of them came up to her knees. They had thick stems and broad green leaves and were thick with cylindrical pods. Insects buzzed around her head and a rich, earthy scent rose to envelop her. Something bothered her nose and she contained a sneeze. “Yes, it’s wonderful,” she lied. “What sort of crop am I looking at anyway?”

  Rogan glanced over to see if she was joking. Having seen no signs of a smile, he gave a serious response. “Corn. You’re looking at a corn crop. A variant called Calag Gold to be exact . . . although the history of corn is so rich that no single company can properly take credit for it.”

  “They can’t?” Tran asked innocently. “Why not?”

  Rogan shrugged. “Scientists think corn evolved from a native grass on Earth. Archaeological digs in what was once called Mexico turned up tiny ears of four-rowed corn.”

  “Like the little ears that come in fancy salads?”

  Rogan laughed. “Yes. Although there were fewer kernels of corn on the ancient variety. In any case, Calag Gold traces its ancestry all the way back to the Indians, who selected the strongest kernels of corn each year and planted them. The result was a crop they could depend on.

  “As scientists learned more and more about genetics, they created a broader, straighter leaf to gather more sunlight, a perennial variety to save the cost of continual replanting, and added a legume gene that reduces the need for fertilizer by returning nitrogen to the soil.”

  Tran nodded agreeably. “I like corn. But I hate Brussels sprouts.”

  Rogan laughed and realized how good it felt. Better than a belt of Duncan’s Prime, better than anything he could remember. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll notify the auto-chef.”

  “So,” Tran said, edging toward the ladder in hope that the visit would come to an end, “corn is an important crop?”

  “It sure is,” Rogan answered soberly. “This planet exports eighty-two million tons of corn per year. That’s enough to feed two billion people. Not that humans eat all of it. Corn winds up in processed food, glue, shoe polish, lotions, crayons, ink, aspirin, paint, and cosmetics.”

  The word “cosmetics” triggered an unconscious reaction and Tran reached for her compact.

  Rogan noticed and realized his guest might have needs other than a desire to eyeball his corn crop. He smiled. “Enough about corn. Let’s head for the house.”

  Tran nodded gratefully and moved toward the ladder. Rogan was a geek all right. But a manageable geek. And what more could any woman want?

  Chapter Seven

  Honor precedes money in the affairs of the Shumu, for honor is forever, and money is quickly spent. And so it is that he who guards his honor has wealth eternal, and he who guards his money has nothing.

  (Excerpted from the Book of Secret Rites, author unknown, no listing available.)

  The Planet Crumby II

  Joman Jones ran like he’d never run before. His once fashionable clothes had been reduced to rags while he climbed over fences and soiled by days spent hiding in alleys. The shoes that had never been intended for anything more strenuous than a stroll through a well - carpeted hotel lobby were falling apart. They made slapping sounds as they hit the pavement and splashed through puddles of oily black water. It was night and the pools of light cast by the streetlamps were like islands of safety, places where a man could see what was after him. As he passed under a light, Jones looked over his shoulder. The rateye, the underworld’s version of a copeye, was still a hundred feet behind him. Why hang back? Why follow at such a precise interval? Unless . . .

  The thought was still being born when two men stepped out in front of him. Blue feathers and identical headbands signified their membership in the La Paz branch of the Brotherhood.

  The man on the left opened a black trench coat to reveal a stainless steel shotgun. It hung barrel down beneath his right armpit. The gesture was more eloquent than any collection of words could have been.

  Jones slowed and came to a staggering stop. He was bent over, hands on knees, when the blues closed in. They spun the con man around and sent him staggering down the street. The rateye led the way, its sensors alert to the slightest signs of danger. All Jones could do was follow along behind. It was his fault. Mistakes had been made. And now he would have to pay the price.

  The first mistake had been to partner with Jennifer Tran, the second was to provide her with an opportunity to betray him, and the third was to let her get away with it. But the worst mistake of all was to cross Luis La Paz.

  As they rounded a corner, a sleek grav car whispered out of the darkness. It rocked gently as it hovered next to the curb, and a door opened to reveal a dimly lit interior. Hands pushed and orders were given. Jones felt his way into a backward-facing seat and turned to assess his chances. Violence was out of the question. But what about words? They were his stock-in-trade and had saved him many times before.

  Jones smiled tentatively as he eyed the blues. They sat across from him with arms folded, their faces devoid of expression. The con man allowed the smile to fade. Why bother? The men weren’t men. They were androids. And you can’t con a machine.

  As the limo accelerated away from the curb, Jones discovered that his senses had been inexplicably heightened. He could smell the leather upholstery, hear the faint strains of Chu Chu music that were emanating from the driver’s compartment, and see that a button was missing from an android’s coat. Stupid things. Unremarkable things. Unless you were about to die. Then they were impossibly precious.

  The ride was short but seemed longer. Each time the vehicle slowed, it raised the possibility that Jones would be killed and his body dumped in the street. Then, as the limo picked up speed, hope was momentarily restored. Where were they going? And what would happen to him once they arrived? Not knowing was torture.

  After what seemed like hours, the limo slowed and drifted to a stop. The doors swished open and a robot pointed at the opening. It took considerable effort to exit the low-slung vehicle.

  Jones was planning to run until he came nose-to-barrel with an ugly-looking gun. As Jones looked up, he saw that a pair of coal-black eyes were looking back at him. The woman smiled and motioned him forward.

  Now Jones knew where he was. The man-made hill towered above the upscale neighborhood that surrounded it. Everyone knew about the businessman who, having cheated La Paz, disappeared, never to be seen again. Shortly thereafter the businessman’s skyscraper was purchased, reduced to rubble, and used to build the small mountain on which the crime boss’s home sat. A perch that allowed La Paz to literally look down onto the city’s wealthiest neighborhood, all of which added to his considerable mystique.

  “Move.” The way the woman said the word left no room for argument. Jones moved. He could feel the white pea gravel pressing up through the thin-soled shoes, smell the blossoms that lined the path, and taste his own bad breath.

  The path gave way to stairs that led upward and eventually terminated in front of a large mansion. It was made of stone and looked like it would last for a thousand years.

  The door was large and heavy and the brass knocker looked like a bird. It had ruby-red eyes and they blinked as the woman palmed the lock. Jones entered as the door swung open. The interior was overly warm and smelled like ammonia. The reason was immediately obvious: bird droppings lay everywhere. They dripped down the walls, covered the furniture, and nearly obscured the hardwood floors.

  The con man wrinkled his nose and turned to the woman. She gestured toward a hallway.

  Jones preceded her. Wings whirred as a bird flew past his head. He turned but was too late to see the creature. Doors slid sideways so that Jones could enter what had been an elegant study. The original furniture had been replaced by twenty or thirty birdcages in every size and shape. Some were made of bamboo, some of metal wire, and some were protected by opalescent force fields. None had doors, so they were more like homes than cages.

  Jones saw that roughly half the available cages were occupied and the variety of birds on display would have done justice to the finest aviary. There was a lot of noise as the birds squawked, screeched, and hooted, but there was no sign of La Paz or anyone else for that matter. Jones was about to comment when the woman backed out of the room and closed the doors.

  Jones frowned and was about to follow her example when a puff of air touched his cheek.

  He allowed his eyes to roam among the cages and saw the open window. It was large enough for a man to stand in or jump out of. Heavily stained blue drapes hung to either side of the opening and stirred in response to an evening breeze.

  The con man moved cautiously. It was hard to believe that such an obvious escape route had been left unguarded. A red bird flapped its wings and tried to land on his shoulder. It squawked as Jones brushed it off. His right foot struck some bones, and they rattled across the floor. They looked big—too big to belong to a bird. Jones felt a chillrun down his spine and wanted to pee.

  Slowly, cautiously, the con man approached the window. He looked down and instinctively pulled back. What initially seemed like an escape route was a sheer drop onto the rubble far below. Jones was backing away when he heard the flap of heavy wings and saw something large pass through the window. It was a bird—a huge bird—and clearly predatory, judging from its cruelly curved beak and talon-equipped feet. It landed on a low T-shaped roost and examined Jones with piercing yellow eyes.

  The con man took another step backward and tripped. The bird laughed as he fell—not a bird sound but a real honest-to-goodness belly laugh.

  Jones was so surprised, so taken aback, that he didn’t notice the slime under his hands. The laughter stopped and the bird cocked its head. The voice was a deep baritone. “There’s no need to sit in the bird shit, son. Stand up.”

  Jones struggled to his feet, looked at the slime on his hands, and wiped them on his already filthy pants. The bird shifted from side to side. “Where’s my money?”

  Jones stared in openmouthed amazement. He’d heard of custom-designed biostructures but had never been so close to one. To say that such bodies were rare would be an understatement. Each was unique to the requirements of the customer and was believed to cost fifty million or so. It wasn’t the smartest thing Jones had ever said, but the words popped out nevertheless. “For god’s sake, why?”

  Luis La Paz ruffled his feathers. If the crime boss was offended, he gave no sign of it.

  “Because I like birds, because this body can fly, and because I was bored. Satisfied?”

  Jones nodded mutely.

  “Good,” La Paz said. “Now answer my question. Where is my money?”

  A large lump had formed in the back of Jones’s throat, and he struggled to swallow it.

  Borrowing money from the crime lord’s loan sharks had been a mistake. He knew that now.

  But what to do? The plan had been to repay the loan with the proceeds from the bank examiner scam. But Tran had stolen the money and kicked him in the balls. They still ached.

  But the bird man wouldn’t care. Not in the least. Jones licked his lips. “The money was stolen from me.”

  A thin, almost completely transparent membrane descended over the crime lord’s eyes, then disappeared. “How unfortunate. There’s altogether too much crime these days. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Jones felt a globule of sweat trickle down his spine. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  He managed a nod.

  “So,” La Paz asked lazily, “what do you plan to do?”

  The question assumed some sort of future and Jones felt a sudden rush of hope. His voice cracked. “Find the money and return it to you?”

  “An excellent idea,” the birdman said agreeably. “Assuming such a thing is possible, and assuming that you understand why I want it.”

  Jones struggled to understand. What the hell was La Paz talking about? Everyone wanted as much money as they could get their grubby hands on. Nobody needed a reason. Nobody he knew anyway.

  La Paz shook his head sadly. “You don’t understand, do you, son? Well, listen carefully. It isn’t about money. It’s about honor—something the Shumu Brotherhood considers to be much more important. Honor has to do with honesty, with keeping your word, and with your value as a person. To borrow my money and fail to return it is a violation of your honor and mine.”

  Jones had absolutely no idea what La Paz was talking about but nodded anyway.

  “Absolutely. I couldn’t agree more. I would like nothing better than to restore my honor. Our honor. And I think I can recover the money.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” the crime lord said as he extended his wings and shook them out.

  “And you will have that chance. After a minor operation.”

  Jones felt fear stab his belly. His voice shook. “An operation? What sort of operation?”

  “Experience has taught me that some people find it difficult to concentrate on the importance of personal honor,” La Paz answered. “Left to their own devices, they have a tendency to stray and break even more promises. So to help you remain focused, my surgeons are going to remove your kidneys. A pair of lab-grown substitutes will replace them. They will explode if tampered with—and cease to function after sixty days. But assuming you deliver my money within that time period, I will return your kidneys.”

  Jones backed away. He hit a cage. It fell, birds took to the air, and wings batted his head.