“And the police?” Chato asked.

“If somebody decides to join one of the more fly-by-night merc outfits on a sudden whim, who’s to keep track? As Ben likes to say, ‘The times, they are a-changing.’”

“Speaking of change,” Grace said, “we need to stop at the port to check on some cargo. Could you drive by there on the way out?”

“No problemo—I know the way like the back of Ma’s hand,” Niki said as she pulled into traffic. But the stop at the port turned into a major problemo. Grace presented her ID and Wilson’s smart card and asked to have the proceeds of the cargo’s sale added to it.

“No can do, lady. The cargo ain’t sold yet because I don’t have a Certificate of Ownership.”

Grace gave the man her best mine owner frown and repeated, “Certificate of Ownership.”

“Listen, lady, I don’t make up the rules, and I didn’t crash the HPG. With it down, I can’t call hither and yon to verify who owns what. Somebody smarter than me came up with this Certificate of Ownership. You got one—no problems. You don’t got one—I’ve got to wait until one comes back on some DropShip. Didn’t nobody tell you?”

“No,” Grace muttered and asked to see a sample certificate. The date on the form was only nine months old. Maybe the requirement had reached Alkalurops, maybe it hadn’t. Anyway, no one had told Wilson, and his cargo didn’t come with a certificate attached for Grace.

“So you won’t sell the cargo without a certificate.”

“Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. But the market’s soft as a baby’s heinie, and nothing’s moving today.”

“So how long until I can get some stones credited to me?”

“Three months. Could be a year. Depends on ship traffic.”

When Grace got back to the car and settled in, she quickly brought the guys up to date on their new problem. “Santorini?” Chato asked.

“Maybe. Or maybe just new rules we didn’t know about.”

“My bet’s on Santorini,” Jobe said.

Grace sighed. “But we need money.”

“You have anything else to sell?” Niki piped up.

Grace pulled a loose diamond from her pocket. “Some gems.”

“Then you need a jeweler,” the girl said. “And I know just the guy. You’ll love him.” Ten minutes later Grace was ushered into a small shop with solid steel shutters on its front windows.

“Abe Goldman, Grace and her off-world friends are staying at Auntie’s,” Niki said by way of introduction.

“Always glad to be of service to travelers,” a small man with wisps of gray hair and long delicate fingers said, with a smile that might or might not have any value.

Grace pulled the diamond from her pocket. The man produced a jeweler’s eyepiece and studied it. “Lovely, fine color, well cut. I wish you had brought this to me a few years ago,” he said, handing it back to Grace.

“A few years ago?”

“The collapse of the HPG has not been kind to markets. With taxes up, fewer people are buying jewelry. When we jewelers could talk to one another, we might invest on one hard-hit planet and sell on another more prosperous. Now such investments are more a gamble. If you need the money, I could probably afford to buy a few fine diamonds such as these from you, but I could not give you anywhere near the price they deserve.”

Grace reflected a moment. Was this just an opening gambit? Certainly the jeweler’s observations were supported by recent events. She signaled to Jobe. He opened his pack and carefully held up a golden pendant to the light, letting the diamonds on it sparkle. Then he set it on the table before the jeweler. Next he produced a silver bracelet banded in turquoise. The old man’s eyes grew wide, and his nostrils flared. If Abe had been forcing a poker face before, his control slipped as he reached almost reverently first for the silver item, then the gold. Each was examined in a silence broken only by sudden small intakes of breath.

“My word. You see these so rarely. The art of old Terra has been lost. What passes for it is all machine made. This is real,” he said, glancing up at Jobe, then at Chato. “Hand-worked silver and turquoise, made the way the natives of North America did it. Gold and diamonds made the way only the native Africans worked them. You have kept to the ancient ways,” he finished.

“Our grandmothers still teach their granddaughters,” Chato said, “and the young bucks still listen to their uncles.”

“You have more,” Abe said, gesturing at the pack.

“Yes.”

The old man frowned and gazed at the ceiling, his eyes lost elsewhere. Then he shook his head and handed back the pieces. “I could not afford to buy one-tenth of what you carry. Another day and I would have mortgaged my inventory—my soul—to make them mine. Now?” He shrugged. “Space on JumpShips is commandeered without warning. Shipments go missing in transit, and you do not find out about it for months. I could not accept the risk.”

“Might others share it with you?” Grace asked.

“There are some, but few would value the treasure they held in their hands. I could arrange a meeting between you and three, maybe four of us. Still, I doubt we could afford to take half of what you carry.”

Grace considered the situation for a long moment. If they kept carrying it around, sooner or later a big enough bunch of muggers would catch them, and a crazy Cat and a Highlander might not be around. “Would you please inventory our jewelry, Mr. Goldman? If it would not be too much trouble, we would like to leave it in your care. You can keep it safer than we can carrying it around, and it would help you to find a market for it.”

“Yes, it would,” the man agreed, and produced a scanner. As Jobe withdrew each item from the pack, the jeweler scanned it, made a picture, and estimated a value. Grace excused herself to the rest room, unstitched about half the diamonds in her clothing, and added them to the inventory.

When Chato produced the loose jade, turquoise and emeralds, the jeweler sighed. “Your gem cutters are exquisite in their fashioning. Why did these never come on the market before?”

“They are family possessions, passed down for generations. Now our lives depend upon them. Stones and minerals can easily be replaced. The life of a daughter or son cannot.”

The jeweler nodded his agreement.

It was past noon when he handed each of them a certified copy of the inventory in his care. Niki had watched the business with wide eyes. Grace glanced at her two friends, got nods, and turned back to the jeweler. “We need to change the inventory slightly. Niki, would you like to pick something?”

“Would I, but my granny would whap me something fierce.”

“Not if I tell her it’s a gift.”

“Well, she’d still whap me if I took one of those diamond ones. But that one,” she said, pointing at a silver necklace with turquoise teardrops, “she might not mind that one.”

The jeweler smiled softly. “She has chosen one of the most valuable pieces here.”

“It is hers,” Grace said, helping Niki put it on. “Now, Mr. Goldman, choose a gift for your wife.”

The jeweler chuckled, then ran a hand through the few strands of gray on his head. “You have my appraisal. You know what I consider the most valuable items in your holdings,” he said, and chose a lesser one. “My wife died several years ago. My daughter-in-law will appreciate the gift. Let this be the beginning of a long and profitable relationship.”

Niki got them to the Twenty-first Centauri Lancers well after lunch. To nonprofessionals, the regiment appeared to be a fine one, several battalions strong. The Major who showed them around invited them to afternoon tea at 1500 hours and a live-fire demonstration afterward. But the regiment was not at all willing to take on a contract to teach militia how to defend their own. “No, not done—bad show all around.” The task force the Major proposed was identical to the Roughriders’, the Lancers’ prices only a bit lower.