Terl waited, trying to be casual, in front of the U.S. Mint. It was two hours after sunset on Day 89. It was good and dark; there would be no moon these next three nights.

The weather on this cursed planet was on the edge of spring. There had already been a warm day or two. All the snow was gone. It was reasonably warm tonight and he had been prepared to wait. Animals were pretty stupid about time.

He was leaning against a flatbed truck he had driven in from the base. It was a shabby relic, not even on the inventory. It wouldn't be missed. He had prepared it carefully.

But, right on time, there were the animals.

With only a pinpoint of light, pointed at the ground, their vehicle rolled up and stopped a few feet from Terl.

It was heavily laden. So they had kept their part of the bargain after all. Yes, animals certainly were stupid.

There were three man-things in the cab. But Terl couldn't restrain his eagerness. He walked over to the flatbed and began to poke talons and a light into the sacks. Wire gold! Unrefined, unmelted, a bit of the white quartz clinging...no, here were some melted chunks.

He remembered himself and stood back and played a radiation detector on the sacks. Clean.

He estimated the load by a practiced glance at the pistons that supported the body over the driving mechanism. Allowing for the slight weight of the man-things– maybe four hundred pounds– and for the debris, he must have about nineteen hundred pounds here. Recent trade papers told him that gold in its scarcity at home had soared to eighty-three hundred twenty-one Galactic credits an ounce. This load was worth about...he was very good at figures in his head...about C 189,7 18,800.00. Several dozen fortunes!

Wealth and power!

He felt very expansive.

The animals hadn't gotten out of the cab. Terl went to the side of it and flashed a subdued light into it. These fellows all had black beards!

Actually, it was Dunneldeen, Dwight, and another Scot.

Terl went through a pantomime seeking to ask where the animal Jonnie was.

The pantomime might or might not have been comprehensible, but Dwight, who spoke Psychlo, knew exactly what was meant. Purposely speaking in broken Psychlo, Dwight said, "Jonnie not can come. Him have accident. Him hurt foot. He say we come. Much apology.”

Terl was a bit taken aback by the information. It upset his planning. But yes, in the recon drone pictures this afternoon he had noticed an overturned blade scraper at the site and had seen no sign of the blond-bearded Jonnie who for months had always been visible. Well, no matter. It didn't upset much. It just delayed getting rid of the females. A hurt foot wouldn't stop that animal's “psychic powers” if he touched the females ahead of time. And if aroused, they could cause mischief. No mischief that he, Terl, couldn't handle.

“We help transfer sacks to other truck,” said Dwight.

Terl had never intended that. “No,” he said, making wide explicit motions-rather hard to see in the dark-'we just swap trucks. You get it? I keep your truck. You take this truck.”

The three Scots piled out of the huge cab of the Psychlo truck they had brought and got into Terl's.

Dunneldeen took the controls. He started the motors and made a wide sweep in the street, turning back the way they had come.

Terl stood with a waiting smile upon his mouthbones.

The truck went up to the corner and turned into a side street, out of sight of Terl.

Dunneldeen hastily punched in the numbers to keep it going down the slope.

He looked sideways to make sure Dwight and the other Scot had the door open.

“Go!” he barked.

The other two dove out the door.

Dunneldeen shot his own door open and in a rolled ball hit the soft turf of the street.

He glanced back. The other two were

up and running for cover, a pair of darker blurs in the dark.

He yanked a heat-detector shield out of his belt and began to run to an alley. He made it.

The flatbed went on down the street for another hundred yards.

It exploded with a battering, violent concussion that blew in the buildings on both sides of the street.

Back at the gold-laden flatbed, Terl chuckled. He could hear the patter of pieces beginning to hit as they returned to earth for blocks around. There was a roaring sigh as some buildings collapsed. He was pleased. He would have been more pleased if the animal had been in it. He didn't have to go and look. He wouldn't have found anything anyway. The distance-fused demolition charge had been placed under the cab seats.

Terl got in the laden truck and drove to the smelter he had rigged.

He had done number five of seven alternate, possible actions in boobytrapping and sending the truck back. It had been dicey precalculating the options.

The teams in antiheat capes drew back from the surrounding buildings. They collected Dunneldeen and the other two and went off for stage two.

Would they be this fortunate next time? Dicey indeed outguessing a mad Psychlo.

The workroom in the ancient smelter had been all set up by Terl. The windows had been shuttered and the doors made snug. The only piece of equipment of the original man-setup that he was using was the huge metal cauldron in the middle of the floor, and this too he had reworked, surrounding it with Psychlo speed-heaters.

Tools, molds, and molecular sprays were all laid out.

The marking equipment was that of the morgue down at the compound.

Terl parked the flatbed in front of the unlighted door and with practically no effort at all carried in ore sacks six or eight at a time and emptied them into the cauldron.

He hid the flatbed, came in and barred the door, and checked to see that all the shutters were in place. He did not notice a newly drilled hole in one. He turned on the portable lights.

With practiced ease he darted the point of a probe around the interior to make sure there were no bugs or button cameras. Satisfied, he laid the equipment aside.

The instant it clattered to the bench, an unseen hand unfastened an ancient ventilator door and placed two button cameras in advantageous positions. The ventilator door, well oiled, was shut again. A bit of dust, dislodged in the action, drifted down across a lamp beam.

Terl looked up. Rats, he thought. Always rats in these buildings.

He turned on the speed heaters of the cauldron and the wire gold and lumps began to settle down and shrink.

Bubbles began to form. One had to be careful not to overheat gold; it went into gaseous form and much could be lost in vapors. The roof beams of this old smelter must be saturated in gold gas that had recondensed. He watched the thermometers carefully.

The yellow-orange content of the cauldron went liquid and he turned the heaters to maintain.

The molds were all laid out. They were for coffin lids ordinarily used in manufacture, for coffins were a local product, made in the shops of the compound.

Terl held a huge ladle in mittened paws and began to transfer liquid gold into the first lid mold.

Two hundred pounds of gold per coffin. Ten coffin lids. He worked fast and expertly, taking care to spill none. The hiss of the molten metal striking the molds was pleasant to his earbones.

How easy all this was! The company insisted on lead coffins. Now and then an employee died in a radiation accident on some far planet, and after some messy experiences such as coffins falling apart in transshipment or creating minor accidents with radiation, the company, fifty or sixty thousand years ago, had laid down exact rules.

Lead was a glut on the market on Psychlo. They had lots of that. They also had plenty of iron and copper and chrome. What were scarce were gold, bauxite, molybdenum, and several other metals. And what was absent, thank the evil gods, was uranium and all its family of ores. So the coffins were always made of lead, stiffened up with an alloy or two such as bismuth.