The Solid Gold Aliens

By Edward Hoornaert

(Previously published as The Midas Rush)

All Tresky Buffrum wants is a taste of adventure and freedom before resigning himself to the simple life of a shepherd. What he gets instead is a mysterious wife, determined to remain chaste, who leads him to the Midas Crater where some of the planet’s intelligent natives have been transformed into gold.

Everyone on the caravan to the crater has an ulterior motive—except Tresky, who just wants to love his wife. Spies are everywhere. An Offworlder major goes mad and shoots people . . . at random, or so it seems. A grim policewoman becomes attracted to Tresky while she struggles to capture the mad sniper.

And watching every detail of this bizarre procession across the desert is an old, mute alien. Virtrillica seeks some rationale—or even an excuse—for her people to spare humanity from a war of extinction.

Can Tresky and his odd allies defeat the interplanetary conspirators who seek to destroy the Midas Crater and its sinister yet glorious secrets? And will he find happiness with his mysterious wife?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Hoornaert
• Release date: Mar 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301402335

Edward Hoornaert

Edward Hoornaert is not only a science fiction and romance writer, he's also a certifiable Harlequin Hero, having inspired NYT best-selling author Vicki Lewis Thompson to write Mr. Valentine, which was dedicated to him. From this comes his online alter ego, "Mr. Valentine."These days, Hoornaert mostly writes science fiction—either sf romances, or sf with elements of romance. After living at 26 different addresses in his first 27 years, the rolling stone slowed in the Canadian Rockies and finally came to rest in Tucson, Arizona. Amongst other things, he has been a teacher, technical writer, and symphonic oboist. He married his high school sweetheart a week after graduation and is still in love ... which is probably why he can write romance.

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The Solid Gold Aliens 170

The Solid Gold Aliens

Edward Hoornaert

http://eahoornaert.com

Third edition

Copyright 2013, 2014 2020 by Edward Hoornaert

Originally Published as The Midas Rush

All rights reserved

This novel is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places and incidents are either

the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

DEDICATION

To Judi, my beloved wife, for reasons that would fill another book.

1 Prodigal Son

More wine? asked Tresky Buffrum.

The most beautiful woman he’d ever met didn’t answer. She glanced at the cork-sheathed wine bottle sitting on the table between them. Then she stared across the hotel room at the carved greywood bed big enough for four people. Six if they were related.

And still she didn’t answer. Tresky fidgeted.

Are you trying to get me drunk? she said at last.

No! He felt his face flame. No, I just—

Have more wine yourself.

As she refilled his cup, her long, black hair swayed, framing cheeks glowing like sunshine on fresh snow dusting a field of pinkbuds. Her bosom, rising gently with each breath, was intoxicating and delicate, unlike the mountains of flesh drooping to Gasparre women’s waists, or below. When she smiled, it was like the first gush of daylight after a long night.

Drink up, she said

You are so beautiful. More beautiful even than my prize-winning ewe.

As soon as he said it, he knew he shouldn’t have. But Thank you was all she said.

Tresky heaved a sigh, half relief she wasn’t angry and half eagerness for what would happen after the lights—real electric bulbs—went off with the click of a button. He pressed his nose against the window—real glass—and pointed at the throng in the narrow, twisty streets three stories below.

Look at all those fools. Just because somebody found some Sloths made of gold. Sloths hardly ever move, so the ones at the Midas Crater aren’t much different than living ones, right? Different color is all. Can you imagine anything sillier’n coming here all the way from the stars because of golden Sloths? He laughed.

Ebbril—that was the beauty’s name—didn’t laugh along with him. Too bad. She must have a delightful laugh. Planets, she said in her soft, thrilling voice.

Huh?

Offworlders are from planets, not stars. And the mystery is a bigger draw than the gold. No one understands how intelligent creatures like Sloths could be transformed into gold. It’s not possible. So tourists flock here like flies to dung.

Yep, he agreed, not wanting her to think he was an ignorant hick. But still, the golden thingies are Sloths, for heaven’s sake. Why would anyone care?

Offworlders, she said with a shrug, are strange.

I’ll drink to that. As he sipped, her pensive beauty drove all thoughts of Sloths and Offworlders from his head. Would you, uh, care to retire for the night now?

No.

Oh. Certainly. Tresky reminded himself to drink slowly. She was still nursing her first cup, while he was on his third. Or was it fourth? Let’s talk, then. Get to know each other.

Ebbril nodded but said nothing.

You know, Tresky said, I feel I’ve always known you, even though we met just yesterday. And now that we’re… He hesitated, fearing if he spoke the word aloud, she would slap him awake from the grandest dream he’d ever had.

Now that we’re, uh…married.

She didn’t slap him. Excellent.

Married, he repeated. Married. Uh, we should start learning about each other. Our past, our dreams, our hopes. Do you want to go first?

No.

But there isn’t much to tell about me, I’m afraid.

Have some more wine, then. It’ll help you speak more freely.

Whoa, not so full.

His sister, Taurina, had said he was so naïve he wouldn’t last three days in Offie Town before he was fleeced like an early summer ewe. She’d be contrite indeed when she saw the fine marriage he’d made on just his second day in the city. And he still had his money, too. He grinned as he patted the reassuring lump of coins cunningly hidden in a vest pocket.

I’m the only son of Josephine Buffrum, he said, the third-largest rancher on the southwestern branch of Dammas Rivulet. I suppose that isn’t impressive to someone from…where exactly are you from?

Ebbril reached across the table to touch his elbow. His skin tingled. It’s very impressive, Tresky.

I’ve always yearned for freedom and adventure. And for travel.

I like to travel, too.

You must, to be so far from…wherever you’re from.

More wine, Tresky?

But I haven’t fishinined…finished what’s in my cup.

You’d best drink up, then.

He took a sip. I wanted to see places beyond Dammas Valley. Places I discovered myself, places unknown to my mother and grandmother and great-grandmother. Make memories that’ll bring a smile to my lips when I’m old. He hiccupped then grinned. Never told anybody that before. Make any sense?

Actually, it does.

You sound surprised.

Ebbril stared toward the window, her velvety cheeks ruddy in the sunset. I guess we have more in common than I thought.

I’ll drink to that. In one swallow, he finished off his cup, and then reached for the bottle.

Let me pour, so you don’t spill wine all over the table.

And onto your creamy white gown. Then you’d have to… He giggled. Take it off.

And we don’t want that, do we?

Uh…don’t we?

No.

Tresky scratched his chin. Why not?

Because now we’re married, you’ll have to pay to replace wine-stained gowns.

True. And us Gasparres are world-renowned for our thriffy…thriftiness. But I’m sure you’ve heard that.

Of course.

And, uh… He winked, or tried to. You know what else we’re renowned for.

What?

Aw, everybody on Jones knows.

Ebbril covered his hand with hers. You haven’t kissed me yet, Tresky.

He planted both hands on the table, rose to his feet, and leaned toward her. We’re known for undying loyalty to our wives. One-woman men, foreffer. It’s in our blood. We’re romantic fools.

He belched.

What with the room spinning and Ebbril coughing because of his spiced-mutton breath, they didn’t kiss. Tresky consoled himself with a swig of wine.

You certainly can hold a lot of wine, she said.

Thish is more than usual, but yeah. Us Gasparres never get drung. Drunk, I mean.

Yes, I’ve heard that.

Really? Kinda thought it was jush local blushter. He belched again, but turned away first. Where you from, Ebbril? I can’t place your accent or your looks.

Where do you think I’m from?

By your light skin, northwest somewhere. Actually— In a fit of bashfulness he stared into his cup, which had somehow refilled itself. Without meaning any offense, I find myself won’erin’ if you’re a Pilk.

Ebbril cocked her head to one side.

Am I right? You a Pilk from the coast of the Square Sea?

What have you heard about Pilks, Tresky?

He screwed up his face, trying to squint at memories through a fog of alcohol. Not much. ’S too far away. Never met a Pilk. Never knew anyone who had.

You’re right, Tresky. I’m a Pilk.

For a moment he was speechless. Then he exploded, drumming his fists on the table and howling. I married a Pilk! I married a Pilk!

Tresky, control yourself.

He stopped drumming, but let out another howl. Glory to the Diggers, on my first day in the city I meet a Pilk and on the second day I marry her. A Pilk! Whooha! He shot to his feet to do the Shearing Dance, but a spinning head changed his mind. She frowned as though worried his noise might bring complaints. But he’d given the innkeeper a huge tip—well, at least a tip—to ensure against interruptions.

What, Ebbril demanded, have you heard about Pilks?

Only what ever’one knows.

Which is?

Oh… He giggled. You know.

She lowered her lashes then looked at him with an expression warm enough to kindle the wood of the table. Come on, Tresky lad. What have you heard?

Tresky lad. He giggled again. Boy, oh boy, am I gonna get it tonight. Whooha!

Tresky. The word was louder than her usual throaty purr.

Okay, okay. Pilks are sorta like us Gasparres, ’cept opposite. Gasparres are dreamy romantics given to sloppy poetry and staying virgins until they marry, and then staying fateful…uh, faithful forever.

Ebbril stared as though seeing him for the first time. You’re a virgin?

Well… He made himself speak slowly, so the words would behave themselves like a flock under the watchful gaze of a sheep-lizard. I suppose to a Pilk, whose people’ve raised sexual pleasure to its highest, mosht intense, mosht wildest levels—

What!

To a Pilk, I shuppose being a virgin at twenty-two is a disgrace. But here—up in Gasparre, I mean—it’s bein’ a Pilk what’s scandalous. Tresky winked at her with both eyes. But I won’t hold your ’sperience against you. Just be gentle wi’ me.

He reached for her, but bumped the bottle of wine instead. It toppled over. As a puddle formed under his nose, he giggled, imagining the wine spilling onto Ebbril’s dress and her removing it very Pilkily.

Then the room went dark, though he never heard the click of the light switch.

* * * *

Virtrillica-ank-9428-seeble faced the sunset, holding her head as still as ancient muscles allowed. When she was a child, she’d looked with disdain and laughter at broadcasts that quivered and shook. Now that she lived among the amusing humans during her final stage of life, Virtrillica prided herself on holding her gaze as still as possible, so youngsters of the People viewing her broadcasts could learn through her eyes without distraction or laughter.

Look up there, a female human said. A Sloth.

Ah, a man answered. I told you they wouldn’t look much like cats. They’re too big. And those four arms—absurd.

From footsteps and accents, Virtrillica determined that two Offworlders were on the cobbled road below the slothporch. The human owner of a restaurant had built the porch to attract the People, who in turn attracted tourists visiting Offie Town. Virtrillica rippled the spines of her crest; the movement spun a mental feeler in the Offworlders’ direction and read their minds.

They were just arrived on Jones from the world called Wisdom. He was a trader in pharmaceutical mushrooms, fleeing the death of ten children treated with impure mushrooms. She, his half-sister and mistress, felt damned by their relationship. She had just bought a souvenir knife to extract revenge while her brother/seducer slept—after one last incestuous orgy, that is.

But the knife was one of those lies-to-self unique to humans. The woman had no courage to use it. Her story held pathos but no drama.

Boring.

Say what, Mr. Sloth, the man called, may we take your picture?

He expected her to speak? This Offworlder was more ignorant than most.

Virtrillica ignored the humans. Instead, she wondered what she should broadcast tomorrow. Unmoving except for her crest, she felt around for story threads while the ignorant Offworlder clicked his camera. The man told her to hold still then laughed at his puerile joke.

Wormships filled with tourists now landed daily, rather than monthly, so Offie Town was jammed with humans. The jabbering chaos of their thoughts made Virtrillica dizzy. Most humans were boring, however, and her awareness floated over them without alighting. Only after several minutes did her crest tickle with a premonition of importance.

In a hotel room some blocks away, a pale young woman poked the shoulder of an unconscious drunk. Interesting, although Virtrillica didn’t yet know why. The man was of the Gasparre tribe and hence familiar. The woman, not.

The tickle in Virtrillica’s crest was strong. So strong that intuition tinged it with a blue, metallic-tasting aura thrilling in its vibrancy. Discovering a new story thread to amuse the People would be a remarkable feat for such an old, near-death female.

Virtrillica’s hopes soared. Tomorrow she would observe these two.

2 The Happy Louse

During the night, Virtrillica trudged laboriously to a slothporch overlooking the Happy Louse Inn, where the two lovers had gone. By dawn she was in place, with nothing to do but wait and ponder, motionless.

The People, she mused, learned many concepts from reading humans’ minds. One such concept was ‘god’—a fascinating notion because it fit the People so well. All-seeing, all-powerful. If humans knew the truth, they would surely laud the People as gods. Either that, or instigate a war of extermination.

Virtrillica didn’t feel like a god. She was half-crippled with twinges and indigestion. Every joint in her body throbbed. Perhaps gods were supposed to feel lousy, but she doubted it.

The sun rose. Some humans appeared, at first just a few, but then many. As Virtrillica waited for Tresky or Ebbril to appear, she scanned the noisy morning scene below.

Until recently, Market Square had held perhaps twenty lonely booths selling goods to locals and a scattering of tourists. Now, it was jammed with booths and people. Getting from one booth to another required determination and sharp elbows. Tempers flared. Voices rose. A man from the Corpeshi tribe climbed a lamppost and sang, hoping tourists would toss him coins, but he could scarcely be heard. A Pilk on stilts had better success, haranguing money from those who peeked up her hoop skirt. Greedy merchants and rich Offies shouted and haggled.

They polluted Virtrillica’s senses with overripe human noise and thoughts, but fifth-stagers watched and broadcast what they saw. It was their only reason for existing. And so Virtrillica twitched the fourteenth second-row spines of her crest. The familiar buzz in the shoulders of her upper arms told her she was online. In villages across the world, her vision of Market Square could now be picked up by plant/animal symbionts that ancient People had designed. The symbionts resembled bushes—but with viewable leaves. People plucked the leaves of whichever story thread caught their fancy, causing the growth of new leaves showing the same thread.

In the past, Watchers like Virtrillica had traveled from village to village, uniting the People through their broadcasts. Now, most Watchers watched humans, instead—and there were so many humans to watch now the Midas Rush had begun. On the six human planets, interest in the People-turned-to-gold was so keen it would change this world forever. All because the vainglorious People of culture 7815 had Decided to transform themselves into gold.

The appalling narcissists.

Virtrillica’s broadcast was, of course, unaffected by these thoughts. She could transmit only sight and sound.

A fly—a human import—landed on her nose. It reeked of clangclash pollen, but her viewers, if any, could neither smell it nor discern her thoughts about it. A tiresome business, this Watching.

Ignoring the fly, Virtrillica broadcast the chaotic Market Square to her People and waited with the patience of a god for Tresky Buffrum to emerge.

* * * *

Tresky made the mistake of opening his eyes. Light stabbed his brain like a firespear thorn. He groaned.

Awake, are ye?

The words filled Tresky’s ears with boiling agony. He groaned again and rolled onto his side. The speaker was a short, squat man, bald except for a fringe of kinky auburn hair with a gold streak over his ear.

Moving his head as little as possible, Tresky glanced around the dark hovel where he lay. One wall stood open to a corridor where the stranger was sweeping. The hovel was smaller than the stall for birthing sheep, back home.

Who… He swallowed a mouthful of wool and tried again. Who are you? Where am I? He ran a hand across the straw where he’d slept. Where’s Ebbril?

The bald man propped his hands atop the broom handle. One: I’m Aram Vappu.

Tresky cringed. Not so loud.

Two: This is the Happy Louse Inn. And three: Is Ebbril the pale beauty who oversaw your delivery in a wheelbarrow last night?

Tresky had no idea how he’d gotten here, so he said, She’s my bride.

Bride? Aram Vappu snorted. Let me guess, young man. Is your purse gone?

Of course not. Tresky shook his head, which was a mistake. To still its spinning, he rested it against the stone wall. You’re as pessimistic as a Godgifu.

Because I am a Godgifu, lad. Can’t you tell? Preening as though he were a nubile beauty rather than a floor sweeper, the man ran his fingers over a streak of short golden hair over his ears. And I’ll wager you’ve been sheared like one of your Gasparre sheep.

Tresky frowned. He touched his vest, hoping Vappu wouldn’t notice, but when he couldn’t feel the lump of coins, he slapped his chest frantically.

No purse. Vappu gave an exasperated sigh as though it was Tresky’s fault his dour outlook had been confirmed. At least she paid for your stay here, although you’ll need to move so I can sweep. The best you can hope of a woman is she doesn’t leave you with debts in addition to bitterness.

Tresky ran a hand through tangles in his shoulder-length hair. Ebbril wouldn’t do this to him. Wouldn’t rob him on their wedding night. Wouldn’t leave him alone in a stall.

Wouldn’t try to get him drunk?

The Godgifu waved his broom in Tresky’s direction. Come on, move those long bones of yours. He wrinkled his nose. But if you have some spare clothes in yon duffle, I suggest you change first. I’ll burn these ones for you.

But these are my best clothes.

Not any more, lad. Come on, strip.

With many groans and moans, Tresky changed and then waved a sad goodbye to the mauve shirt and black-and-purple checked pants his mother had given him as a farewell present. Leaving his duffle in the corner, where Vappu insisted it would be safe, Tresky struggled to his feet. Clutching the walls, he edged into the sawdust-floored pub area of the Happy Louse Inn then staggered toward the light.

Even before he reached the fringe of dangling ribbons covering the inn’s entrance, he smelled the street. Frying kipras mingled with the rawness of jasmine-cloth, and a dash of lamproot oil completed the nauseating mélange. Definitely not the luxurious Spaceport Hotel, where he was supposed to have spent his wedding night.

He emerged, squinting, into sunlight.

Pain exploded as a man slammed into him. When Tresky groaned, the man spun around as though insulted. Tresky backed away and bumped into a woman who hissed at him. This place was as busy as Market Square.

No, it was Market Square. There was the three-story clock tower. Beyond it stood the distant spire of the Spaceport Hotel, its concrete walls shimmering with holographic images of Sloths turned into golden statues. How had he gotten from there to here?

In a wheelbarrow, apparently.

But maybe Ebbril, beautiful Ebbril, hadn’t betrayed him. Maybe she could explain and apologize. He had to remain nearby so she could find him, just in case. Had to. No matter what.

With bleary eyes, he searched for a calm haven amidst the market’s chaos. The restaurant next door had a slothporch, a sturdy, second-story wooden ledge with stairs leading up to it. It was perfect for watching the Happy Louse Inn, except for one little thing.

Big thing, actually. Five hundred pounds, at least. A Sloth already lay on the slothporch, stretched out like a nine-foot sphinx.

No one went near a Sloth. Ever. It was a measure of Tresky’s despair that the idea meandered through his pounding skull.

As he stared up at the inscrutable creature, a girl with the olive skin and stiff black hair of the Mathen-Ghee tribe slammed into him. The collision sent him sprawling across a booth selling ribbons. When the girl dropped two kipras she’d been carrying, a dog snatched them from the dirt and gobbled the tart, six-inch insects like candy.

No! The girl looked at the dog and clenched her fists.

Tresky straightened, holding his head to keep it from falling off. The girl rounded on him, lips trembling and eyes brimming. If she hit him or even shouted at him, he’d die. Crumble into heartbroken pieces and die.

But when someone cried, Stop, thief! the girl panicked and darted into the crowd.

That did it. Even a creepy old Sloth would be better company than rude thieves.

Tresky mounted the steps to the slothporch. A few people stared. By the time he reached the top, a small crowd had gathered. Even the Sloth turned its head, ever so slowly, to look.

I must get a picture of this, said a man wearing expensive, shimmering clothes cut in an outlandish style.

While Tresky looked at the crowd, then at the Sloth, the enormity of his stupidity hit him. Every Gasparre had heard tales of teamsters who accidentally hit and injured a Sloth. The teamsters always disappeared in the night. No one knew how, but everyone knew why.

Don’t mess with Sloths. Don’t go near them. Every toddler knew that.

But watching from here might help him find Ebbril…

And so, ignoring the crowd (which grew larger every moment), he edged across the slothporch.

Flies buzzed around the Sloth’s mangy fur, but the creature didn’t smell unpleasant, just different. From up close, the only catlike thing was its posture. Its furry head was three times as wide and tall as a man’s, with a crest like an ancient Greek helmet. That monumentally unhelpful phrase from a school textbook had stayed with Tresky: ancient Greek helmet. What in the Diggers’ name was an ancient Greek? And why did they wear helmets resembling a Sloth’s crest?

The creatures had two hind legs and four arms; maybe Greeks did, too. The upper arms were for delicate work and the lower arms for running or heavy work. Not that old Sloths ever ran or worked. This one looked so old and mangy it was a wonder she could move at all.

Market Square had grown quiet. Oh, Diggers. Hundreds of people now watched his insane bravado.

That Gasparre, a Felge tribesman said, is one brave fellow.

Or a crazy one, said the matron holding his elbow.

The Buffrum farm bordered Sloth country, so Tresky had seen more Sloths than most Jonases, and not only the ancient females who ventured into human territory. They didn’t scare him…much. If he were careful enough, he could survive this stupidity…probably.

Someone in the crowd tossed a coin, as though Tresky were an entertainer. The coin clanked against a restaurant window where diners craned their heads to watch him. It fell onto the Sloth’s back. She ignored it, of course. Tresky stared at the coin with longing, but didn’t reach for it.

To watch the entrance of the Happy Louse, he’d have to sit at the far end, near the Sloth’s head. There was plenty of room for him up there, if he could get to it; he’d have to walk past it, and the huge beast filled all but a six-inch strip, with no railing.

If his head weren’t throbbing like a bulldrum, or if the slothporch had a railing, the walk would have been easy. As it was, though… Well, if he fell and broke his skull and Ebbril passed by, it would be justice for her to suffer guilt.

What would the wheezy Sloth do if he stepped on her? Probably nothing—they rarely did anything—but he didn’t want to disappear in the night. So far so good, but getting around her massive head was the hard part. He brushed her snout as he stepped past her.

Excuse me, he begged. Please, please, forgive me.

He talks to them, too, someone said.

Must be mad, a child said with a scornful laugh.

Tresky slid to a sitting position at the end of the porch, two feet from the Sloth’s head. People in the crowd rained coins on him. Some coins clattered to the ground, where children fought over them, but he caught a couple dozen. He wouldn’t starve immediately.

When neither Tresky nor Sloth did anything more of interest for half an hour, the crowd drifted away. Dangling his legs over the edge of the slothporch and squinting against the light, Tresky watched the Happy Louse.

Ebbril, Ebbril. How could you do this to me?

The Sloth made a snuffling sound, as though clearing her throat. Moving slowly to keep his head from spinning, Tresky faced the creature.

Got a cough, eh? Or are you talking to me?

The Sloth just stared at him.

I don’t feel like being stared at. How’d you like it if I stared at you?

So he did.

He’d never been this close to a Sloth before—never within ten feet of one, in truth—and he’d never paid much attention to them. They simply were, like trees and rocks and bad weather. This one, he noticed, had a distinctive scar running from her nose to her forehead. There were three oblong nostrils along the broad curve of her snout, and two wet, runny eyes. Her breath smelled minty, much nicer than the breath of old humans like his grandmother. The sloth’s catlike ears, perched high on her head, were tiny. He wondered if she didn’t hear well—and then realized it was the first time he’d ever wondered about a Sloth.

That was excessively strange, now he thought about it, but it wasn’t worth thinking about for long. With a sigh, Tresky turned toward the Happy Louse. Still no Ebbril.

He closed his eyes. Despair threatened to swallow him the way a tamilka swallowed a sheep—whole, and then licking its lips and smiling.

Oh, sweet Ebbril.

Was she laughing at his gullibility? Swilling booze bought with his money?

Ebbril…

His eyes slipped shut.

* * * *

Something hit Tresky’s leg, waking him with a start that almost pitched him off the slothporch.

You up there, a woman called.

Ebbril?

No, unfortunately. Like Ebbril, though, the woman was attractive and memorable, despite—or perhaps because of—a hard face that lent depth and determination to her femininity. Her short auburn hair had a gold streak over her ears, which he now knew meant she was a Godgifu. Her posture proclaimed pride in the uniform—black pants and blouse—that she wore. Her tan leather vest shrouded her in so much dignity it could have been a king’s robe.

Tresky wanted to be like this woman, to have so much self-respect that it showed. Instead, he cringed on the slothporch like a freak.

She drew her arm back to toss another pebble. Yes, Gasparre who consorts with Sloths, I mean you.

You’re beautiful, he blurted, still half asleep.

Her eyes widened. Then narrowed. I have questions for you.

He ran a hand over his face. The sun had moved off him, so he must have slept for hours. The Sloth still stared at him.

The beauty held up several sheets of stiff paper. She motioned to a pair of men wearing uniforms like hers. These were the Wellbeing Crew he’d been warned about. The Haybold tribes’ police showed little patience with anyone but rich Offworlders.

And he was a moneyless Jonas. Moneyless because of a woman he would have loved, loved.

I’m Pount Griganna Hannu, the woman said.

Tresky sat up straight. A pount was a high-ranking officer—not someone he wanted to notice him, in other words—yet an irreverent rhyme flashed through his head. Griganna Hannu of the Wellbeing Crew / was of the dour tribe called Godgifu.

I want you to look at some pictures. She waved a hand at her companions.

One of the male officers squatted. The other man climbed on his shoulders and took the papers from Hannu. The man on the bottom stood, raising the other man piggyback style to Tresky’s level. With a wary glance at the Sloth, the man extended the papers to Tresky.

Grab them, you fool, the man on the bottom grunted.

Tresky did. Each sheet held a portrait. But what portraits! The detail was incredible, the faces almost real. These were works of genius.

Well? asked Pount Hannu.

Tresky savored the masterpieces. These paintings are beautiful. He’d called the policewoman beautiful, too, and she probably wouldn’t like that, so he kept his voice subservient as he added, Officer, ma’am.

One of the male policemen laughed. They’re photographs, you ignorant bumpkin.

Beware, Gasparre, Pount Hannu said. I have little patience today.

Beware of