"Lots of them," Ruth said. "Kevin, have you thought this through? The True Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints has power. And a lot of members. If you're threatening it..."
"They'll have plenty of gunmen. Sure. Now think about what we could be doing to threaten that Church,"
"I did. So far I got nothing."
"Me either," Renner said. "So I'll keep poking around."
Shopping centers had never come into vogue on the Purchase. Big and little shops were scattered through the city, a sudden surprise among the houses,
Here: four huge rock slabs leaned against each other at the tops, with window glass in narrow triangles where the rock didn't meet. The boutique was a block from the Pitchfork River, in a neighborhood that had once been fashionable and was now getting to be again. Kevin Renner glanced in and saw a squarish chunk of white rock glittering with opal colors.
He walked in. Chimes sounded above his head,
He paid little attention to the cookware, lamps, rifles. Here was a row of glittering white pipes with amber bits, and one, isolated, that was fiery opal in a black matrix, Some were carved in intricate fashion: faces, animals, and one flattened tube shaped like an Imperial skip-glide fighter,
A short, muscular, balding man emerged from somewhere aft. His eyes scanned Renner in genial fashion, He said, "The pipes."
"Too right. What kind of prices do these things carry? The black one, for instance,"
"Oh, no, sir. That's a used pipe. Mine. After I close up, then it comes out of the case. It's there for display."
"Um. How long..."
The old man had it out on the counter. It had been carved into a face, a lovely woman's face. Long, wavy hair ran down the bit. "I've been smoking Giselle here for twenty-six years. But it doesn't take that long. A year, year and a half, the matrix will blacken up nicely. Longer for the larger pipes."
"Longer if I like switching pipes, too. How-"
"You'll find you smoke just the one pipe at home, sir. Opal meerschaum doesn't go stale after a few thousand puffs. Briar is what you'll take on trips."
Interesting. You took the cheaper pipes on trips, of course, and the little ones. Big pipes were more awkward but smoked better. But most of the pipes in view were pocket-size.
"Do you keep the bigger ones somewhere else?"
"No, sir, this is all we have,"
"Mmm, That big one?"
"Nine hundred crowns." The proprietor moved it to the counter. It was an animal's head, vaguely elephantine.
"That's high. I've seen better carving," Renner said,
"On opal meerschaum?"
Well, no. Is it difficult to carve?"
The old man smiled. "Not really. Local talent. It may be you'd want to buy a blank, like this." It was bigger yet, with a bowl bigger than Renner's fist and a long shank and short bit. "Take it to another world. Give it to a better carver."
"How much?"
"Thirteen fifty."
It wasn't Kevin's money. Very little of what passed through his fingers was Kevin's money. There would be a Navy pension, and he might be in Bury's will... but this would be charged to expenses. Nonetheless Kevin shook his head and said, "Wow."
"Higher on other worlds. Much higher. And the value goes up as you smoke it," The man hesitated, then said, "Twelve hundred."
"Would you go a thousand?"
"No. Look into some other stores. Come back if you change your mind."
"Rape it, Sell me that, Do you have tobacco, too?" Kevin handed over his pocket computer and waited while the proprietor verified the transfer, wrapped the pipe, handed it across. And added a tin of local tobacco, gratis.
Kevin knew what he wanted to ask next... and suddenly knew that he didn't have to. He just grinned and let silence stretch until the old man grinned back and said, "Nobody knows."
"Well, how does it come in?"
"Private fliers. Men go out and come back with the stone. Are you thinking that they could be made to talk?"
"Well..."
"There are criminal elements in Pitchfork River. They don't control the opal meerschaum and never have. My suppliers say they don't know where it comes from; they always bought it from somewhere else. I've heard it so often I'm beginning to believe it. I helped finance some geologists once, when I was younger. They never found anything. Money into a rat hive."
"Too bad."
"You won't find a shop that sells only the opal meerschaum. It's sporadic. There hasn't been a new source in twenty years, that's why it's so high. Some of us think it comes from the north. The north is more geologically active, and the fliers mostly go out in that direction."
"But he was willing to bargain," Renner told his pocket computer, set to RECORD. "Two other dealers offered me deals, too. That's three out of four. I think they're expecting a new source anytime now. That would drop the price. It would fit the cycles you noticed, slow rise in price, peak, steep drop, every twenty years or so."
He put the computer away. The taxi settled and let him out. He was in a narrow wedge of manicured forest, in Tanner Park, and a bridge was in view of the north.
Across the bridge: the spill. It wasn't quite a slum; but the houses crowded too close, and potholes and broken lightstrips weren't repaired at once, and the crime rate was high. Renner hadn't wanted to get out of a taxi here. He strolled through the streets, looking for what there was to see.
That sign: THE MAGUEY WORM, on a tall concrete building painted in garish murals. Surely that was where he had fried his brains, night before last? Not that it mattered much. Renner went in.
Midafternoon. Not much of a crowd: four at the bar, two at a big table, all men. Working men, by their look: comfortable, durable clothes. Renner ordered waterwing liqueur and settled back to soak up atmosphere.
There are those who prey on tourists. But nobody made a move. He might have been invisible. Renner unwrapped his package. Carefully he filled the bowl of the pipe with tobacco, then lit up.
Staring is a universal insult, and nobody was; but others had become aware of his existence, Renner said aloud, "The old guy was right. That's a terrific smoke." It was true.
"I wouldn't know," the bartender said, and a brawny guy two chairs down said, "Amen." He was wearing several layers of clothing, like the hunters of two nights ago. Geared for cold, wearing it all because it was the easiest way to carry it.
Renner looked disconcerted. "Oops. I should have asked-"
"Smoking's allowed in the Maguey Worm," The bartender jerked his thumb upward, at the high ceiling and slowly turning fans. "Go ahead, it'll give the place a bit of class. I'm told you should be drinking skellish with that, for the taste. Or B and B."
"Pour me a skellish, then, bubble on the side. A round for the house. You, too."
"The house thanks you," the bartender said.
"Amen," said six customers, and the house became busy.
One of the hunters raised his glass to Renner. "You were in here-what, two nights ago?"
"Wednesday," the bartender said, "We don't get a lot of offplanet trade here," His voice was friendly, but it held a question.
Renner shrugged.
The hunter came over to Renner's table. "Mind? Thanks." He sat and looked pointedly at Renner's pipe. "He sure ain't broke."
Renner grinned. "I got lucky once." The trick is to imply that anyone can get lucky. "I'm a rich man's pilot. I can play tourist when I'm on a planet, while Bury busts his ass making more money."
"You want local color, you came to the right place. I'm Ajax Boynton."
"Kevin Renner,"
"Sir Kevin," Boynton said. "Saw you on tri-vee. Hey, fellows, we got a celebrity."
Renner grinned. "Pull up a chair. Tell me tall tales." He waved to the bartender, who had politely moved out of earshot, "Another round."