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connecting with plastic, some with flesh. Things snapped and broke. Troon grunted and fell.
    The woman bent over and grabbed his plastic nose. She used it to turn his head. One of Troon's eyes was broken and the other had begun to fade. "The Wendeen bitch, and the spacer you had dinner with, tell me where they're headed. Tell me and live."
    The cyborg started to pray. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me…"
    The woman spat disgustedly and turned to a man in beat-up space armor. "The cyborg wants to die. Grant his wish."
     
     
     

 
    4
     
    The sun was well over the distant mountains and still climbing when Lando left the ship's lock. His boots clanged on the metal steps. The spaceport was relatively quiet, with only an occasional ship landing or taking off, and the cool morning air felt good against his skin.
    Though not a trained engineer, Lando was more knowledgeable about his ship's systems than most pilots were, and liked to perform his own preflight maintenance checks. It was one of the many lessons his father had drummed into him from an early age.
    "Son, there are three things you should never do. Never allow someone else to tend your money, your woman, or your ship."
    Lando smiled at the memory, and started his maintenance check. He began at the bow and worked his way towards the stern. He examined the landing jacks, sensor housings, weapons blisters, access panels, repulsor jets, and hull plates, looking for signs of damage or excessive wear.
    And, outside of the intentional lube leak, and the tricked-up landing jack, everything was fine. As well it should be, given the number of credits Lando had poured into The Tink over the last year.
    Which raised an interesting question. Once Lando had delivered the fertilizer, and sold the gold, should he keep The Tink ? Or put everything into a new speedster? The more successful smugglers owned a variety of ships, using each according to need, or hiring people to make runs for them.
    His father opposed this practice, pointing out that "the bigger you get the more you feel the heat," but Lando wasn't so sure. Why settle for second- or third-best, when you could be top dog?
    Lando's thoughts were interrupted as a robo-jitney squealed to a stop near the bow of the ship, discharged a single passenger, and rolled away. It was Dr. Wendy Wendeen.
    She looked even better than she had the night before. Although her clothes were extremely practical, Lando couldn't help but notice how well she filled the khaki-colored T-shirt and matching utility pants. He smiled. Dad was right. Work can be fun.
    Lando wiped his hands on an oily rag as he walked over to greet her. "Good morning. Here, let me take that case."
    Wendy smiled bleakly as she looked up at the ship. She pointed at the port wing where it slumped towards the ground. "How long will the repairs take?"
    Lando looked at where she was pointing. "Repairs? Oh, that. Don't worry about it. A little hydraulic problem, that's all. We'll lift on schedule."
    Wendy looked doubtful but forced a smile. "If you say so."
    "I certainly do," Lando replied confidently, as he took Wendy's med kit and led her towards the lock. "The Tink's a good old bird. You'll love her."
    Lando continued his cheerful babble until they were inside the ship. Wendy stopped to look around. She was appalled by the filth and apparent lack of maintenance.
    "No offense, Citizen Lando, but your ship has seen better days."
    Warned by the use of his last name, Lando looked around. Suddenly he saw the worn fittings, the stained bulkheads, and the trash underfoot. There was no doubt about it. The ship looked like a deathtrap. He rushed to explain.
    "Don't be fooled by appearances, Doc. The Tink's in tiptop shape. When you go through customs it pays to understate the condition of your ship."
    Wendy nodded slowly. Lando had confirmed her worst fears. The attraction she'd felt the night before had been physical