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wished to say.
    He lived very much in his face, the way
Terrans do; his eyes were bright and his smile reached from the
corners all the way to his bearded chin. He laughed gently, patting
the counter, where there were now half-a-dozen pastries for her to
choose from.
    "Yes," he acknowledged. "Eleven. Not too
bad. The worst was twenty-four, but that was before I knew enough
to keep food by, and I'd been partying instead of painting."
    "But what did you do for eleven days?"
    He shook his head and the grin dissolved. He
glanced down, then looked back to her, eyes and face serious.
    "I crashed. I slept and I tried to sleep. I
spent hours counting my failures, numbering my stupidities. I
counted transports and the explosions and watched the crack in the
wall get larger with each. Every so often I knew I'd never see my
painting again, and I would know that I'd been taken and that you'd
fled the city and I would never see you again, either."
    He raised his hand before she could protest.
"And then I would pull myself together and say 'Fool! Bewitched by
beauty again!' And that way I'd recall your face and the painting,
and try to sleep, knowing you'd be here, if only I could recall the
shop name when I walked by. I nearly didn't, you know. I had to
focus on that set of ear cuffs that match yours before I was
sure."
    She nearly reached for her ear, and then she
laughed, somehow.
    "Forgive me. I am without
experience in this crashing you do. I was concerned for you, for your health,
for your art!"
    He smiled slowly. "We're both concerned for
my health then, which I'm sure will be greatly improved if I can
eat. My stomach has been growling louder than the shuttles! Please,
join me! Afterward I will need to visit the port--it would be good
if you could do me the favor of retaining my art until I return."
The smile broadened. "I promise--I will not be gone eleven days,
this time."
    The noise of the street invaded their moment
then, as two young and giggling girls entered. They stopped short,
staring at the towering, bearded figure before them.
    "Please," said Cyra to Bell. "If you will
come back here we can let my patrons look about!"
    He nodded, and moved without hesitation.
    She opened the counter tray to let him pass,
indicated a low stool for him (his knees seemed almost to touch his
ears!) and moved the pastries to the work table, where they would
both be able to reach them.
    He smiled at her as she lifted a pastry to
her lips. She felt almost giddy, as if she'd discovered some new
gemstone or precious metal.
    * * *
    DEBBIE, THE HALF-TERRAN pastry maker from
the shop four doors down was in, again, when Cyra returned from
apartment hunting. It didn't improve her mood much; the girl hardly
seemed as interested in the goods as in Bell, and her language was
sprinkled with Terran phrases Cyra could just about decipher on the
fly. Likewise the assistant office manager from the Port Transient
Shelter. Didn't they realize that--she shushed her inner voice,
nodding, Terran fashion, to Bell in his official spot behind the
trade counter. He winked at her and she sighed. Were Terrans always
so blatant?
    The conversation continued unabated: and
there on the counter were actual goods; an item she didn't
recognize, so it was for sale to the shop.
    "Now," Bell was saying carefully, "I've seen
places that these might have been in the absolute top echelon."
    The women gazed at him.
    Drawn to the story and the voice despite the
crowd, Cyra leaned in to hear.
    "Of course, that would only be if the local
priestess had purified the stone before it was cut, blessed the ore
the silver had come from, sanctified the day the day the ring was
assembled, and then prayed over the ring-giver and scried the
proper hour for giving."
    "In other corners of the universe," he went
on, "as, say, on Liad or Terra, the flaws in the stone might mark
it ordinary. If I were you, I would ask Cyra if she'll set a price,
knowing it for a nubiath'a hastily given..."
    Cyra moved