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scratch. Elmo beamed as he led the way to the messhall.
    Which was no longer the messhall. That scruffy nameplate had been replaced by a hand-sewn tapestry that read PARLOR & DINING ROOM in pink letters, surrounded by a floral wreath.
    “I made a few improvements while we were waiting for you,” Angelina said. “This—and the rest of the living quarters—were an ecodisaster.” I was barely aware that Kirpal was slipping back down the corridor.
    The messhall was no more. Stout farm-hardened arms, soap and water had scrubbed and cleaned so that the floors—and walls—were cleansed and shining. Colorful tablecloths abounded, pillows were on the chairs, while large holopix of prize porcuswine adorned the walls. We were quickly seated with pride at the top table and the air filled with merry cries as we knocked back the jugs of hard cider.
    Then, suddenly, a hush fell over the room and joy was replaced by angry mutters. Captain Rifuti was dragged into the room, head lolling and semiconscious, firm in the muscular grip of two stout porcuswineherds. Engineer Stramm followed them, livid with anger. He had a small, fist-sized machine in one hand, a large wrench in the other.
    “I caught this criminal messing with my engines. Got him with my spanner and called for help. He was stealing this atomic copraxilater. Cost a fortune—and the ship won’t move without it. Thought you might want to have a word with him.”
    “Oh, I do indeed!” I said, dry-washing my hands with a sadistic rustle. “I’ll take over now, thank you. If you kind people will leave us to it, you will have my full report soonest.”
    They exited. Each sneering or muttering a curse as they passed the wretched captain, now immobile in James’s firm grip.
    As the last farmer left Kirpal entered and locked the door behind him.
    “I have inspected this spacegoing slum from stem to stern,” he said warmly, nostrils flaring in anger. “A dump. The owner will have to sell it at a laughable rock-bottom price!”
    “Sit, Rifuti!” I ordered as the door clicked shut. “Meet the honorable spaceship broker Kirpal Singh who will now arrange the sale and purchase of this miserable tub at the best price—for us—that is possible.”
    “Broke my arm . . .” he complained, holding up his wounded arm and waggling his cast at us. “Hit me on the head too. Got a lawyer, gonna sue!”
    “Let’s get one thing straight,” I said, leaning over, my voice dripping venom, my breath washing him with hard-cider vapor. He cringed. As well he might. “Mention your arm again and you will be in jail for attempted swinicide, condemned, jailed, labeled a pauper by court order and have everything you own—particularly this ship—taken from you. Do I make myself clear?”
    I did. Kirpal had no trouble proceeding with the negotiations at a distant table. The diGriz family clicked glasses, sipped a bit more of the cider, while James brought Angelina up to date on family matters. We were just refilling our glasses when Kirpal joined us, happily brandishing a sheaf of papers.
    “Preliminary agreement for you to look at James.”
    They muttered, scratched out, rewrote, chuckled.
    “You’ll have to find a welcoming planet for our porcuswine friends,” Angelina said.
    “The search progresses.” Which was true. I had a search program running on my computer. Searching for a compatible planet that would take this mob. “As soon as I can, I’ll see what the program has turned up.”
    “Good. The next question is what do we do with the house while we are away? Put it in stasis store or rent it out?”
    I fought down the reflex gurgle and gape, choked out an answer.
    “But . . . we’re not going away . . . are we?” A desperate, doomed attempt at an escape.
    “Of course we are. We can’t let those sweet creatures travel alone—tended only by simple farmers—to face the troubles and tribulations of a new world. We’ll go along to make sure they are settled in. Make