"I understand," Val Con said. "The law must be honored."

"That's the ticket," the man said, and looked back to Shan. "Interested in anything else?"

"Possibly. May we look about? We promise not to touch any weapons we may find."

"You find a weapon on the floor, you sing out," the warehouseman told him. "There ain't supposed to be any but what's in that case."

"Then my brother is safe from arrest," Shan said, smiling. He reached out and took Val Con's arm in a surprisingly firm grip.

A buzzer sounded from the rear of the warehouse, and the man turned toward it.

"Have fun," he said over his shoulder. "You break anything, you own it."

"Thank you," Shan said politely, "we'll be careful."

The man disappeared down an aisle barely wider than his shoulders. Shan released Val Con's arm and looked at him, eyebrows arched over light eyes.

"Was it the knife?" he asked, his voice low, speaking Liaden, now, rather than Terran.

" I. . .don't—" He paused, considering the jitter inside his head.

"No," he said. "But I don't know what it is."

"Do you know where it is?" Shan asked, patiently.

Val Con took a deep breath . . .

"I know that these things take time," Shan said after a moment. "However, we are exactly pressed for—"

"I know." Val Con looked about him, seeing the thin aisles overhung with boxes, cables uncoiling and drooping down like vines. "Shan, this is your time to trade. If this isn't promising—" It certainly didn't look promising . . .

"We can leave and I can carry you to the shuttle because you'll have a sick headache from not heeding your hunch," Shan finished. "That sounds like even less fun than being scolded by Father for wasting my time on port."