Musa was disappointed. Here was strange bargaining. People just didn't walk in and announce their desire for definite articles. They feigned indifference. They picked over the wares casually, disparagingly. They looked at many items, asking prices. They bargained a little, perhaps, to test the merchant. They made comments about robbery, and about the things they had seen in other merchants' booths which were so much better and so much cheaper. Slowly, and with the greatest reluctance, did the normal shopper approach the object he coveted. Then, here was this man. "_Well_," Musa told himself, "_make the most of it_." He shrugged. "Nine hundred balata," he stated definitely, matching the frank directness of this unusual shopper, and incidentally doubling his price. Lanko was examining the hilt of the sword. He snapped a fingernail against its blade. There was a musical _ping_. "You must like this bit of metal far better than I," he commented without looking up. "I only like it two hundred balata worth." Musa felt relief at this return to familiar procedure. He held up his hands in a horrified gesture. "Two hundred!" he cried. "Why, that is for the craftsman's apprentices. There is yet the master smith, and those who bring the weapon to you. No, friend, if you want this prince of swords, you must expect to pay for it. One does not--" He paused. Lanko was sheathing the weapon, his whole bearing expressing unwilling relinquishment. Musa slowed his speech. "Still," he said softly, "I am closing out my eastern stock, after all. Suppose we make it eight hundred fifty?" "Did you say two hundred fifty?" Lanko held the sheathed sword up, turning to the light to inspect the leather work. The bargaining went on. Outside, the crowds in the street thinned, as the populace started for their evening meals. The sword was inspected and re-inspected. It slid out of its sheath and back again. Finally, Musa sighed. "Well, all right. Make it five hundred, and I'll go to dinner with you." He shook his head in a nearly perfect imitation of despair. "May the wineshop do better than I did." * * * * * "Housewife, this is Watchdog. Over." The man at the workbench looked around. Then, he laid his tools aside, and picked up a small microphone. "This is Housewife," he announced. "Coming in." The worker clipped the microphone to his jacket, and crossed the room to a small panel. He threw a switch, looked briefly at a viewscreen, then snapped another switch. "Screen's down," he reported. "Come on in, Lanko." An opening appeared in the wall, to show a fleeting view of a bleak landscape. Bare rocks jutted from the ice, kept clear of snow by the shrieking wind. Extreme cold crept into the room, then a man swept in and the wall resumed its solidity behind him. He stood for an instant, glancing around, then shrugged off a light robe and started shedding equipment. "Hi, Pal," he was greeted. "How are things down Karth way?"