It was hot and sweaty and dirty. This was where the lower and middle classes shopped. We parked our aircar in a heavily-fortified lot and made a token down-payment to a gang of savage-looking punks to keep an eye on it.
"They're selling SG's over there!" I exclaimed. The SG was a good weapon. We had not expected it to be available on the open market.
"Well, let's get some!" Dragon replied. "But first we find the Body Shop."
"All right." I stopped and pulled a ten-C credmark out of my wallet and held it up in front of me. A scruffy punk materialized out of nowhere and landed directly in front of me, raising a little cloud of dust. He gave me an elaborate salute.
"Sir!" he shouted. "We are at its service!"
I smiled. These people were fast. "We want the Body Shop," I said. "Please show us."
He gave us a crazy grin, and spun around on his heels. "Follow us!"
###
The Body Shop was a world in itself, a vast razorwire cage hidden behind glowing phospho sheets of thick synsilk tenting. It was shaded and cool and clean inside, with carpeted floors. Uniformed guards with vacguns watched us passively as we entered.
"Welcome to the Body Shop." He was a slender young male, dark brown skin, slick wet hair, bright sparkling eyes, dressed in an elegant synsie suit. He was smiling obsequiously. "We are Armil Samot. Please…let us offer refreshments." He motioned off to one side. A wide low table was set for tea, surrounded by pillow seats. Little lovelies appeared out of the shadows bearing trays of hot tea and delicacies. They wore golden slave necklaces, I noticed.
We went with the program, and I touched the tea to my lips but did not swallow any. Armil Samot was as smooth as oil. A real slimer. I wondered how he would look with the top of his head removed.
"How may we help?" Samot asked. "We have a very wide range of talents and prices, everything from household helpers and agricultural workers to topline sexmates and professional fighters. And if we don't have it in stock, we can locate it very quickly."
I put down my tea. "This is the Lady Arbell," I said. "The Lady wishes to speak with the Sandman."
"The Sandman!" The slimer seemed surprised, but recovered quickly. "May we ask the subject to be discussed?"
I looked over to Priestess. She shook her head.
"We must speak with the Sandman directly," I said.
He hesitated a moment, then picked up a comset and rattled off a brief message in an alien tongue. He listened to the response, then put the set away, smiling. "The Sandman will be here shortly. Please…take a look at some of our units while we are waiting." He raised his hands and clapped once. A procession of enchanting girls appeared from a slit in one cloth wall, lovely little things, soft eyes and long hair and slender, supple bodies. They strolled along a little catwalk that ran right through the center of our table, pirouetting like models showing off a new line of clothes. But these girls were all clothed in short, filmy tunics of gossamer silk. They all had golden slave necklaces at their throats and each girl had a number on a little plastic disk pinned to her tunic. They were followed by several youths with oiled skin, handsome and well-muscled, naked but for their jox, also wearing slave necklaces and numbers.
"Sexmates," the slimer was saying. "They are well-trained. Our units are all graduates of the Home Arts Institute of Lucos. And our prices are very competitive."
"How competitive?" Dragon asked. "For one of the girls, for example. How much?"
"Well, which one interests us?" The slimer brightened and stopped the parade, and brought the girls back. They stood behind him patiently, eyes downcast. Precious little dolls. If this slaver knew we were Legion, he would probably shit in his perfectly tailored pants. The Legion's role was to kill slavers, without hesitation or mercy. I was aching to put a laser burst right between his bright, beady eyes. It hurt, sitting there doing nothing while those little, helpless sweeties were standing there, completely in his power.
"We just want an idea of the general price range," Dragon responded. "For example, Number Sixty-five."
The slimer made a quick gesture and Number 65 glided down the catwalk onto the table and pirouetted slowly above us. She was a genuine heart-stopper, slender and willowy, long silky brown hair and exquisite tanned legs and generous breasts and big dark eyes and soft full lips. Dragon had good taste in women.
"An excellent choice," the slimer said. "Quite frankly, Number Sixty-five is one of our more expensive units. It is not truly representative of our mid-line prices. Besides its obvious beauty, it is a medically-certified virgin. There is a big demand for virgins and this drives the price up. Please, look over its stats." He handed over a glossy brochure to Eight, then nodded to the girl.
She touched the tunic and it fell away, leaving her completely nude. She pirouetted once again. She was truly lovely. She was doing things to me, already. I wondered who would end up owning her.
"And the price?" Dragon asked again.
"For a virgin of such exquisite beauty," the slimer said, "We would have to ask one hundred thousand credits, to recover our costs and allow us a modest profit. However as I explained, this one is a special case. The others are less dear."
"Security," Priestess cut in abruptly. "Close your mouth."
"Yes, Lady," Dragon responded meekly.
"Cit Samot," Priestess said, "it may tell the girl to put its clothes back on. We are not interested in purchasing this unit. Our employee has been amusing itself. We have serious business with the Sandman, and it does not concern Number Sixty-five."
"Of course, Lady." The slimer nodded to the slave girl. She picked up her tunic and disappeared. Dragon and I watched her walk away with regret. We were pigs, I suppose. Priestess had every right to be upset.
###
The Sandman was a tall, wiry Outworlder with suntanned skin and long blond hair tied behind his head with a black ribbon. He wore stylish, dead-black sungoggles and a weather-burnt field coat and sandboots that had been worn white. He moved with authority, and the slimer faded away when he approached. He had a vac gun at his waist. As he accepted a tea from a slavegirl, his eyes were invisible behind the goggles, but I knew he was checking us out. He took a sip, and slowly put down the cup.
"Lady Arbell. We are Sandman. How may we help?"
Nine took a copy of Whit's master file from the Reformary and passed it across the table to the Sandman. He picked it up and examined it carefully. How could he see through those goggles?
"We believe Cit recently purchased this criminal from Tombara Reformary," Priestess said quietly. "We wish to purchase it from Cit. Our reasons are not important. But we will guarantee a higher price than anyone else."
"If we had known this girl had so many friends," the Sandman said with a faint grin, "we would have held onto it. The people from the Reformary were here only an hour ago. Cit's running a little late."
Priestess looked my way. We knew the warden would be doing his damndest to get Whit back, and it probably didn't matter much whether he got to her before we did. The Mask was going to get his money either way, for we needed his help to get off-planet.
"Where is she?" Priestess asked.
The Sandman glanced at his wristcom. "They should be pulling into Chapezi in an hour or two. We sent her on the overland route by groundcar with a shipment for the frontier. It's to be sold in the market at Chapezi. Highest bidder will get it. We've already alerted our people in Chapezi to the Reformary's interest. Shall we mention Cit as well?"
"Please do so. We'll be there as soon as we can get there. How far is Chapezi?"
"What is our mode of transportation, Lady?"
"Aircar."
"It should not take longer than four hours by aircar. Unfortunately, the Reformary people are also going by aircar."