Birthright

weapons overnight. I'll have them placed under heavy guard and will personally guarantee their safely.”

Durmin seemed to be debating the matter for a moment, then agreed and left with his assistants. Selimund had a late dinner, then tried to relax with a newstape. It didn't work. His thoughts kept going back to the weapons sitting in his office, and finally he yielded to the urge to examine them again. He dismissed the guard, closed the door behind them, and carefully laid the firearms on his massive desk. He decided that three of the pieces were definitely Emran, probably as many as seven of them. The others had belonged to similar species, but he was at a loss as to why all the weapons had been unearthed in a single spot. Well, finding them was Durmin's business; his was acquiring them. And acquire them he would. Durmin's estimate had been somewhat low; he mentally priced the lot at three-quarters of a million credits, and tomorrow's addition would up the value to almost twice that. He sat back and gazed lovingly at the weapons, imagining how they would look on display at his museum back on Deluros VIII. What a find! He hadn't honestly expected to accumulate this many early Democracy and late Republic hand weapons during the remainder of his life. As for the cannon, he could always replace it, and besides, he'd never cared for it that much. Hand weapons were his specialty, and this was like a magical windfall from some benevolent deity. Carefully, lovingly, he picked up another of the old-style explosive-projectile pistols and examined it again. The balance was exquisite, and the restoration job Durmin had done was unbelievable. There was absolutely no sign of wear, of corrosion in any of the moving parts. He began disassembling it, marveling at the workmanship that had gone into it. This was no showpiece, this weapon; it had been made for one purpose and one purpose only—to destroy; and it was as neat a little engine of destruction as had ever been built. He noticed that he had gotten some fingerprints on the pistol while examining it, and he opened one of his desk drawers, withdrawing a soft cloth with which to clean it. It was as he was cleaning the barrel prior to reassembling it that he saw the powder. Something was wrong. The weapon was thousands of years old, and had been cleaned at least once in the past few weeks. There shouldn't be any trace whatsoever of gunpowder. He laid the pistol down gently and stared at it. He knew enough about the restoration of ancient weaponry to be sure that the powder wasn't a residue from the cleaning or restorative process. No, while there wasn't enough to smell or taste, there was no doubt in his mind that it was gunpowder. But why? The pistol wasn't used in target ranges; one explosive bullet from its barrel would take out the side of a building the size of a governor's mansion. He signaled for the guards, and asked them to find out if there had been any armed rebellions since the Setts went to war with the Commonwealth over the ill-conceived Bureau of Alien Affairs project. The answer came back in a matter of minutes: There had been sporadic disturbances on the Canphor Twins and perhaps a dozen other worlds, but all had been put down almost instantly. He spent the next two hours tracing Durmin's movements during the past year. Durmin was a well-traveled man, but at no time had he set foot on any of the worlds that had had disturbances.