n heaven's name is that thing?" she demanded.

"That-there's a sword. A real African native sword. Look at that
scabbard, now; made out of real crocodile-skin. A whole young crocodile,
head, feet, an' all. I tell you, Miss Lawrence, that-there item is
unique!"

"It's revolting! It's the most repulsive object that's ever been brought
into this shop, which is saying quite a lot. Colonel Rand! If you don't
have a hangover this morning, will you please come here and look at this
thing?"

Rand laid down the Merril carbine he had been examining and walked over
beside Karen. The man--whom Rand judged to be some rural free-lance
antique-prospector--extended the object of the girl's repugnance. It was
an African sword, all right, with a plain iron hilt and cross-guard. The
design looked Berber, but the workmanship was low-grade, and probably
attributable to some even more barbarous people. The scabbard was what
was really surprising, if you liked that kind of surprises. It was an
infant crocodile, rather indifferently smoke-cured; the sword simply went
in between the creature's jaws and extended the length of the body and
into the tail. Either end of a moldy-green leather thong had been
fastened to the two front paws for a shoulder-baldric. When new, Rand
thought, it must have given its wearer a really distinctive aroma, even
for Africa. He drew the blade gingerly, looked at it, and sheathed it
with caution.

"East African; Danakil, or Somali, or something like that," he commented.
"Be damn good and careful not to scratch yourself on that; if you do,
you'll need about a gallon of anti-tetanus shots."

"Y'think it might be poisoned?" the man with the dirty neck and the
month-old haircut inquired eagerly. "See, Miss Lawrence? What I told you;
a real African native sword. I got that-there from Hen Sourbaw, over at
Feltonville; his uncle, the Reverend Sourbaw, that used to preach at
Hemlock Gap Church, brung it from Africa, himself, about fifty years ago.
He used to be a missionary, in his younger days.... I can make you an
awful good price on that-there item, Miss Lawrence."

"God forbid!" she exclaimed. "All my customers are heavy drinkers; I
wouldn't want to answer for what might happen if some of them saw that
thing, suddenly."

"Oh, well.... How about that-there little amethyst bottle, then?"

"Well ... I would give you seven dollars for that," she grudged.

"Y'would? Well, it's yours, then. An' how about them-there s