And—later—they sought out Brenleer.
"I would like to ask you to do me a tremendous favor," the merchant said hesitantly, without filling any of the blanks upon the credit slip the girl had proffered. "If, instead of paying for these things, you would write upon this voucher the date and 'my fall outfit and much of my trousseau were made by Brenleer of Thrale—'?" His voice expired upon a wistful note.
"Why ... I never even thought of such a thing. Would it be quite ethical, do you think, Kim?"
"You said that he gives value for price, so I don't see why not. Lots of things they never let any of us pay for—" Then, to Brenleer, "Never thought of that angle, of what a terrific draw she would be. I suppose that this business of yours is worth fifty thousand credits more right now than it was before she cut loose here, and that it'll be worth twice that much when you have this chit unobtrusively displayed in a gold-and-platinum frame four feet square."
The man nodded. "Twice that already, but there isn't money enough upon Thrale to buy it."
"I'm not surprised," Kinnison grinned understandingly. "But you might as well give him a break, Chris. What tore it was your buying the stuff here, not admitting the fact over your signature and thumbprint."
She did so and they went out.
"Do you mean to tell me that I'm so ... so—"
"Famous? Notorious?" he helped out.
"Uh-huh. Or words to that effect." A touch of fear darkened her glorious eyes.