Handbag and strap materialized in mid-air and thumped to the floor.
"Convinced?" Holati asked. He picked up the handbag and gave it back to her.
"It seems to work. How long will that little plasmoid last if it's left in subspace like that?"
He shrugged. "Indefinitely, probably. They're tough. We know that twenty-four hours at a stretch won't bother it in the least, so we've set that as the limit it's to stay rotated except in emergencies."
"And you—and one other person I'm not to know about, but who isn't anywhere near here—can also bring it back?"
"Yes. If we know the place from which it's been rotated. So the agreement is that—again except in absolute emergencies—it will be rotated only from one of the six points specified and known to all three of us."
Trigger nodded. She opened the container and went over to the table where the plasmoid still lay on its towel. It was dry by now. She picked it up.
"You're a lot of trouble, Repulsive!" she told it. "But these people think you must be worth it." She slipped it into the container, and it seemed to snuggle down comfortably inside. Trigger closed the handbag, lightened it to half its normal weight, slipped the strap back over her left shoulder. "And now," she inquired, "what am I to do with the stuff I usually keep in a purse?"
"You'll be in Precol uniform while you're here. We've had a special uniform made for you. Extra pockets."
Trigger sighed.