"My reason," he snarled. "Because you must, as I came here because I must. I to save my comrades from the noose, you for Gion's gold. Well, you've earned it, and triply over, woman. Where are the jewels?"
"I have no jewels," she faltered, her hand indicating her few personal belongings salvaged from the wreckage of her cabin. He brushed them aside, turned a jeering grin on her.
"You haven't opened the safe, then? By Throaze, but Gion knows his tools! Where is it?"
She stared at him. "Back there. In the purser's office, I suppose." Her voice was frankly trembling. "I haven't touched it."
"Clever. I might not have been the first." He jerked his head aft. "Ahead of me. March."
"I'm not ... dressed."
He tossed her a blanket. "Use that. Show me that safe, Recorder." Her proud title, in his bitter lips, was an epithet, and she bristled. But she obeyed.
She moved into the dimly lit corridor beyond her little suite, feeling her way along the warped and battered passage. They had not attempted to utilize this part of the vessel, although it lay within their atmospheric seals, and she had rough going. Kurland moved close behind her, hand on his gun, but she made no move to oppose him. Her one hope of safety lay in acceding to this madman's demands, trusting to her erstwhile companion, Heywood. He must be somewhere about. And Kurland did not seem to know of his existence.
The office was a broken shambles, records and papers heaped against the forward bulkhead. The massive safes had been torn bodily from the wall and lay upended in the litter. Kurland strode swiftly to the smallest, motioning her to immobility with his gun. Supplied with Gion by the proper combinations, he spun the six dials expertly and the three doors fell open. He took out a small leaden box, then four more.