They came out upon a rough stone platform where a swift underground river glanced roughly by in rude channels, spitting foam and spray as it dashed against the stone. A flimsily built raft made from an old door and several planks tied together with rope was moored at the quay's edge, a foot or so below the floor level, and lying bound upon it, gagged, lay the girl Kurland had found in the wreckage of the Plutonian, Irene Francinet. Her white dress was already soaked as the wretched craft bobbed and swayed in the swift current.
Kurland halted, swung angrily on Gion. "What is this, Marward? You disclaimed the woman."
"So I did," placidly agreed Gion. "I told you Allen was thorough. He brought back everything."
"And ... we know too much?"
"Too much to hang," replied Gion, frankly. "Not with your friends. You're going down the river. It doesn't come out."
"She's a woman, Gion. What's her word against yours?"
"She's a Recorder, a trained Government official of the highest rank. Their word against kings and princes, my friend. I don't take chances, my friend. Step down. Allen, see that he does."
Under the sudden pressure of Heywood's weapon, there was nothing for Kurland to do but obey. He stepped down upon the raft, tipping it dangerously and soaking the Francinet woman to the hips. He squatted down, obediently.
Gion nodded. "Tie him to those hinges, Allen. They'll drift for miles before the roof slopes down and sinks the raft." There was a sudden gleam in his bulging eyes as the lighter man swung down upon the raft, but Kurland said nothing. He owed the wrecker-vulture nothing.
Roped to the worn hinges, he sat quietly watching the bulky Jovian ruler and his dapper lackey. Gion smiled.