Never before had Gromov met such a gargantuan obelisk. Overgrown in every possible dimension, the man called Our Lord sat in a large armchair of special construction. Rather than a solid matter, he had the liquidity of a cat as the enormous gulfs of fat soaked in cavities, giving him a square-shaped constitution of a brick.

It was hard to tell what sort of clothes the man was wearing, but if Gromov had to guess, he would take the bag of blue and grey stripes for a pajama, perhaps several of them sawn together, yet still unable to embrace the true size of the giant.

A complete albino, the body hair of that man seemed non-existent or unrecognizable. So at first impression, Gromov thought Our Lord was bald - and blind at that as the eyelids located in the area where a normal human would have organs of sight appeared glued together.

"Welcome to my humble office, Captain Gromov."

Out of the hole below something with a remote resemblance to a nose, the voice came out and reverberated throughout the room.

"Thank you, sir."

Stoned to the core, Gromov kept standing by the closed door, without a sign of moving in.

It was not only the whale that shocked him. There was art on the wall, too. From corner to a corner, the oil painting in distinct Luciano's style dominated the view of the flabbergasted visitor.

Watching the bucolic scene, splattered with pink and azure strokes, Gromov judged that the masterpiece had to be inspired by Boticelli on drugs.

In the epicenter of the pastel eruption, Our Lord was depicted in his naked glory, comfortably laid on a fluffy cloud, chastely covering the treasures of his crotch with his left hand while his right hand was picking up grapes out of a silver plate.

The silver plate and the rest of the feast were served by pinkish nude angels of round shapes that bordered with unhealthy obesity. This time, Luciano decided to adjust female torsos to the oversized protagonist, so a random passerby would only wonder how exactly those angels were supposed to fly, being equipped with tiny and inadequate feathery wings.

"Luciano did paint this one!"

Our Lord pleased by Gromov's astonishment announced the name as if mentioning an artist, broadly recognized by art historians all over the Solar System.

"I was posing ten days naked," Our Lord added proudly. "What do you think of it, Captain Gromov."

"It is mo-monumental!"

The first moment Gromov was tempted to say monstrous. Having been dumped by Samara again, he felt aggrieved and wanted to hurt someone. On the other side, after being exposed for months to Luciano's art, Gromov developed a certain curiosity for Luciano's artistic means.

As Simone had correctly observed, Luciano was talented for an amateur. But since he mostly used Doll for a reference, the question was how he had dealt with the inflated limbs of the heavy-weighted angels. The answer was that Luciano had not.

In the detailed inspection, those angels metamorphosed into stuffy pink balloons with white protrusions on their backs, so rather than Rubensian women they evoked clumsy flying do-nuts.

"Did it pique your interest, Captain Gromov? Trust me I see this reaction often."

"Take care of it," Gromov replied. "One day Luciano may become famous."

Neglecting the touch of mockery in the response, Our Lord nodded majestically. "So kind of you. Luciano was apprehensive about his painting skills. He regretted he'd never received formal education."

"It doesn't matter. Luciano has what it takes to become famous."

As Gromov did not appreciate contemporary art, he meant that Luciano was mediocre enough to be sought after by any modern galleries. "But enough of our little cultural detour," he said instead. "How should I address you, sir? I'm a bit reluctant to call you Our Lord."

The whale's lips moved upwards.

"Why not?" it objected. "My name's is Peter Saint. Nomen Omen. As a keeper of Pearly Gates, I'm predestined to be called this way."

"Why not," agreed Gromov, "except for the fact that Christians don't call Saint Peter Their Lord. This would promote a mere apostle into god-ranks. But more importantly, your name isn't Peter Saint. Did you forget you'd been baptized Peter Swashbuckler?"

It was hard to tell whether the revelation shocked the man as he stayed motionless. But then he spoke up in a less warm voice: "Where did you learn the name, Captain Gromov?"

Gromov watched him silently.

"Your criminal record is nothing short of impressive," he spoke up after the silence became uncomfortable. "A convicted felon, a prison escapee with two murder attempts, then a mercenary, and at last, not the least an ex-Free Trader. Bravo!"

"I was never a member of Free Traders," declared Peter Swashbuckler, not bothering to deny the rest. "Space Forces should update their files. And there were no murder attempts. I never intended to kill those policemen."

Unfortunately for Peter Swashbuckler, it was not Space Forces who dug out his personal history. To prepare for the meeting, Gromov helped Doll to break into Paradise's intranet and local files.

"Oh, I beg your pardon. Of course, you've not been part of Free Traders. You only keep supplying them with goods. Nothing personal. May I know why they want to attack your Paradise out of the blue? Aren't they your business partners?"

After a while, Peter Swashbuckler heaved a sigh. "Before we continue, may I know what is the position of Space Forces in this situation?"

"This has nothing to do with Space Forces."

"Of course, how silly of me!" grunted Peter Swashbuckler. "I forgot you were a mere space merchant on a business trip, Captain Gromov. A dishonored hero on his new mission."

"Exactly, it's like you said, Mr. Saint. Only, my natural modesty disagrees with the dishonored-hero speech figure. Sounds too melodramatic to my taste. I was neither dishonored nor was I a hero."

When Gromov called him by his new alias, Peter Swashbuckler relaxed. Despite his looks, he was a clever man, more involved in scamming than robbing. The subtle hint was enough for him to realize that Gromov did not come to discuss the past.

"If you have nothing to do with Space Forces," he got some paper out of the desk, "how can you explain this phenomenon?"

"What phenomenon?"

"The data from Ali Ghazali's sensors. We are very concerned about the disturbances that jammed his electronics here. You denied there was a Q-Field generator on your ship and Peter Hawking confirmed as much. But the question of jamming remains... Was it a mere coincidence, Captain Gromov?"

Gromov tossed the paper away. "Do I need to explain a demonstration that my ship is off-limits for you? Don't take me wrong, Mr. Saint. Hawk, Ali, and the rest of your personnel may be honest or, at least, acceptable folks, but not you and a few of your confidants."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your partnership with Free Traders, of course. Not the criminal offense of the past, but the undeniable fact that you've been supplying them with spare parts and provisions for years."

"So what if I've been?" retorted Swashbuckler angrily. "Rusty Asteroids isn't a place one can do virtue signaling. Free Traders don't forget those who insulted them. When Space Forces hunted them like dogs, they needed shelter. Habitats that refused to hide them were warned the revenge will come."

"And you refused?"

"Back then, no one would believe that those bastards would revive. But Free Traders have risen from the ashes. Several bases that openly refused to comply have been already pillaged and no one knows who is next on the list. Would you blame me for not stirring the hornet's nest?"

"And I ask again. Did you refuse to help Free Traders?"

"I like to play it safe," admitted Swashbuckler. "Our Paradise possesses some remote and mostly abandoned stations. My confidants, as you called them, hide the women and children there."

Gromov raised his eyebrows and Swashbuckler noticed it. "Surprised that even Free Traders have children and women?" he asked. "Even rascals of their caliber are very fond of their breeding grounds. They do not kill everyone. Before they do so, they run DNA tests on young women and children. Whoever passes the tests becomes a slave of Free Traders. Well, not necessarily a slave. There are some rituals and things of such sorts, and I can tell you that the ones in our custody were properly brainwashed. They would remain even if they had an opportunity to leave."

"Did you ask them to do so?"

"Yes, I did, Captain Gromov. My gravest mistake. Since I knew of their origins, I told them they were not prisoners any longer."

"Did they leave?"

"None. Children spat on me and one old hag called me the Devil sent to take their free will. Liberty or death! Liberty or death! Liberty or death! They kept chanting it over and over again after I turned on my heel. Fanatics!"

"But you helped them, Mr. Saint, didn't you? Why would they target you afterward."

"Why? The plants of foul temptation must be rooted out. The nice old lady told me so while chewing my bread, not ashamed in the slightest. After having offered the free pass out of there, I've become a plant of temptation! A target! I thought that making our base useful for them would stop the revenge."