the smuggler’s bible

Honor

The floor of the hangar is some kind of metal under a paint job that was perhaps once a species of green but is now a gouged and oily mud-grey.

“Please understand that the fact we have allowed for an inspection of the device is not, strictly speaking, an admission of its existence.”

Honor’s heels echo loudly in the open space. “I recall several items to that effect in the paperwork,” she says.

“I know it’s Byzantine, but really this way is better for everybody involved.”

“And easier, I suppose, than telling the truth.”

“Oh, certainly. By miles and miles.”