Brightsuit MacBear by L. Neil Smith

rush.’”
    Ommot’s fur drooped. “It was merely an attempt at raffish, Earthian humor, intended to raise his spirits and stiffen his moral fiber. Something must have been lost in the translation.”
    “Well, by Lysander Spooner’s long and snowy beard,” Spoonbender swore to Berdan, “I’d certainly pay you a modest quittance to get the Brightsuit back. How might that affect your spirits and your moral fiber? Nothing lavish, I’d give you to understand, but something equitable. And generally one initiates such an undertaking—only a figure of speech, of course—by assessing one’s capital assets. Briefly, and in the vernacular, you got any bread, son?”
    With reluctant fingers, Berdan opened his father’s briefcase and handed Spoonbender the plasma gun.
    “I have this.”
    “Well I’ll be a monk—” Spoonbender stopped, glanced up at Rob-Allen Mustache, and cleared his throat. “Er, a dirty bird. A genuine Model 247 B&G! A veritable captain’s sidearm! I’d have this removed, though.”
    He pointed at the butt of the pistol to a lanyard swivel, clinking and rattling as he turned the weapon over in his hands.
    “Much too noisy when stealth might be better advised.”
    “I need…” Berdan hesitated, embarrassed. “I mean, I thought maybe you might want to buy it from me for your museum or at least lend me money against it.”
    Spoonbender laid the fusion-powered pistol back in the briefcase and examined the boy over the tops of his spectacles, said nothing, but instead picked up the heavy gun belt and subjected it to scrutiny, letting the leather run through his hands. At one point he stopped, with a brief grunt of surprise.
    At long last, he spoke. “Son, I know I’m going to hate myself for this in the morning, but what you really need is a recharge and some gun-handling and shooting lessons. You’ve no need at all to sell this fabulous weapon or to borrow money from anyone.”
    Berdan moved closer. “How’s that?”
    “Observe…” Spoonbender ran a thumbnail along the top of the belt, where it parted and the lining peeled back of its own accord. Between the layers, a long row of large coins had been concealed, each over a quarter of an inch thick, at least an inch and a half in diameter, bearing the portrait of the heavy-bearded historic president every Confederate recognized, and made of solid gold.
    “…twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven! Two-ounce gold superlysanders, minted by Gary’s Bait & Trust late in the last century. Relatively rare and hardly the most convenient of denominations, but, my boy, you’re a wealthy man!”
    Berdan’s mind reeled. Just thirty seconds before, he’d been destitute and desperate. Now, he realized two things. First, he owed a great deal to the honesty of this peculiar individual, who might have bought his father’s pistol for a song and never told him about the gold. Second, MacDougall Bear hadn’t been altogether trusting of Dalmeon Geanar and had supplemented the financial arrangements he and Erissa had made through the old man for their son’s future.
    Reaching out, Berdan plucked three coins—as close to ten percent as he could get—from the pliable lining which, over the years, had molded itself to the metal disks.
    “Mr. Spoonbender, you’ve given me valuable information, and I believe I owe you—”
    Spoonbender assumed a melodramatic posture and let his eyes flash with theatrical anger. “Sirrah, you impugn my motives, insult my integrity, dishonor my ancestors, and…”
    “Sully your escutcheon?” Rob-Allen Mustache suggested.
    Spoonbender glared at the chimpanzee. “I was getting to that.”
    His expression softened as he turned back to Berdan. “Besides, kid, you need the money, and your daddy intended you to have it. Many heartfelt thanks for the kind thought, but virtue is its own punishment.”
    Berdan blinked. “Don’t you mean, ‘virtue is its own reward’?”
    Spoonbender gazed down at the gleaming