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embarrassed when they come to me, ain’t they?”  He had another laugh and another swig.
    “A little,” Corey admitted.
    “Don’t be, kid.”  He leaned close.  “Sure, the little business I run is technically illegal.  But you and I both know it shouldn’t be.”
    Mr. Love’s “business” was selling movies—bootlegged movies from Earth.  They had to be bootlegged because they’d been banned by the Commission for the Monitoring of Visual and Literary Arts, one of Anterra’s most despised government groups.  The list of banned films was about as long as the dictionary, and growing all the time.  The CMVLA had the legal right to ban “any film containing messages or agendas threatening to the societal structure of Anterra,” which could mean just about anything.
    “Sad times we live in,” Mr. Love said, putting on his best distraught face, “when guys like me gotta stay underground.  This town was supposed to be so great.  Next thing you know the whole place is overrun with thugs shootin’ each other, robbin’ people blind, and the cops don’t say boo.  But here’s me, gotta keep everything on the down-low for doin’ somethin’ that don’t cause nobody no harm.”
    “So why do you do it?”
    Mr. Love responded with a very well-rehearsed speech about artistic freedom, the right of self-expression, blah blah blah.  He sounded like one of the people that were always protesting out in front of the CMVLA offices.  Mr. Love didn’t strike Corey as a guy who thought much about artistic expression; he struck him more as a guy who just wanted to make some dough.  But Corey wasn’t saying so.
    Mr. Love drained his beer and rudely beckoned a waitress for another before he continued his tirade.  “Anterra’s a weird place, you know, kid?  I mean, it’s not like we’re known for being the most morally upstanding city.  Drugs that’s illegal in most Earth-side nations is perfectly legal up here.  And we’re selling alcohol to teenagers now.  So what’s with me havin’ to keep out o’ sight sellin’ a few Hollywood classics?”
    Corey didn’t answer.  “So did you bring the goods, or what?”
    “Not here,” said Mr. Love.  “Not now.”  He slid a business card across the table to Corey.  It said, “Mr. Love’s House of Rare Videos.  Open every night 12 a.m. to 4 a.m.”
    There was no phone number; just an address.
    Corey took the card.  “I used to have a guy in the West Rim that I went to.  He got caught.  The next guy I found got caught before we could even do any business.  How do I know you won’t get caught too?”
    Mr. Love raised an eyebrow.  “You’ll just have to trust me, right?”  He drained his second beer and stood to leave.  “We’re done here, Fredericks.  Got three other potential clients to see before I open up shop tonight.  Come by if you wanna.”
    “I’ll be there,” said Corey.
    He smiled to himself after Mr. Love had walked away.
     
    A few minutes later Corey was driving a sleek black ground car along the eastern shore of Lake Anterra.  The massive power plant dominated the scenery here.  The rest of the district was lined with blocky warehouses.  The night was calm.  The mirror-smooth water reflected the towers of downtown on the other side of the lake to his left.  To his right, the glow of Earth shone in the sky between the buildings.  It had been two hours since the sun set below Anterra’s western edge.  But it still shone on most of the Home Planet visible from MS9.
    Corey turned down a side street, then into an alcove behind an abandoned warehouse.  Over a high garage door the words PETE’S FISH CANNERY were fading on the concrete wall.  A button on the car’s console opened the garage.  He drove into the warehouse.
    It was a vast room, empty except for piles of ancient forgotten crates and pallets.  A few faintly-glowing lights hung from long wires in the ceiling, automatically switched on via motion