Learned Pawel Spiro," he concluded, deliberately mispronouncing the surname.
The quivering moustachios wavered slightly; the hearty
warmth cooled a bit in eye and smile.
"Umf. Yes, yes, hm, fine man. His specialty-Thothic archeology, you know-dead end, of course. Exhausted, what?
Ebb • • • my own field, now, hrumphl The famous Monolith
Builders of Delta Carina 10334
ah
•
•
•
. • . 'l"
Hautley allowed admiring envy to tinge his features.
"Fascinating
field,
Very
Learned . . .
spectacular!
But . . . alas! . . . my superior, Senior Full Editor, the Lord
Daughtmer Rohm, is preparing the central section, dealing
with your own magnificent if not fully appreciated accomplishments in that field. Rank hath its privileges, you know, ha hal But," Quicksilver interposed smoothly, "I have a
choice of several photos of Learned Spiro, simple two-color
monodimensionals, nothing more, of course--far removed
from tho tridimensional full-spectrum center-spread Lord
Daughtmer plans for you-and I wonder if you would be
kind enough to advise us on the Spiro spots? Tell me, then,
are any of these particularly good likenesses of your underling?"
He fanned out the. prints and held them before the receiver
of the phone. The Cartouchan ran a disinterested eye over
the set.
"Ebb . • . good likenesses, all, yes, yes. Mmmf. That one
of Spiro picking his nose-very good, quite characteristic.
Hmf. But . . . ah . • . tell me, Staffwriter, the section on
myself, now, are you certain it's the center-"
"Lord Daughtmer will very shortly be contacting you for
an extended personal interview, of course, Very Learned, so
I'd best clear the extension. Oh, one more question, if I may
trouble you just a bit more. Is this Spiro at the Museum now,
or do you know where I could contact him?"
The Chancellor whooshed thoughtfully through his amazing moustachios, like a walrus coming up for air.
"On a sabbatical at present. For a month, I believe-due
back the 1 5th of Jones, or somewhere thereabouts. One of
my secretarial assistants could most probably-"
"Of course! But have you any idea where he went?"
The fat pink cheeks puffed out.
"Hrgm . . . The Hub Stars . . . yes, yes. Gesualdo V.
Probably find old Spiro pottering away in the Empress Pavalia the Amiable Memorial Librareum. Yes."
Quicksilver thanked him fulsomely, rang off, and phoned
the Librareum at the center of the galaxy. He was informed
by the robot communication-monitor that the Hub-channels
were currently busy, due probably to the coming nuptials of
the Prince-Heir to the Galactic Throne, and it would take an
hour for his call to be connected. He gave the robot his unlisted and ever-changing phone frequency and asked to be called as soon as the spaceways were clear.
Well, it was lunch time anyway. A good morning's work!
Hautley rose, stretched, and dialed a nourishing lunch on the
autochef. Nothing heavy, as the afternoon might be busy-a
light repast-brisket of sea-serpent with Arcadian mint-sauce
ru:td a bracing pot of steaming, fragrant, freshly brewed stim·
ulac. As the chef ticked away, Hautley mused that his tenuous suspicions regarding the validity of Pawel Spiro seemed ill-founded. Pending development from the Librareum, it
seemed that the little scholar was the genuine article
ah,
•
•
•
well, as he had once observed in a pithy versicle:
Beware: the "fake'' that you
Swiftly detect is very often-true/
7
APTER A BRISK LUNCH, Quicksilver skimmed swiftly through
his voluminous files, which covered in exhaustive detail every
major, and a considerable portion of minor, crimes committed or attempted within the Near Stars during the past hundred lustrums. These files were microized and computerstored in a handy desk-top file no larger than a modern plixiter. Setting the index-auditor to its fullest selectivity, he rapidly punched out the code that stood for "Crimes of extraplanetary origin/ Location : p Thoin IV, cl Derghiz, g-a Car-Cyg, quad One /First priority: attempted theft," and sat back, sipping his stimulac and savoring its robust caffein flavor while the file clittered and tinkled to itself.
Later, smoking an after lunch aromatique of his own private blend, he glanced over the reports.
They were very interesting.
No fewer than eleven attempts had been made to acquire
the coveted Crown of Stars by semi- or quasi-legal means,
varying from legitimate purchase through blackmail, extor·
tion, hypno-conditioning, political influence, economic pressure, mindwashing, psychohyastalic implementation, and such. The highest price that had been offered for honest purchase was a truly cosmonomical sum set forth by King Oswal the Pious of the Altair Regnum. The royal collection of antiquities was justly famed as the finest private museum in all of the Carina-Cygnus galactic arm; his offer had been curtly
refused So much for pseud�legal attempts on the Crown.
Thus far, exactly thirty-nine serious attempts at theft had
been perpetuated. All had been foiled, and, with one single
exception, the would-be thieves had been executed in an ingenious variety of methods by the grimly fanatic Neothothic Priesthood. This lone exception was the Master-Burglar of
Capitan, the widely notorious Dugan Motley, now in retirement.
Quicksilver took his half-emptied cup of stimulac over to
the liquor panel and illled it to the brim with creme de
schmaltz '61. Then he dialed Information/ Central and crisply
entered an eleven-word request. While the stupendous computer-directory that occupied the planetary cores of Nycon I, II and III hummed and chittered madly to itself, he drank
the stimulac royale and meditated on Neozen philosophy. All
too soon the directory informed him that no Dugan Motley,
formerly of Capitan in the Deltabelta Cluster, was listed in
any of the three galactic arms.
Listed or unlisted, Hautley must find him. Only Dugan
Motley of all the thieves to attempt seizure of the Thothic
cult object had survived the merciless punitive efforts of the
pseudo-ancestor-worshiping priests. Therefore, only Motley
could reveal in explicit detail the means and methods by
which the Crown was hidden and guarded. Motley he must
locate!
Hautley thought for a moment; then with a crisply decisive
motion he called Information/ Central again. The former
Master-Burglar of Capitan had worked with a lifelong
confederate who rejoiced in the name of Shpem Hufferd.
Motley's unavailability did not necessarily extend to his old
comrade, or so Quicksilver hoped. Happily, his hopes proved
true. Shpem Hufferd still resided at Thieves' Haven, the outlaw planet in the Gap.
Quicksilver phoned him, but there was no answer. Restlessly, he tossed down the last of his brandy-laced stimulac and went into an adjoining tower. From a glass-barred cage,
a footlong mini-dragon with canary-yellow body scales and
batwings that deepened into orange emitted a friendly jet of
steam. Freeing his pet, which swiftly scrambled to a position
a
top his right shoulder, Quicksilver paced moodily, caressing
the dragon's wrinkled snout with a forefinger.
He resolved to pay a pel:Bonal visit to Hufferd; perhaps
the confederate could be persuaded, either through a
proffered sum of munits or a clever gambit, into revealing the
current whereabouts of his former partner. Anyway, Hautley's mercurial moods chafed .at extended inaction.
Before he could leave, however, the signal flashed above
the wall phone. An incoming call • • •
8
IT WAS ANOTHER potential client, a tall, saturnine aristocrat
who abruptly waved off Quicksilver's protests that he was at
the moment contemplating undertaking a commission. The
caller's counter argument was persuasively eloquent. In a
gruff, clipped voice he flatly offered one million munits if
Quicksilver would set his previous commitment aside and undertake the new assignment. Before so dazzling an argument, Hautley's preoccupation with Pawel Spiro evaporated.
The least he could do was to listen to what the man had to
say-after all, Quicksilver was a businessman.
Philosophically, he switched on the radiobeacon and
guided his second visitor of the day down to the surface of
the small planetoid
Client-prospect #2 introduced himself as The Royal Heveret Twelfth, Proprietor of Canopus. He was quite a dandy, despite his frosty manner-slim as a dancing master, clad in
a tight fawn velvet with a great emerald trembling like a drop
of liquid green fire in his left earlobe, he had carmine hair
arranged in exquisite locks that foamed over his high peaked
collar of snowcat fur. His eyes, dyed vermillion, flashed with
supercilious, sardonic superiority. In a curt, cold voice, His
Dignity came to the point with disconcerting directness :
''This is Our certified check for one million monetary
units, drawn on the Royal Bank of Orion. Fetch for Us the
antique, jeweled crown of the extinct Cavern Kings of the
planet Thoth. It is the fourth planet of the star Thoin IV in
the Derghiz Cluster in the First Quadrant of the Carina-Cyg-
nus Arm. The Crown is to be delivered to a post office box
registered under the pseudonym of H. Veret in the Chantilly
Port Mail Center. When you have secured and delivered the
Crown, place an entry in the personal columns of the Chantilly Port News-Sentinel, saying : 'Done. Q' "
Quicksilver's face remained impassive, but his mind reeled.
Two clients in one morning after the same thing!
"I-" he attempted. But the Royal Heveret was not quite
finished. Raising a peremptory hand, he continued:
"As soon as your entry appears, the Royal Bank will be
instructed to pass the check, and Our connection will be severed. Is this clear?"
"Quite, but-"
A slim hand was extended, holding a folder.
"Here is a complete dossier of information relevant to the
Crown of Thoth, together with the key to the post office box.
Time is of the-"
The small canary-colored dragon clinging to the broad
shelf of Quicksilver's right shoulder hissed furiously like a
berserk teakettle as the hand neared, and gold eyes sparked
viciously. Heveret Twelfth withdrew the hand hastily, and
gingerly dropped the file folder on an adjacent comer of
Quicksilver's desk.
Hautley accepted the folder and leafed through it noncommittally, while His Dignity lifted a pounce box to his nostrils and sniffed delicately, regarding the small dragon with a sour
eye. Then the Proprietor of Canopus cleared his throat distinctly, and glanced at his ring-watch.
"Come, come, my man! Let Us print the contract; you
must be about the business."
Hautley shufHed the documents together and lay them
down. Leaning back, he regarded the Royal Heveret with a
polite but quizzical glance.
"I was not aware that Your Dignity was given to the
hobby of collecting rare antiquities," he commented.
Heveret Twelfth smiled thinly, baring a brace of incisors
inset with rose-diamond chips after the current mode.
"Our motives cannot be of any conceivable effect on this
business arrangement, hence are irrelevant. Come, come, Ser
Hautley, let us thumbprint your contract and be off. As the
quaint folk-phrase of Our native realm has it: 'Tym-zah
waystio.' "
Hautley demurred. "I shall need leisure to check over the
data in this dossier. Your Dignity will understand that my
professional reputation, humble though it be, rests upon each
successful case. I dare not risk accepting a contract which
upon mature consideration I discover to be beyond my
meagre abilities."
But Heveret Twelfth was not to be put off.
"Our time is precious, Ser Hautley, and mattel'§..of State
press. We must conclude this matter now. There is no question of the fee--two million, if you need monetary stimulus to reach a swift decision!"
Behind his imperturbable mask of suave impassivity, Hautley boggled at the incredible stipend thus dangled before him. But it was his curiosity that was aroused, not his cupidity. What was there about the reptilian artifact that had triggered this stampede to his door? He was determined to find out He was equally determined to accept no contract he
might later regret. Our Quicksilver possessed in the extreme,
concludes, a superb sense of professional ethics.
Thus Hautley persisted in his firm equivocation. With tact
unruffied and demeanor serene, he remained adamant to His
Dignity's impatient efforts at persuasion, firmly declining to
commit his services prior to a depth check of the relevant
factors. Suavely extracting a phone number from the reluctant blue blood, he ushered his royal visitor out, promising to deliver a definite answer within twenty-seven hours.
As client-prospect #2 ascended vertically into the superstratosphere, Hautley shook his head in numb bafflement.
What in the Name of Arnam's Sacred Beard was going on?
Intenser bafHements awaited in near futurity, though
Quicksilver knew it not.
9
No SOONER had the supercilious monarch exited, and Hautley
returned to his tower chamber �or an intensive perusal of the
Thothian dossier, than his phone flashed. It was the followup : his call to the Librareu.m was now ready to be put through : would Ser Hautley accept it? Ser Hautley would.
Quicksilver spoke to a prim woman of indeterminate but
well-preserved age, modestly attired in a black spray gown
with opal-dusted sternum and exquisitely coifled hair of a
delicate selection of thirteen contrasting shades of off-grey.
Passing himself off as the Very Reverent Abdul Nagoob
von Kessel, a peripatetic Pseudobaptist evangelist checking
the moral behavior of his recent converts, Quicksilver deftly
inquired of the recent comings and goings of Pawel Spiro.
Modestly shielding her opal-dusted sternum with a sheaf of
overdue notices, in deference to a Man of the Cloth, the Librarian was able to give him some very interesting information.
'The Learned has been in residence at the Librareum for
some months now, Padre, engaged in research towards a monograph on, ahem, nuptial customs of the Y'h
arqakukluk Ill Owl People," she replied with a reverent flutter of her lashless lids.
"Bless you, sister," Hautley said benignly. "You are positive, then, that Brother Pawel has not gone off planet? The opportunities for moral transgression in so sophisticated a region of the galaxy as The Hub . • . fleshpots, scarlet women, the loathsome juice of the grape, even (Allah, Buddha and
Father Sigmund preserve usl )-spiritous beverages of fermented liquors-!"
The Librarian-General rolled up her eyes in an extremity
of horror. "Oh, no, Father-! mean, yes, Father, I am quite
certain. I see the Learned every day; I am convinced he has
not left the planet for an instant.''
Hautley expressed his . appreciation in a lengthy blessing on
the Librarian-General's ka which, had it been effective,
should have spared her some millenia in Purgatory, concluding with an extempore rendition of appropriate texts from The Nine Gospels which added measurably to his· monthly
phone bill He rang off and sat back, stroking with an idle
fore-finger, the little canary-yellow dragon which clung cozily
to his left shoulder.
So . • • Pawel Spiro, it would seem, was a client of that
rare variety called phonus-balonus. A fake. But a good one;
very good; in fact, professional class
. odd
•
•
•
•
•
And what about Heveret Twelfth? Was His Dignity also
spurious, or the genuine article? Without delay, Hautley set
about checking the bona fides of the Canopan monarch.
Directly in front of the door was a rather slippery place
where the parquet flooring was polished with a frictionless
compound. Part of the door's archway was a sleek panel of
glossy chrome set at the average hand-height. To avoid falling on his imperial snoot, the Proprietor of Canopus had to grab this polished panel. Hautley snapped a photogram and
ran it through the enlarger: sure enough, prints of the right
hand, and beauties they were, clear as crystal.
Then he ca1led the Royal Archives at Phungalumdum on
Canopus II, securing no less elevated a personage than the
Third Assistant Under-Archivist: a shriveled and vituperous
gnome with a silvery spike of beard and snapping purple