eyes, who testily demanded his business.
Hautley Quicksilver, Man of Two Thousand Faces, donned
the vapid, sweatily eager persona of a Collector.
"My name is Feuvel Coradayne, the collector-perhaps
you've seen my collection on the video?-No?-Well, ha ha,
I have a modest little collection of Objects which have been
in the possession of Royalty . . . a fascinating hobby, you
understand, fascinating!" he burbled.
"Yes, yes, get on with it," the Archivist snapped. "Never
heard of you or your collection in me life: what do you
want?"
"Well-I've recently been offered a crystal goblet from
which I am told His Dignity Heveret Twelfth is believed to
have imbibed a princely beverage. Naturally, I wish to have
the Royal association confirmed, before adding it to my little
things, ha, ha."
"Naturally. Well?"
Hautley held up the enlargement; the fingerprints clearly
visible.
"These are presumably the prints of His Dignity's dexter
digits. Could check them for me? You must have His Dignity's fingerprints in your files. I'd like to be certain of their validity."
"Of all the nonsense! Oh, very well."
The gnome vanished to stage left, returning a few moments later with a silver-mounted set of fingerprints. He peered closely at them, then at the enlargement Hautley was
holding before the scanner.
"Absolutely identical; no question about it. Is that all? rd
like to get back to my quat wunkery, if you don't mind !"
Hautley was profuse in his thanks, which partly mollified
the irate mood of the withered Archivist, who promptly
faded from the picture.
So.
Heveret Twelfth would seem to be legit, if Pawel Spiro
was not. Interesting
very.
•
•
.
But enough of this pottering around with phone calls and
fingerprints. The game's afoot, and Hautley felt the old familiar itch to be about it. A swift check , confirmed that his cruiser was in readiness for instant departure. Dugan Motley,
the notorious Master-Burglar of Capitan must be located, and
the only clue to his present whereabouts lay with his lifelong
confederate, Shpern Hufferd, who dwelt at Thieves' Haven in
the Gap. Hautley decided to enship without delay, before another confounded call came in to hold his investigations up further.
And then the phone flashed again.
It was another scintillating call But this time there was a
difference. It was on an official Imperial Galactic Government frequency, as his specially installed telltale informed him. It was, in fact, a police call.
Hautley sighed, but flicked the screen into life. After all, it
could hardly be another client asking him to purloin the
Crown of Stars from the Crypts of the Cavern Kings of
Thothl
10
THE SCREEN filled with 'a voluptuous specimen of femininity.
"Senior Inquiry Specialist Banine Torsche, officially requesting instructions to land and deliver a Crown commission from the Carina Intelligence Depot Priority prime/ 4.,.
It was with difficulty that Quicksilver repressed the pungent expletive that rose unbidden to his lips. He had worked with Senior Inquiry Specialist (or S.I.S. ) Torsche on earlier
occasions and, while she was a decorative creature and quite
efficient, he found himself uncomfortable in her presence for
some inexplicable reason. Perhaps his reluctance to endure
her proximity was mere masculine modesty-the pitiful girl
was throughly smitten with his virile charm, was, in fact,
madly in love with him, an emotion he did not reciprocate.
Or perhaps it was due to professional pride, for Hautley
found her frequent caustic comments on his conduct of a
caper difficult to endure with equanimity.
Whatever the deep-rooted source of his discomfort, he did
not intend to be burdened with her in any case, as he was too
intrigued with this matter of the Crown of Thoth to even entertain the notion of another commission. He resolved to fob her off with a mild subterfuge.
"Regret inability to accept," he said coldly. "I am otherwise engaged at present."
thought I was talking to that creepy butler you keep around.''
He complied, permitting her to observe the stem set of his
visage, but repeated his refusal in obdurate terms.
"I am considering two commissions at the moment, S.I.S.
Torsche," he said, eyeing her stonily. Then, adding a lie, continued : "And have in fact accepted a retainer on one. Hence I fear my schedule is too occupied at the moment to undertake any further-"
She shaped her warm pink mouth into a tiny moue.
"Ob, aren't we hoity-toity, Hautley! But this one will interest you. The Lord Commissioner of Internal Security himself!"
"I am busy!"
A stormy look entered her undeniably lovely eyes.
"Hautley," she said between her teeth, "busy or not and re-
tainer or no, you can't refuse a commission from a member
of the Crown Cabinet! You'll just have to set your other case
aside for the nonce."
He ground his teeth sourly. She was right, of course; he
couldn't rebuff a Crown commission. Article XIX of his
Criminal Charter was quite explicit on the point. Hautley's
Charter, by the way, which licensed him as a fully accredited
brother in the Thieves' Guild, was issued by the Alphard
Chamber of Commerce. The Alphard Anarchate was, of
course, the famous star system in whose culture criminality
was fully legal and honest employment not only against the
law, but ptmishable by disembowelment with electric needles.
An interesting society, in many ways-virtually unique. The
Anarchate had been, of necessity, recognized diplomatically
by the Imperial Commonwealth a few lustra ago, when its
cooperation became tactically valuable during the explosive
Comalte Crisis.
Hautley viewed Barsine Torsche bitterly, his silvery pupils
mirroring distaste. As the immortal Sherlock of legend had
his feminine nemesis in Miss Irene Adler, so Hautley Quicksilver had his Barsine Torsche. It was a pity such a wench had to be so lucious a wisp of girlish charm-it would be
easy to loathe a withered spinster given to orthopedic footwear and health tonics. It was distinctly not easy to react in any other than a glandular manner to the voluptuous Miss
Torschel She had skin like magnolia petals and thick, silky,
fluffy hair of metallic indigo, filled with tiny witch lights. Her
lips and eyes were dyed a watermelon pink. And between the
strategically arranged interstices of her frock (a wispy thing
of floating gauze in melting opal hues) , could be glimpsed
firm curves of tender white flesh.
Well
. she had him.
•
.
"Oh, very well," be rasped harshly. "I suppose I'll have to
take a look at the commission." His thin, superbly expressive
lips creased in a sardonic, mocking grin. "Just what does the
Lord High Panjandrum want me to do?'' A short bark of dry
laughter escaped him. "Steal the jeweled Crown of Stars from
the Crypts of the Cavern Kings of Thoth, I suppose?'•
He knew the jesting reference would elude her, since she
had not been apprised of the two attempts in the past hour to
secure his services for precisely that exploit. Hence he was
unprepared for the violent reaction which met his gaze in the
phone's screen.
Her dewy eyes widened incredulously. Her perfect lips
parted in a strangled gasp of sheer amazement. Her pallid
complexion paled to an ashen hue.
"Hautley
have you been taking ESP shots, or have
.
•
.
you always been telepathic? How on earth did you know
what the Commissioner wanted?"
II
ONLY QUICKSILVER's habit of iron self-control kept his jaw
from drooping halfway to his knees. Luckily his disciplined
features retained their accustomed impassivity, even though
inwardly he blenched from the shock of astonishment. Mastering himself, he permitted one lean hand to trigger a proximity switch.
''The b-beacon's on, Barsine. I'll guide you down."
While the radiobeacon piloted the police ship through the
whirling meteor-moat of Quicksilver Castle, the lord of the
manor tossed back a stiff snootful of Old Space Ranger and
felt the knotted tension of his solar plexus dissolve as the potent beverage ricocheted off his tonsils and sloshed comfortingly into his abdomen. He had recovered his usual aplomb by the time Smeedley, the butler, ushered Barsine Torscbe
into his tower chamber.
Smeedley, nine feet tall, cadaverous and gaunt as a Zulu
assegai, bowed creakily, and said in a rusty quavering voice
of aristocratic accent: "Miss Torsche, Ser Hautley. Will there
be anything further, Ser?"
"I think not, thank you, Smeedley. Wait. Yes. A drink,
Barsine?"
She arched one eyebrow. "At nine o'clock in the morning?
Oh, well. Why not?"
He deliberated. A connoisseur of the most discerning palate, he riffted through a mental selection of appropriate beverages, finally selecting a mild little liqueur, exotic but amusing.
"Two tots of Rissoveur '32, Smeedley, I think. The glasses
to be chilled to 72 ° and the liqueur, of course, served at
blood heat. A sprig of crabgrass, fresh cut. in each glass!'
A slight, approving smile spread Smeedley's bloodless lips
In a rictus of admiration.
"At once, Ser."
The gaunt butler in formal black creaked his way out.
"'Really hitting the old rotgut these days, aren't you,
Haut?" Barsine cracked, distinctly unimpressed. "Doesn't it
hit you in the old reaction time? Are you still the fastest gun
in the Carina-Cygnus Arm, or getting trembly from the booze
you slosh up?"
A pained expression flitted across Hautley's features.
"Please
a morning
.
•
•
tot of Rissoveur is a social ritual in
the finest circles," he said. She grinned hoydenishly.
"Yeah. Where I come from, it's a straight gin! But never
mind. To business, before that vampire butler of yours comes
flapping in. I don't know how you stumbled on it, but the
Commissioner picked you to lift this Crown thing-l've got
all the poop right here in this dossier." She slapped it down
on his desk, as it happened, right beside a similar dossier
which Hautley had received only thirty-two minutes pefore
from Herveret Twe1fth.
"And, speaking of that, Haut-how the clabberdoxing
scintillation did you know what the Commissioner wanted?
You don't have an Ear planted in t�e Depot offices, do you,
or a spy-eye?"
"Of course not! It was • • .''
"Well?" she demanded curiously. He smiled coolly.
"It was elementary, Barsine. Pure deduction. I couldn't explain how we professionals do these things-sheer intuition."
Her expression was skeptical but resigned. Her pink lips
pouted and parted to ask another question, but just then
Smeedley came wobbling into the chamber on insecure and
doubtless arthritic joints, bearing two frosty drinks on an iridium salver. They toasted each other. Barsine, no epicure, tossed her drink down with a casual flip of the wrist, but
Hautley savored the delicate bouquet with first the left tonsil,
then the right, accepted four drops into his mouth to stimulate the salivary glands, then consumed the exquisite beverage with tranquil sips, meditating briefly on the Eleventh Proposition of Monsalietsin's Quantuum Philosophy.
Barsine watched ihim With a dubious look as he made .a little ritual over drinking the aromatic fiuid. She looked adorably lovely in her �e-green boat-cloak and opaline frock, standing against the crystalline pane through which the ruddy
skies of Carvel glimmered. Pity she was so insensible to the
finer things in life, Hautley mused. Of course, the poor thing
was obviously madly in love with him, and fighting it every
inch of the way, which explained her rude remarks and pretense of impatience at his aplomb. Ah, well. Her affectation of dislike added a certain piquance to their relationship, but
Hautley's keen eye clearly saw through the mask to the depth
of her quite understandable passion for him.
This, as often happens, dampened whatever degree of
ardor he might otherwise have felt for so delectable a morsel
of warmly curvaceous girlfl.esh. By temperament he was opposed to an easy conquest and was attracted by a chill rebuttal, which always implies eventual conquest after a tempestuous seige. Or, as Quicksilver phrased it in one of his wittier versicles:
Dearer to me: the prize I take,
Than gifts that other people make/
II!
HE PUT ms EMPTY GLASS down with a click on the glasstopped desk beside the two file folders.
"Unless you want to gargle some more booze, Hautley,
let's get down to business," Barsine proposed in her customary rude and abrupt manner. Hautley shot her a chill glance and riffi.ed idly through the dossier, which contained substantially the same information as did that of the Proprietor of Can opus.
"Such a discussion is fruitless," he said suavely, "for, as I
told you on the phone, I have accepted a retainer from another client."
"Hautley! Article XIX of your Charter-"
"I have,'' he said, permitting the timbre of his voice to rise
a mini-decible or two, drowning out her complaint, "a legal
and binding obligation to my client. Were I to break the contract, why, by Onolk's iridium duodenum, Barsine, I could be sued for a fortune-and lose my scintillant Charter in a twinkling. You know that!" A feigned indignation seethed in Hautley's tone.
The girl regarded him dubiously.
"When we talked on the phone,'' she said, eyeing him narrowly, "you said you were considering a commission and had accepted a retainer. Have you actually thumbprinted a contract, HautleyT'
Lying magnificently, Quicksilver acknowledged ·that he had
in fact done so.
"I didn't mention it before because I was curious to learn
why the Imperial government wants me to purloin thiswhatzit-Crown of Stars," he cleverly admitted, going on the premise that half a truth was better than none.
Her watermelon-pink lips tightened. "As to tha4 well, unless you're available for the job, I certainly can't give you classified information, you know . . . but
even if you
.
•
.
a
re legally contracted to another client, perhaps he could be
persuaded to waive your services for the moment, giving
priority to the government?"
Quicksilver's mind worked with ,its customary speed. He
could not tell . Barsine the truth, i.'e., that he suspected he
could abscond with the Neothothic cult object within a day
or two, as he did not wish to reveal to her the very interesting faot that others were in this chase for the Crown of Stars besides H.M. Government. Therefore
To cover the
•
•
•
pause, he poured her another dollop of Rissoveur 32 (even
'
though the glasses had by now heated to room temperature
and any connoisseur in the galaxy would have refused a tot
of Rissoveur improperly chilled) and snapping open the box
atop his desk, offered the grrl a smoke, which she refused.
Hautley drew on his aromatique until it ignited, and pulled
the pungent vapor deep into his lungs, deep in cogitation.
"And, of course, you'll understand I simply can't take your
word alone, Hautley," she said primly. "I'll have to see your
contract myself, in order to satisfy my superiors that you do
in point of fact have a prior and legally binding contract."
"Of course,'' he murmured, mind racing. "I have it right
here."
"How urgent is your client's job? Perhaps if an official of
Cabinet rank . • • ?"
"Oh, very urgent, very urgent indeed," Hautley said firmly.
"I doubt if my client could be persuaded by a mere government official • • . royalty himself, you know • • • ,
"Well-may I see the contract, thenT' she .persisted.
He sighed, and snapped his aromatique in twain. From the
severed unlit portion, a jet of lime-green gas erupted, wreathing Barsine's visage in its vaporous veil. The young woman collapsed loose-jointedly on the wall-to-wall carpeting of
deep-pile and priceless ormthak fur, and sprawled there for
all the worlds like a marionette whose strings have suddenly
been severed.
Hautley regarded the recumbent and deeply somnolent
Miss Barsine Torsche with detached pity. He disliked playing
such low tricks-his noble nature revolted at the necessity for
subterfuge, particularly on an agent of the Imperial government-but, quite simply, he had no choice.