Using the eye-blink code devised by Imperial Intelligence, Hautley conveyed this and other relevant warnings and information to Bansine, while carrying on, at the vocal level, with a brainless stream of bright chatter. When dinner arrived it was spooned out by a grumpy old frater who ignored Hautley's cheery greetings as pointedly as he was swift to pocket the tip. Dèjeuner by the way, was not exactly up to Hautley's accustomed level of gustatory expertise—a soppy affair of lukewarm gruel and buttermilk. No doubt healthy enough, but hardly Hautley's idea of an ideal din-din.
Night fell. Here in the underground city it might have been hard to tell, except that about seven o'clock the lights went out automatically. This was what Hautley had been waiting for. Within split seconds of the falling of abrupt darkness, Quicksilver made his move. His equipment for this caper was merely two simple articles: a self-inflating balloon dummy of approximately Hautley's bodily dimensions, which under cover of darkness he whisked from behind the portable light-baffle he had carried invisibly into the citadel, thence whisking himself out of sight behind the second of the two articles, the light-baffle itself. This was accomplished within split seconds. He presumed that even if their quarters were under infra-red surveillance during the hours of darkness, the lethargic fraters would need at least a few seconds to make the change-over from visible light surveillance to the nightsight variety. During those few precious mini-seconds, he became hidden from any form of vision behind the baffle, while the rubber dummy took his place in the cot, with the covers drawn up over its head.
At Barsine disrobed on the other side of the partition, they exchanged a few final phrases, then settled down, ostensibly, to sleep ...
In a flash the invisible Quicksilver was out of the room, having picked the lock by an ingenious system of conflicting magnetic currents. The corridors were poorly lit by a system of night lights. Hautley moved through their coiling maze without faltering. His studies of Neothothic architecture had suggested to him that the treasure vault wherein the cherished cult object was kept would be concealed most probably in a circular sub-basement directly below the main body of the cavern-city, which was the only settlement on the inhospitable little world.
He wove his agile path past formidable barriers—guards, light-traps, alarm-triggered cameras and automatic self-sighting disruptor cannons (all of which he eluded, since the light-baffle rendered him completely invisible). The usual death-traps and poised weights were child's play to avoid. Fierce watchdogs he simply strode past, having temporarily paralyzed their keen sense of smell with a potent deodorant spray. This unimpressive gamut run, he found himself within the lowest sub-basement within less then 22 minutes. This was it: the sanctum sanctorisimus of the whole shebang! Beyond that door, if his careful calculations proved correct, he should find the fabulous Crown of Stars itself! He manipulated magnetic forces, and the door swung open ...
Utterly appalled to the roots of his being, Hautley reeled in mind-numbing shock!
Of course, he had suspected something like this. Some sort of incredibly ingenious, supra-humanly clever, diabolical method by which the Crown would be protected from the touch of desecrating, light-fingered hands ...
But not for something like this!
Rising in thirty-seven tiers of stone like narrow shelves around the curved walls of this circular adytum, stood the fantasticaly valuable Crown of Stars itself—hopelessly lost somewhere amid seven hundred and seventy-six exact, precise, microscopically-detailed DUPLICATES.
Sternly repressing a cold shudder at the damnable, fiendish simplicity of it all, Hautley was ironically reminded of one of his own versicles, to wit:
Hardest of alclass="underline" to find
One needle in a mountain of its kind.
31
THE DESK CLERK at The Imperial House, Chitterling, Vassily II, was a feather-headed young Birdwoman, obviously an Aurochnoid from one of the Gryx planets. She impartially distributed a glassy, professional smile midway between Hautley Quicksilver and Barsine Torsche.
"May I render assistance, Ser and Madame?"
"Yes. The name's Quicksilver. Is Doctor Smothly in?"
"One moment please." She turned to the communicator console that winked and twinkled, sending flickers of multi-hued light across the gleaming marble floor of the hotel lobby. Addressing her attentions to a whisper-mike, she then turned another antiseptic smile in their general direction. "Room 11, 209-Q. Go right up, Ser Quacksalver, Dr. Smothly is expecting you."
"That's Quicksilver. Thanks."
The grav tube whisked them to the 11,209th floor with pneumatic efficiency. Hautley, his mahogany features and mirror-bright eyes impassive, as were, indeed, his meticulously arranged pewter-grey locks, palmed the door which slid open before him. Barsine Torsche, who had accompanied him, was now inexplicably nowhere to be seen. He stepped into the room.
"Ah, Ser Hautley!" Pawel Spiro, nervous, even flustered, approached him. "I had been expecting you to phone shortly, not to come in person, and the twenty-seven hour delay you requested is not yet transpired! May I assume that your call indicates your decision to accept my retainer on your professional, ah, services?"
"You may," Hautley said with his accustomed suavity. He viewed the little mouse of a man with quiet pride, smiling benignly. Spiro ran a plump soft hand nervously through his salmon-tinted hair and cleared his throat with that tentative little glottal noise Hautley had found so annoying a few hours earlier.
"Then, ah, you appropriate the cult object for the Museum ... ?"
Hautley's modest smile broke loose of its moorings.
"Leaned, you have retained the services of no mere fumble-fingered scugger, but of Hautley Quicksilver himself. With such as I, to think is—to act. Behold!"
With his left hand, he disengaged the light-baffle he had been unobtrusively carrying, revealing to sight—
"AH!"
Spiro's sharp, involuntary indrawal of breath was almost a cry of pain. For there, dangling from the outstretched fingers of Quicksilver's right hand was the Crown of Stars itself! Its incredible frosting of curious gems glittered and Dashed and sparkled in the indirect ceiling-illuminants. The lacy, open-scrolled goldwork gleamed with satiny highlights along the coiling arabasques of precious metal. Not only was the Crown a stunning work of the goldsmith's art, but a fascinating aura of antiquity and alienage clung about it as well. Automatically, Pawel Spiro extended one hand to grasp the cherished object. Quicksilver's smile hardened.
"Not—quite—yet, I think! First we have to settle the little matter of ..."
"The price? Of course!" Pawel gabbled. Perspiration dribbled down his pudgy features. He clawed within his jerkin for a checkbook, but Hautley's eyes caught and held his with the bright glitter of fractured ice.
"A matter of professional pride, rather than price," he purred. ''For I am unaccustomed to consummating a contractual agreement with a client hiding his true name and identity under the veil of a pseudonym!"
Spiro's reaction was delicious. His jaw dropped. His eyes goggled incredulously. Then Quicksitver dropped the bombshell.
"Yes, I mean you—Captain Rex Dangerfield!"
Silence echoed crashingly through the palatial suite. Hautley's voice turned to a smooth, ironic purr.
"I suspected, of course, as soon as I discovered you were not the true Pawel Spiro. Your 'cover' was good, very good; highly professional, even, comparable to my own disguises. Everything dovetailed—appearance, mannerisms, motive, timing. I deduced from the polished performance you could only be another professional such as I."