"Before we can print a contract, I must investigate the means by which the Crown is guarded and watched. You will appreciate, I sure, that I owe it to my reputation as a craftsman not to bungle a job. I must therefore ascertain the probable degree of success I may enjoy if I undertake your interesting assignment."
"But, ah, we feel that time is of the—" Pawel began, tentatively.
"Quite," Hautley snapped. "You will hear from me within twenty-seven hours, I promise you!"
6
WITHOUT FURTHER discussion or ceremony, Quicksilver curtly ushered his flustered client out and saw to it that the radiobeacon guided his modest little runabout back through the protective "moat" of spinning planetoids.
He then repaired with alacrity to the chamber wherein this lengthy interview had taken place, and adroitly detached the minicamera from its hiding place among the ornamental moldings on a tall display case bearing his brilliant collection of Diophrasian crystalloid formicles, arranged as to the thirty-one possible permutations of hexagonal matrices.
Retiring to an adjoining laboratory, he swiftly ran the reel of photo-sensitive tape through a Mark XII developmat and selected nine of the finer prints from the series.
He returned to his chamber and dialed the offices of the Boghazy-the-Great Memorial Museum at Tavory on Alcazar III in the Biallo-Perseids.
Securinng the appropriate extension, Quicksilver glibly talked his way up the chain-of-seniority until he reached the Chancellor of the Department of Derghiz Archeology—Pawel Spiro's ultimate superior—that is, if the pallid, mousy little man Quicksilver had interviewed was, indeed, whom he had claimed to be!
In a moment, the phone's screen was filled with the skeet-paneled interior of a stately office, showing a desk cluttered with papers and scholarly journals in neat reel boxes, and a litter of photonic implements, stereo copies of artifacts, and other materials. It shortly filled with the likeness of the Chancellor, a portly, pink-faced Cartouchan with truly enormous ultra-marine moustachios (obviously the result of decades of loving cultivation). Barely visible amidst this wealth of hirsute adornment, a snapping green eye curtly inspected him. The Chancellor impatiently demanded his business.
No more glib tongue nor facile set of wits existed among the Near Stars, than those of Hautley Quicksilver—
"Very Learned, I am hight Thomas Jefferson Pouchier, Senior Staffwriter for Star magazine. In the very near future, we contemplate devoting considerable space to a featured article on the very brilliant work your Department is performing in the inadequately recognized field of Carina-Cygnus prehistory and neoculture.”
The fat pink face beamed. The curtness evaporated like hydrogen ice in a nuclear oven, and was replaced by the very essence of chuckling geniality.
"Well, well, well! Yes, and, ah, Ser Thomas, of what assistance may I be to your superb periodical, which my staff and myself peruse at frequent intervals, ha ha?" the Chancellor wheezed good-humoredly.
"Why, Very Learned, my call in fact concerns a member of your staff, in point of fact. Yes ... I am assigned to compose a few brief paragraphs of the body text on one of your underlings, ah ..." pausing to glance at a scrap of paper, Hautley returned to the jovial visage: "... one 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, fine man. His specialty—Thothic archeology, you know—dead end, of course. Exhausted, what? Ehh ... my own field, now, hrumph! The famous Monolith Builders of Delta 10334 ... ah ... ?"
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 ha! 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 the 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.
"Ehh ... 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 15th 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 coding 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 and a bracing pot of steaming, fragrant, freshly brewed stimulac. 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 computer-stored 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.