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, extortion, 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 pseudo-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 filled it to the brim with crèeme de schmaltz '67. 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 Shpern Hufferd. Motley's unavailability did not necessarily extend to his old comrade, or so Quicksilver hoped. Happily, his hopes proved true. Shpern 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 atop his right shoulder, Quicksilver paced moodily, caressing the dragon's wrinkled snout with a forefinger.
He resolved to pay a personal 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 dealing 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-Cygnus 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 shuffled 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 waystin.' "
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 matters 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, as the patient reader will doubtless discover ere this history concludes, a superb sense of professional ethics.