This, as often happens, dampened whatever degree of ardor he might otherwise have felt for so delectable a morsel of warmly curvaceous girlflesh. 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!
12
HE PUT HIS EMPTY glass down with a click on the glass-topped 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 riffled idly through the dossier, which contained substantially the same information as did that of the Proprietor of Canopus.
"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 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, Hautley?"
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 this— whatzit—-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 that, well, unless you're available for the job, I certainly can't give you classified information, you know ... but ... even if you are 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 fact 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 girl 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, then?" 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 no choice.
Were Barsine's superior (a crusty and most irascible old curmudgeon named Lord Admiral Temujin J. Weatherwax III—“Old T.J." to his staff) to be apprised that no less than two other parties were also after the Neothothic cult object, the entire Depot might panic, and impress their orders on Ser Hautley Quicksilver without delay. And that would never do. For always, and in every endeavor, Quicksilver chose to walk his own way, giving deference to none. As one of his more polished and lapidary versicles put the matter:
Freedom: to seek my star,
Unheeding who may seek to guide—or bar.
13
WORKING WITHOUT undue haste, but also without a single wasted motion, the cleverest agent in Near Space selected a blank contract from his file, inserted the document into the typovox and dictated eleven crisp sentences. Snapping it from the machine, he affirmed his thumbprint with practised dexterity.
He then chose, from the photograms he had taken of the digital impressions left by Heveret Twelfth on the doorjamb, a superb thumbprint. He photographed it again, reversed the negative, duplicated it upon a plastic cube in nitrate of impervium. From a pocket in his utility-girdle, which he customarily wore next to his epidermis beneath his garments, he withdrew a bulb of acid and sprayed the plastic cube with a corrosive mist.
An instant later he inked an excellent thumbprint to the contract with the plastic cube. The acid spray had eaten away the lucent substance from around the near-microscopic lines of impervium nitrate, making, in effect, a rubber stamp. The ink utilized in the process was a special mixture of his own; intermingled with the coloring matter with a chemical compound that exactly duplicated the sweaty oils which with the human shin was permeated.
He then placed the document in a sealed oven of peculiar design, concealed within a free form sculpture which stood a few feet away. This oven was a miniature gammatron accelerator, and would "age" anything placed within it by artificially induced radioactive impregnation. The document, when removed from the accelerator, would pass any carbon-14 test to which it could be put: every molecule, including the typovoxed matter and the two thumbprints, were exactly forty-seven minutes old.
The forged contract in his hand, he then bathed Barsine Torsche in a jet of counteractive gas, lifting her back into her chair.
She awoke instantly, unaware of any time lapse, due to the instantaneous action of both the narcotic vapor and its counter-agent. He proffered, with great aplomb, the fruit of his labors for her perusal. She read it carefully, not neglecting to check it for proper age with the carbon-14 meter unobtrusively attached to her left wrist, disguised as a mere bauble of gems. A tiny crease of exasperation formed between the twin indigo arches of her perfect brows.
"Well, you're right, Haut. You daren't break this one! Old XII sounds a perfect terror, and from what I've heard of his temper, I doubt if a round dozen Cabinet ministers could make him budge a millimeter. Oh, scintilance! 'Old T.J.' be frothing when he hears you are unavailable ... but about how long will it take you to vaporize this scut, anyway?" she asked, referring to the completely falacious caper outlined in the forged contract—a vital political assassination. Hautley shrugged.