Within this artificial mini-cosmos, light remained the limiting velocity as in the greater cosmos beyond—but the acceleration of photonic energy within the miniature universe was several million times swiftter than in the outer cosmos of "normal" space-time.
15
HURTLING TOWARD THE GAP at a relative velocity of several thousand light-years per hour, Quicksilver relaxed and switched the ship's controls over to the automatic pilot which was a portion of the computer-brain. Now to assume one of the many disguises for which he was justly famed in criminous chronicles. These were a strict necessity, as without doubt many of the outlaws inhabiting the criminal planet would recognize Hautley at a glance—and the fewer individuals who were aware of his doings, the safer he would feel.
After all, if the scofflaw class were in any way involved in this three-way contest to purloin the Neothothic cult object, as was highly probable, Quicksilver saw no reason to advertise openly his own participation in the struggle, until conditions suggested it might be advantageous to do so. Hence, he entered a small mirror-walled cubicle where reposed the Various materials from which he affected his seemingly miraculous disguises.
The small canary-yellow dragon he had permitted to accompany him thus far in his quest. Now he removed the little creature from its customary perch on his broad left shoulder, slipped it into an iridium wire cage and left it happily crunching away at a handful of iron pyrite crystals while he sat down at the cosmeticon.
Staring at his several reflections in the multi-angled mirrors, he began swiftly and smoothly to alter his appearance not only beyond all recognition, but also beyond any detection as well. A slightly radioactive hypospray was set against his head. Lightly pressed against his flesh, it squirted a pressure jet of radionic vapor painlessly through the cells of his flesh, entering his brain via the third intersticial suture of his skull. This harmless injection provided a temporary and minute stimulus to the cyno-pituitary gland, which would within minutes bleach the ordinary mahogany color of his skin to the hue of strawberry red.
Another innocuous and fast-acting chemical spray violently agitated he hair follicles of his scalp. As he watched in the mirror, the pewter grey of his meticulous locks assumed a satiny black coloration, darkening as the tide of artificial tint crept up from the chemically stimulated roots.
Next followed a facial spray. He bathed his features with astringent vapor from a pressure bulb, whose reaction was to crease the flesh of his face with a network of semi-permanent wrinkles, which added considerably to his apparent physical age. A touch of biostatic plasmoid deftly applied to he arch of his nose, the ridge of his brow and the line of his steely jaw altered his profile physiognomy subtly but surely. This synthetic and pseudo-living plasmoid flesh would stand up to anything less than an electro-microscopic analysis.
Then followed a few minor alterations in his costume. A loose-fitting singlet and padded hose of contrasting irridescents with slight and unobtrusive pads at shoulder and spinal curvature made Quicksilver appear somewhat stooped and hollow-chested, as well as lending a false slope to his brawny shoulders.
The man who now looked back at Quicksilver from the multi-mirror was an almost total stranger. The only thing about his face, physique, posture and seeming age which could remind one of Hautley Quicksilver was the mirror-bright eyes with which his pride and inborn love of tempting danger forbade him to tamper.
Only intimate physical examination by an experienced and suspicious surgeon could disclose the subtle cosmeticry used to mask his appearance. And as for the defensive gadgetry and miniature armory of weapons with which his "business suit" was invested, only a detailed search by an electronic expert and a clever tailor could uncover those.
Quicksilver was ready for action.
And even upon the moment, the automatic pilot chimed. The ship was nearing her destination.
16
NOW SEEMINGLY an older gentleman of scholarly and inactive habits, a citizen of the planet Rowrbazzle 12 from his strawberry complexion and ebon locks, Quicksilver closed up the cosmeticon cubicle and stepped before the glowing control console of the ship. He relaxed the powerful magnetic lines of force that enclosed the vessel, and, with yet another bone-shivering subsonic drone, it re-entered "normal" space near the edge of the Gap.
As the ship proceeded on normal planetary rocket drive, Quicksilver mused over the several curious aspects of the case his research has thus far uncovered.
Point # 1 : Three forces, seemingly independent of each other, sought possession of the Neothothic jewelled crown. The question was: why?
Granted, the Crown of Stars was a fabulously rare artifact, worth an immense sum of money either for its intrinsic worth as an item of jewelry or for its historic and archeological value as the only known non-architectural artifact of a mysterious planetary culture, the Cavern Kings of Thoth. But either of these values hardly seemed sufficient motive for the Imperial government, a planetary monarch, and an unknown masquerader pretending to be a famous scholar, to simultaneously develop an interest in purloining the object. Why were individuals from three such widely different areas of expertise suddenly displaying such an extraordinary desire in the Crown?
An unidentified individual posing as an archeologist, but perhaps more truly of a criminal profession, a supercilious planetary prince, motives unknown; an intelligence agent, acting under orders of the Emperor's Cabinet. What did these three have in common? Desire for wealth—power—knowledge? No, it was something else, some as yet unknown factor which Hautley Quicksilver's acute perceptions had yet to untangle from this raveled knot of mixed motives and unanswered questions.
A small vertical crease, indicative of intellectual tension, formed between his ebon arched brows.
This much at least hinted at the key to the puzzle: one of the three was known to be an imposter.
Although Pawel Spiro's story hung together, and his disguise was clever enough to fool the camera—and to elude detection by a known colleague, his esteemed superior—the real Pawel Spiro was busily at work in the center of the galaxy on anthropological-archeological research, while a phony Pawel Spiro, half a galaxy away, was holed up in a glossy tourist trap of a hotel, awaiting word from the foremost private investigator in Known Space.
Who was the pseudo Spiro? Why did he want the Crown? And, perhaps more importantly, whom did he represent?
And come to think of it, was the pseudo Spiro the only fake among Hautley's three would-be clients? What of Heveret Twelfth? True, his fingerprints seemed to match those retained in official Canopan records, but that was only proof to a degree.
Quicksilver smiled thinly. In these days of advanced technology, the criminal mind had resources vastly superior to those of the good old days. It was no longer impossible to fake fingerprints. Indeed, without greatly taxing his imagination, the galaxy's ace investigator could easily bring to mind no less than eight different ways of so doing, to wit:
1. Invisible fingertip sheaths bearing raised imprints.
2. Skin graft, or entire digital transplantation.
3. Homosculpture.
4. Bribery of the Archives official whom Quicksilver had interviewed, or replacement of the genuine archivist with a criminal accomplice.