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 willtout 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.
ll
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 skin 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 fortyseven 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, scintillancel 'Old T.J.'
will be frothing when he hears you are unavailable • • • but
about how long will it take you to vaporize this scut, any•
way?" she asked, referring to the completely falacious caper
outlined in the forged contract-a vital political assassination.
Hautley shrugged.
"A solid month. I expect. His Dignity's enemy seems to
have anticipated an attempt to scrag him. He's a clever
devil," Hautley said, permitting a note of professional admiration to seep into the clinical detachment of his cool tones, as he extemporized with suave eloquence. "A surgeon has extracted the ulna bone from the right forearm. An aluminum tube has been inserted in its place, a tube packed with those
new molecule-sized ultratransistors and micro-printed circuits.
The miniscule gadgetry projects a field of force impervious to
any material object larger than a proton-transparent, in fact,
only to those more harmless octaves of the electro-magnetic
spectrum such as normal gravity, average extremes of heat
and light. This force shell completely armors his body-"
"Space! How does the poor bastard breathe?" Barsine
asked, fascinated. Hautley's agile wits raced keenly.
"Air, within his self-imposed prison, is manufactured and
re-processed by a tiny recycling plant concealed in the left
tibia, which has also been replaced with an aluminum tube,"
he said glibly. She marvelled.
"Clever devil! With all that hardware clanking around in
his innards, I should think he'd be afraid of getting the hiccups and joggling something loose!"
He smiled at her jape.
"Or of taking a shower! Suppose he short-circuited the old
tibia there, eh? Ha hal"
"Ha." he joined her, "ha."
"So how do you plan to clobber ol' invulnerable--if you
don't mind a mere amateur prying into, snort, snort, 'Professional' secrets?"
Did he detect a note of unseemly levity in her query?
Was it possible Barsine Torsche was not taken in?
He permitted a worrisome frown to crinkle the bland expanse of his mahogany-hued brow.
"Don't know. Studying the problem now. Rather busy, as I
said before, Barsine . . . ••
She sighed. "Ah? So. We14 this gal can take a hint when
she's not wanted.'"
She rose lithely and went to the door. Pausing there. she
turned a keen glance on ihim.
"I hope you're not trying to put one over on me, Hautley
Quicksilver!"
His mobile features assumed a burt expression.
''Cause if you are, let me warn you, me bucko! 'Old T.J.' 's
really boiling on this one. And Carina-Cygnus won't be big
enough to hold 'Old T.J.' and you if he finds out • . . well
•
•
. that's it, Quicksilver!"
A look of hurt innocence filled his mercury-colored eyes.
"Barsine! Really!"
She ground her teeth. "Oh, all right • . . bye now, Haut.
Got to buzz along and find your replacement-see you in the
newsfax! No, don't call old Creepy-! know the way out."
And she was gone. To find a replacement for Hautley
Quicksilver!
Leaning back in the auto-adjusting pneumo, he permitted
himself a small quiet smile of complacency. She would hunt
far to find an agent of comparable talent-as his swift
simulation of a legal contract and smoothly-concocted story
gave full proof!
But now-to work. As an esteemed (and, no doubt purely
legendary) pioneer of Hautley Quicksilver's profession was
wont to put it-the game's afoot!
14
WoBBLING AND CREAKING on insecure joints, his butler and
valet, Smeedley assisted him in donning working clothes, in
this case what Hautley oft referred to as his "business suit."
The rainment consisted of virtually a portable armory.
The cuff buttons were incendiary grenades.
Each shoelace was a triplex nylon garroting-cord.
His belt buckle was a miniaturized radio transceiver whose
aerial was a metallic thread indistinguishably woven throughout the warp and woof of his tunic. His shirt, of a
thin but
· airtight fabric, was double strength, lined with a duplicate
panel, inflatable, and made, in watery moments of need, an
admirable life raft.
Ingenious compartments in boot heels and shoulder pads
contained a variety of interesting substances and devices.
A flat flexible tube sewn into the lining of his jacket contained a virulent acid wherewith door locks could be eaten away.
One jewelled cuff link was a minute laser gun.
The other concealed a nucJear grenade capable of demolishing a medium-sized metropolis.
A back tooth, in actuality a hollow plastine receptacle,
contained deadly poison.
Other teeth contained: a sleeping powder of sufficient concentration as to thrust the entire population of a small town into the arms of Morpheus (if admixed with the local drinking water by tossing it into the reservoir}: an incredibly minute reference library of scientific and technical works which could be viewed through the microscopic lens concealed beneath the nail on his left forefinger; a variety of poisons, truth drugs, and other potent fluids and concoctions-including, I should add, a potent aphrodisiac.
Be prepared, was the Quicksilver motto. For anything/
Once strapped and belted into this amazing assor:tment of
gadgetry, Hautley Quicksilver was virtually a one-man army.
And now to depart, after final instructions to Smeedley.
"Return the library books due next Gormsday • • . water
the delphiniums . • • feed the Venus' fly traps • • • monitor
all in-coming calls . • .
"
"Yes, Ser Hautley."
"And above all, Smeedley, for Onolk's sake don't forget to
tend my prize Prince Rupert von Hentzau odontoglossumsl I
plan to enter the Sirian Sector Flower Show next month, and
they're bound to carry off a silver ribbon."
"Oh yes, Ser Hautley!"
Instructions given, Quicksilver bounded into his sleek little
cruiser-the fastest thing in space-and launched the vessel
through a camouflaged exit disguised as a crater. Up from the
surface of the planetoid Carvel he rocketed, threading his
way through the whirling maze of tiny asteroids with the
skilled dexterity and deft touoh of a master pilot. With a precise twirl of the wheel he avoided two sizzling meteor storms, and thus gained clear space at last. The ship's computer brain
was thoroughly familiar with the orbits of the eleven thousand four hundred and sixty-two bodies that made up the deadly "moat" of Quicksilver Castle, and could easily have
assumed the responsibility of piloting the vessel, but Hautley
liked to do it on manual controls. "just to keep his hand in,"
as he put it.
Behind and to one side of the hurtling silver needle that
was Hautley's trim little craft, a sullen spark of somber crimson glowed like a dying coal. That was the aged red Supergiant, the star Astarte, wherefrom the system had originated in primordial times.
Thieves' Haven, the outlaw planet, lay some seventeen
thousand light-years towards the galactic Hub. It was a lone
and sunless world, deep sunk in the black and starless rift between the innermost galactic arm, that of Sagittarius, and the midmost, second arm of the galaxy, called Carina-Cygnus.
This rift between the two arms was called ''The Gap," and
thence Hautley must wend his way.
It would of course, consume some millenia of time, were
he to proceed for so vast a distance at the su!J.,photonic velocities attainable on mere planetary drive.
Hence, as he pointed the needle sharp prow of his lean and
rakish craft Hubwards, he flicked the switch that would activate special mechanisms, thus transposing his craft into that mathematically-impossible, illusory and paradoxical quasicontinuum called pseudospace.
With a bone-shaking subsonic whine, the Bettleheim-Ortleigh-Robton Drive engines engaged. Their superbly counterpoised sernigears clashing smoothly in custom designed cusps of synthetic rose diamond, the drive engines built about the
hurtling little craft a magnetic field of enormous force, way
up in the thousand-billion-gauss range-a cocoon of magnetic
lines of force of such stupendous magnitude that they warped
the very fabric of space itself, bending space until it
"snapped," forming a bubble of closed three-dimensional
space around the sleek cruiser-in effect, creating a private
little universe to contain the ship.
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 swifter
·
than in
·
the outer cosmos of
�ormal" space-time.
15
HURTLING TOWARDS 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 mi-
nute 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 the 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 the 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
anythi
ng 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 mirrorbright 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
Doomsman - the Theif of Thoth Page 13
