for Y'ha-nthlei in the Arkham Cluster, friend. I am the Most
Honorable John Jacob Jingleheimer-Smith, second son of the
Duke of Poughkeepsie, owner and pilot, and this is my . . ,
ah . . . secretary, Miss Ethel Glutz. Request-permission-toland-for-emergency-repairs."
The irate Archimandrate burst into a superb torrent of
profanity (revolving on rather recondite mythological ls sym·
bolism derived, no doubt, from the Neothothic cultus) . While
he seethed and bubbled sulphurously, in bets between zeek
wheetles, Hautley kept a bland, faintly embarrassed expression in place, but studied the Thothite narrowly. The people of Thoin N were descended from nine-point-nine homonid
norm stock, but the preponderance of monoatomic fluorhydrates in their soil and atmosphere had, over the fourteen-generation timespan since Frist Landing, embued their features with a delicate and not unattractive shade of mingled puce
and mauve. Solar radiation from their primary (a Blue
Giant) , filtering through the weird ring of purple neon which
encircled the planet, had tinctured their facial hair a peculiar
rare shade of canary yellow. Hautley thought the combina·
tion a not unpleasant one; rather decorative, actually.
He had read about this planet's ring of purple gas: it was a
galactic rarity. At one time, Thoth had a moon, but the planet being a very old one, its sole satellite had eventually reached Roche's Limit and had disintegrated some centuries
before. Since the satellite had been a solid globe of neon-ice,
perhaps the debris of some comet's tail, a plume of free gas
which condensed aeons ago into the ice ball, the kinetic energy released by the moon's destruction had produced heat, returning the ice-sphere to neon gas again. The vaporized
ice-moon had formed this extraordinary ring of violet gas
through the simple action of centrifugal force. So rare and
extraordinary was it, that this natural feature was listed in the
Tourist's Guide to Centrcil Derghis ( 1 17th Edition) as one of
the Seven Hundred Wonders of the Universe.
While these thoughts had passed through Hautley's mind,
the Archimandrate, having temporarily exhausted his supplies
of religious invective, broke off, wheezing.
Hautley amiably took up the burden of the conversation.
"Sorry, Padre," he grinned amiably, "but we have no
choice--nor do ·you. According to the first article of the Universal Space Emergency Act of 1 1,493 Imperial Calendar, as ratified by the entire Imperial Enclave and countersigned by
His Supreme Intelligence the Emperor Emil Fotheringay XIV
-and I quote-'No planet may refuse shelter, haven, aid
or sustenance to a Distressed Spaceman, .as defined herein,
under full penalty of economic sanctions.' End quote. And I
might also call your attention, padre, to the Humane Activi·
ties Act of 1 1 ,483, Article Seven, paragraphs 3, 12, 27, and
Appendix F-"
"All right, all right!" Under the barrage of expertise, the
stiff-necked ecclesiastic wilted. ''You and Miss Glutz may descend in your dinghy, but be certain your pile is on 'neutral'
and your craft in a stable orbit And don't call me 'padre'/"
Curtly the Archimandrate gave detailed landing instructions. It would seem that Hautley and Barsine could not just land any old place, but must follow very specific directions
and descend in one certain area. Hautley recorded the landing instructions and broke the connection.
Barsine was still sizzling. "Miss Ethel Glutz, am I" she
said with a certain touch of coldness in her mellow mezzosoprano. "No doubt that ridiculous name reflects your true feeings for me, you louse. Listen here, Hautley-"
He stemmed her flow of invective with a lifted palm.
"Please," he said, with a pained expression. "There just
might be an audio spy beam fixed on us from Thoth. So remember, I am Ser John or Very Honorable. And no temper.
We are working now-Ethel."
She went into a chill silence, which was exactly what he
had wanted. He was not really worried about the possibility
of any converse between them being carried to listening ears
below via aural scrutiny. A planet whose inter-world communications rig was so antiquated (zeek, zizzle) would hardly have installed anything so sophisticated as an audio-conductor beam . . .
They cast off the dinghy and drifted down Thothwards.
30
THorn, OR THoiN IV, was a small, cold, windy ball of rock.
Bleak, barren, devoid of tree or leaf-a wilderness of stone
stretching off on every side. No wonder the ancient and ex-
tinct Cavern Kings had constructed their unique civilization
underground.
They were met at the landing stage and escorted from their
craft by a silent group of priests in full lizard-suit regalia, including dragonish false heads with eye-holes in the throatplates and imitation claws. Hautley's bland attempts to chaffer with the ecclesiastics was severely rebuffed. One and
all, the priests virtually radiated disapproval on all wave
lengths.
The portly Archimandrate conducted them personally to
the quarters apparently set aside for uninvited guests. The
trip was short and swift, but Hautley did manage to observe
something of the remarkable architectural style for which the
extinct super-reptiles were widely known: a subtle matter of
sloping walls, multiplanal ceilings and chambers of dodecahedral rather than cubicular format. Oddly impressive; in a non-Euclidian sort of way.
The Spartan simplicity of their quarters was depressing, to
say the least. Two narrow cots with a privacy partition set
between. Beside each cot stood a berrywood stool, a small
three-legged tabouret for personal effects, and a washbasin.
The walls themselves, eye-wrenchingly leaning awry at bewildering angles, were devoid of ornament or color. They were left to their own devices as soon as they had reached the cell.
The only reply to Hautley"s amiable flow of chatter had been
a curt, snappish remark to the effect that their dinner would
be served in two hours, while Temple artificers wrought repairs in the fractured Spasmodic Frammistator. The lock clicked in the door and they were alone.
Hautley stretched out on the lumpy cot and smoked. It
would seem that the frequent and fruitless attempts to steal
the Crown of Stars had developed within the breasts of the
Neothothic priesthood an unhealthy degree of suspicion towards chance droppers-in. He had no doubt their quarters were bugged as thoroughly as Thoth's limited technology permitted. This was, in fact, more than Hautley's hunch. While being whisked via various shortcuts to their present abode,
Hautley had felt the warning tingle of a penetrascope which
must have been concealed in one or another of the cha.mbers
adjoining the corridor. This brief but penetrating subelectronic tickle was the response of his sensitive nervous system to the bath of thet�beams emitted by the 'scope, as they
searched his physical st:ructure down to the molecular level.
He remained unruffled by the occurance. Anticipating a penetrascope, he had abandoned his customary "business suit" this once, and the equipment he did carry was completely unobservable by any, even sophisticated, means.
Using the eye-blink code devised by Imperial Intelligence,
Hautley conveyed this and other relevant warnings and information to Barsine, while carrying on, at the vocal level, with a brainless stream of b
right chatter. When dinner arrived it
was spooned out by a grumpy old frater who ignored Haulley's cheery greetings as pointedly as he was swift to pocket the tip. Dejeuner by the way, was not exactly up to Hautley's
accustomed level of gustatory expertise-a soppy affair of
lukewarm gruel and buttermilk. No doubt healthy enough,
but hardly Hautley's idea of an ideal din-din.
Night fell. Here in the underground city it might have
been hard to tell, except that about seven o'clock the lights
went out automatically. This was what Hautley had been
waiting for. Within split seconds of the falling of abrupt
darkness, Quicksilver made his move. His equipment for this
caper was merely two simple articles: a self-inflating balloon
dummy of approximately Hautley's bodily dimensions, which
under cover of darkness he whisked from behind the portable
light-baffle he had carried invisibly into the citadel, thence
whisking himself out of sight behind the second of the two
articles, the light-baffle itself. This was accomplished within
split �conds. He presumed that even if their quarters were
under infra-red surveillance during the qours of darkness, the
lethargic fraters would need at least a few seconds to make
the change-over from visible light surveillance to the nightsight variety. During those few precious mini-seconds, he became hidden from any form of vision behind the baffie, while the rubber dummy took his place in the cot, with the covers
drawn up over its head.
At Barsine disrobed on the other side of the partition, they
exchanged a few final phrases, then settled down, ostensibly,
to sleep . . .
In a flash the invisible Quicksilver was out of the room,
having picked the lock by an ingenious system of conflicting
magnetic currents. The corridors were poorly lit by a system
of dim night lights. Hautley moved through their coiling
maze without faltering. His studies of Neothothic architecture had suggested to him that the treasure vault wherein the cherished cult object was kept would be concealed most prob-
ably in a circular sub-basement directly below the main body
of the cavern-city, which was the only settlement on the inhospitable little world.
He wove his agile path past formidable barriers-guards,
light-traps, alarm-triggered cameras and automatic self-sighting disruptor cannons (all of which he eluded, since the light-bafH.e rendered him completely invisible) . The usual
death-traps and poised weights were child's play to avoid.
Fierce watchdogs he simply strode past, having temporarily
paralyzed their keen sense of smell with a potent deodorant
spray. This unimpressive gamut run, he found himself within
the lowest sub-basement within less than 22 minutes. This
was it: ·the sanctum sanctorisimus of the whole shebang! Beyond that door, if his careful calculations proved correct, he should find the fabulous Crown of Stars itself! He manipulated magnetic forces, and the door swung open • • .
Utterly appalled to the roots of his being, Hautley reeled in
mind-numbing shock!
Of course, he had suspected something like this. Some sort
of incredibly ingenious, supra-humanly clever, diabolical
method by which the Crown would be protected from the
touch of desecrating, light-fingered hands . • •
But not for something like this!
Rising in thirty-seven tiers of stone like narrow shelves
around the curved walls of this circular a.dytum, stood ·the
fantastically valuable Crown of Stars itself-hopelessly lost
somewhere amid seven hundred and seventy-six exact, precise, microscopically-detailed DUPLICATES.
Sternly repressing a cold shudder at the damnable, fiendish
simplicity of it all, Hautley was ironically reminded of one of
his own versicles, to wit:
Hardest of all: to find
One needle in a mountain of its kind.
31
THE DESK CLERK at The Imperial House, Chitterling, Vassily
II, was a feather-headed young Birdwoman, obviously an Aurochnoid from one of the Gryx planets. She impartially distributed a glassy, professional smile midway between Hautley Quicksilver and Barsine Torsche.
"May I render assistance, Ser and Madame?"
"Yes. The name's Quicksilver. Is Doctor Smothly in?"
"One moment please." She turned to the communicator
console that winked and twinkled, sending flickers of multihued light across the gleaming marble floor of the hotel lobby. Addressing her attentions to a whisper-mike, she then
turned another antiseptic smile in their general direction.
"Room 1 1 , 209-Q. Go right up, Ser Quacksalver, Dr.
Smothly is expecting you."
"That's Quicksilver. Thanks."
The grav tube whisked them to the 1 1 ,209th floor with
pneumatic efficiency. Hautley, his mahogany features and
mirror-bright eyes impassive, as were, indeed, his meticulously arranged pewter-grey locks, palmed the door which slid open before him. Barsine Torsche, who had accompanied
him, was now inexplicably nowhere to be seen. He stepped
into the room.
1
"Ah, Ser Hautley!" Pawel Spiro, nervous, even flustered,
approached him. "I had been expecting you to phone shortly,
not to come in person, and the twenty-seven hour delay you
requested is not yet transpired! May I assume that your call
inclicates your decision to accept my retainer on your professional, ah, services?"
"You may," Hautley said with his accustomed suavity. He
vi�wed the little mouse of a man with quiet pride, smiling benignly. Spiro ran a plump soft hand nervously through his
salmon-tinted hair and cleared his throat with that tentative
little glottal noise Hautley had found so annoying a few
hours earlier.
"Then, ah, you will appropriate the cult object for the
Museum . . • '/"
Hautley's modest smile broke loose of its moorings.
"Learned, you have retained the services of no mere fum·
hie-fingered scugger, but of Hautley Quicksilver himself.
With such as I, to think is�to act Behold!"
With his left hand, he disengaged the light-baflle he had
been unobtrusively carrying, revealing to sight-
"AHI"
Spiro's sharp, involuntary indrawal of breath was almost a
cry of pain. For there, dangling from the outstretched fingers
of Quicksilver's right hand was the Crown of Stars itself! Its
incredible frosting of curious gems glittered and Dashed and
sparkled in the indirect ceiling-illuminants. The lacy, openscrolled goldwork gleamed with satmy highlights along the coiling arabasques of precious metal. Not only was the
Crown a stunning work of the goldsmith's art, but a fascinating aura of antiquity and alienage clung about it as well. Automatically, Pawel Spiro extended one hand to grasp the cherished object. Quicksilver's smile hardened.
"Not--quite-yet, I think! First we have to settle the little
matter of • • . "
"The price? Of course!" Pawel gabbled. Perspiration dribbled down his pudgy features. He clawed within his jerkin for a checkbook, but Hautley's eyes caught and held his with the
bright glitter of fractured ice.
"A matter of professional ptide, rather than price," he
purred. ''For I am unaccustomed to consummating a contractual agreement with a client hiding his true name and identity und
er the veil of a pseudonym!"
Spiro's reaction was delicious. His jaw dropped. His eyes
goggled incredulously. Then Quicksilver dropped the bomb.
shell.
"Yes, I mean you-Captain Rex Dangerfield!"
Silence echoed c:rashingly through the palatial suite. Hautley's voice turned to a smooth, ironic purr.
"I suspected, of course, as soon as I discovered you were
not the true Pawel Spiro. Your 'cover' was good, very
good; highly professional, even, comparable to my own dis·
guises. Everything dovetailed-appearance, mannerisms, mo-
tive, timing. I deduced from the polished performance you
could only be another professional such as I."
Pawel was watching him with dull glazed eyes like blunt
pebbles in a face devoid of expression or mobility. Hautley
expanded, basking in the .drama of the revelation.
"While enroute from Thoth to your hotel here on Vassily
II I dialed your Personnel Computer at the Carina-Cygnus
Intelligence Depot, your official headquarters. It was not di.flicult to obtain a print of your dental history. My mirror-eyes, in this instance, contain X-ray contact lenses. Your fillings
and bridgework-alas!-we have come so far technologically,
but the age-old problem of dental caries is still with us! The
moment you greeted me I X-viewed your dental structure,
compared it mentally with the records, and as I had suspected for some time, you are none other than the galaxy's most feared and feted crime-fighter, Captain Rex Dangerfield!"
Quicksilver smiled with cool mockery. "As a Confidential
Agent myself, I rarely go through the difficult, time-consuming work of altering my own dental structure to conform to a new disguise. And I doubted if even so famed and fearless an
Agent as yourself, my dear Dangerfield, would do so either.
Those in our profession will go to every conceivable length to
alter fingerprints, retinagraphs, even palm and footprints, but
when it comes to making a special visit to Painless Potter the
friendly neighborhood dentist, ah! That's too much to ask in
the cause of duty!" He chuckled. Dangerfield remained impassive, one hand hooked within his jerkin, doubtless clutching a checkbook as a drowning man clutches a straw. Then he spoke.
Doomsman - the Theif of Thoth Page 18
