The Thief of Thoth

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.