The Thief of Thoth

7

APTER A BRISK LUNCH, Quicksilver skimmed swiftly through his voluminous files, which covered in exhaustive detail every major, and a considerable portion of minor, crimes committed or attempted within the Near Stars during the past hundred lustrums. These files were microized and computer-stored in a handy desk-top file no larger than a modern plixiter. Setting the index-auditor to its fullest selectivity, he rapidly punched out the code that stood for "Crimes of extraplanetary origin/Location: p Thoin IV, cl Derghiz, g-a Car-Cyg, quad One /First priority: attempted theft," and sat back, sipping his stimulac and savoring its robust caffein flavor while the file clittered and tinkled to itself.

Later, smoking an after lunch aromatique of his own private blend, he glanced over the reports.

They were very interesting.

No fewer than eleven attempts had been made to acquire the coveted Crown of Stars by semi- or quasi-legal means, varying from legitimate purchase through blackmail, extortion, hypno-conditioning, political influence, economic pressure, mindwashing, psychohyastalic implementation, and such. The highest price that had been offered for honest purchase was a truly cosmonomical sum set forth by King Oswal the Pious of the Altair Regnum. The royal collection of antiquities was justly famed as the finest private museum in all of the Carina-Cygnus galactic arm; his offer had been curtly refused So much for pseudo-legal attempts on the Crown.

Thus far, exactly thirty-nine serious attempts at theft had been perpetuated. All had been foiled, and, with one single exception, the would-be thieves had been executed in an ingenious variety of methods by the grimly fanatic Neothothic Priesthood. This lone exception was the Master-Burglar of Capitan, the widely notorious Dugan Motley, now in retirement.

Quicksilver took his half-emptied cup of stimulac over to the liquor panel and filled it to the brim with crèeme de schmaltz '67. Then he dialed Information/Central and crisply entered an eleven-word request. While the stupendous computer-directory that occupied the planetary cores of Nycon I, II and III hummed and chittered madly to itself, he drank the stimulac royale and meditated on Neozen philosophy. All too soon the directory informed him that no Dugan Motley, formerly of Capitan in the Deltabelta Cluster, was listed in any of the three galactic arms.

Listed or unlisted, Hautley must find him. Only Dugan Motley of all the thieves to attempt seizure of the Thothic cult object had survived the merciless punitive efforts of the pseudo-ancestor-worshiping priests. Therefore, only Motley could reveal in explicit detail the means and methods by which the Crown was hidden and guarded. Motley he must locate!

Hautley thought for a moment; then with a crisply decisive motion he called Information/Central again. The former Master-Burglar of Capitan had worked with a lifelong confederate who rejoiced in the name of Shpern Hufferd. Motley's unavailability did not necessarily extend to his old comrade, or so Quicksilver hoped. Happily, his hopes proved true. Shpern Hufferd still resided at Thieves' Haven, the outlaw planet in the Gap.

Quicksilver phoned him, but there was no answer. Restlessly, he tossed down the last of his brandy-laced stimulac and went into an adjoining tower. From a glass-barred cage, a footlong mini-dragon with canary-yellow body scales and batwings that deepened into orange emitted a friendly jet of steam. Freeing his pet, which swiftly scrambled to a position atop his right shoulder, Quicksilver paced moodily, caressing the dragon's wrinkled snout with a forefinger.

He resolved to pay a personal visit to Hufferd; perhaps the confederate could be persuaded, either through a proffered sum of munits or a clever gambit, into revealing the current whereabouts of his former partner. Anyway, Hautley's mercurial moods chafed at extended inaction.

Before he could leave, however, the signal flashed above the wall phone. An incoming call ...