Doomsman - the Theif of Thoth

by Harlan Ellison

  Learned Pawel Spiro," he concluded, deliberately mispronouncing the surname.

  The quivering moustachios wavered slightly; the hearty

  warmth cooled a bit in eye and smile.

  "Umf. Yes, yes, hm, fine man. His specialty-Thothic archeology, you know-dead end, of course. Exhausted, what?

  Ebb • • • my own field, now, hrumphl The famous Monolith

  Builders of Delta Carina 10334

  ah

  •

  •

  •

  . • . 'l"

  Hautley allowed admiring envy to tinge his features.

  "Fascinating

  field,

  Very

  Learned . . .

  spectacular!

  But . . . alas! . . . my superior, Senior Full Editor, the Lord

  Daughtmer Rohm, is preparing the central section, dealing

  with your own magnificent if not fully appreciated accomplishments in that field. Rank hath its privileges, you know, ha hal But," Quicksilver interposed smoothly, "I have a

  choice of several photos of Learned Spiro, simple two-color

  monodimensionals, nothing more, of course--far removed

  from tho tridimensional full-spectrum center-spread Lord

  Daughtmer plans for you-and I wonder if you would be

  kind enough to advise us on the Spiro spots? Tell me, then,

  are any of these particularly good likenesses of your underling?"

  He fanned out the. prints and held them before the receiver

  of the phone. The Cartouchan ran a disinterested eye over

  the set.

  "Ebb . • . good likenesses, all, yes, yes. Mmmf. That one

  of Spiro picking his nose-very good, quite characteristic.

  Hmf. But . . . ah . • . tell me, Staffwriter, the section on

  myself, now, are you certain it's the center-"

  "Lord Daughtmer will very shortly be contacting you for

  an extended personal interview, of course, Very Learned, so

  I'd best clear the extension. Oh, one more question, if I may

  trouble you just a bit more. Is this Spiro at the Museum now,

  or do you know where I could contact him?"

  The Chancellor whooshed thoughtfully through his amazing moustachios, like a walrus coming up for air.

  "On a sabbatical at present. For a month, I believe-due

  back the 1 5th of Jones, or somewhere thereabouts. One of

  my secretarial assistants could most probably-"

  "Of course! But have you any idea where he went?"

  The fat pink cheeks puffed out.

  "Hrgm . . . The Hub Stars . . . yes, yes. Gesualdo V.

  Probably find old Spiro pottering away in the Empress Pavalia the Amiable Memorial Librareum. Yes."

  Quicksilver thanked him fulsomely, rang off, and phoned

  the Librareum at the center of the galaxy. He was informed

  by the robot communication-monitor that the Hub-channels

  were currently busy, due probably to the coming nuptials of

  the Prince-Heir to the Galactic Throne, and it would take an

  hour for his call to be connected. He gave the robot his unlisted and ever-changing phone frequency and asked to be called as soon as the spaceways were clear.

  Well, it was lunch time anyway. A good morning's work!

  Hautley rose, stretched, and dialed a nourishing lunch on the

  autochef. Nothing heavy, as the afternoon might be busy-a

  light repast-brisket of sea-serpent with Arcadian mint-sauce

  ru:td a bracing pot of steaming, fragrant, freshly brewed stim·

  ulac. As the chef ticked away, Hautley mused that his tenuous suspicions regarding the validity of Pawel Spiro seemed ill-founded. Pending development from the Librareum, it

  seemed that the little scholar was the genuine article

  ah,

  •

  •

  •

  well, as he had once observed in a pithy versicle:

  Beware: the "fake'' that you

  Swiftly detect is very often-true/

  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 computerstored 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, extor·

  tion, 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 pseud�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 illled it to the brim with creme de

  schmaltz '61. 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 Shpem Hufferd.

  Motley's unavailability did not necessarily extend to his old

  comrade, or so Quicksilver hoped. Happily, his hopes proved

  true. Shpem 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

  a
top his right shoulder, Quicksilver paced moodily, caressing

  the dragon's wrinkled snout with a forefinger.

  He resolved to pay a pel:Bonal 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 • • •

  8

  IT WAS ANOTHER potential client, a tall, saturnine aristocrat

  who abruptly waved off Quicksilver's protests that he was at

  the moment contemplating undertaking a commission. The

  caller's counter argument was persuasively eloquent. In a

  gruff, clipped voice he flatly offered one million munits if

  Quicksilver would set his previous commitment aside and undertake the new assignment. Before so dazzling an argument, Hautley's preoccupation with Pawel Spiro evaporated.

  The least he could do was to listen to what the man had to

  say-after all, Quicksilver was a businessman.

  Philosophically, he switched on the radiobeacon and

  guided his second visitor of the day down to the surface of

  the small planetoid

  Client-prospect #2 introduced himself as The Royal Heveret Twelfth, Proprietor of Canopus. He was quite a dandy, despite his frosty manner-slim as a dancing master, clad in

  a tight fawn velvet with a great emerald trembling like a drop

  of liquid green fire in his left earlobe, he had carmine hair

  arranged in exquisite locks that foamed over his high peaked

  collar of snowcat fur. His eyes, dyed vermillion, flashed with

  supercilious, sardonic superiority. In a curt, cold voice, His

  Dignity came to the point with disconcerting directness :

  ''This is Our certified check for one million monetary

  units, drawn on the Royal Bank of Orion. Fetch for Us the

  antique, jeweled crown of the extinct Cavern Kings of the

  planet Thoth. It is the fourth planet of the star Thoin IV in

  the Derghiz Cluster in the First Quadrant of the Carina-Cyg-

  nus Arm. The Crown is to be delivered to a post office box

  registered under the pseudonym of H. Veret in the Chantilly

  Port Mail Center. When you have secured and delivered the

  Crown, place an entry in the personal columns of the Chantilly Port News-Sentinel, saying : 'Done. Q' "

  Quicksilver's face remained impassive, but his mind reeled.

  Two clients in one morning after the same thing!

  "I-" he attempted. But the Royal Heveret was not quite

  finished. Raising a peremptory hand, he continued:

  "As soon as your entry appears, the Royal Bank will be

  instructed to pass the check, and Our connection will be severed. Is this clear?"

  "Quite, but-"

  A slim hand was extended, holding a folder.

  "Here is a complete dossier of information relevant to the

  Crown of Thoth, together with the key to the post office box.

  Time is of the-"

  The small canary-colored dragon clinging to the broad

  shelf of Quicksilver's right shoulder hissed furiously like a

  berserk teakettle as the hand neared, and gold eyes sparked

  viciously. Heveret Twelfth withdrew the hand hastily, and

  gingerly dropped the file folder on an adjacent comer of

  Quicksilver's desk.

  Hautley accepted the folder and leafed through it noncommittally, while His Dignity lifted a pounce box to his nostrils and sniffed delicately, regarding the small dragon with a sour

  eye. Then the Proprietor of Canopus cleared his throat distinctly, and glanced at his ring-watch.

  "Come, come, my man! Let Us print the contract; you

  must be about the business."

  Hautley shufHed the documents together and lay them

  down. Leaning back, he regarded the Royal Heveret with a

  polite but quizzical glance.

  "I was not aware that Your Dignity was given to the

  hobby of collecting rare antiquities," he commented.

  Heveret Twelfth smiled thinly, baring a brace of incisors

  inset with rose-diamond chips after the current mode.

  "Our motives cannot be of any conceivable effect on this

  business arrangement, hence are irrelevant. Come, come, Ser

  Hautley, let us thumbprint your contract and be off. As the

  quaint folk-phrase of Our native realm has it: 'Tym-zah

  waystio.' "

  Hautley demurred. "I shall need leisure to check over the

  data in this dossier. Your Dignity will understand that my

  professional reputation, humble though it be, rests upon each

  successful case. I dare not risk accepting a contract which

  upon mature consideration I discover to be beyond my

  meagre abilities."

  But Heveret Twelfth was not to be put off.

  "Our time is precious, Ser Hautley, and mattel'§..of State

  press. We must conclude this matter now. There is no question of the fee--two million, if you need monetary stimulus to reach a swift decision!"

  Behind his imperturbable mask of suave impassivity, Hautley boggled at the incredible stipend thus dangled before him. But it was his curiosity that was aroused, not his cupidity. What was there about the reptilian artifact that had triggered this stampede to his door? He was determined to find out He was equally determined to accept no contract he

  might later regret. Our Quicksilver possessed in the extreme,

  as the patient reader will doubtless discover ere this history

  concludes, a superb sense of professional ethics.

  Thus Hautley persisted in his firm equivocation. With tact

  unruffied and demeanor serene, he remained adamant to His

  Dignity's impatient efforts at persuasion, firmly declining to

  commit his services prior to a depth check of the relevant

  factors. Suavely extracting a phone number from the reluctant blue blood, he ushered his royal visitor out, promising to deliver a definite answer within twenty-seven hours.

  As client-prospect #2 ascended vertically into the superstratosphere, Hautley shook his head in numb bafflement.

  What in the Name of Arnam's Sacred Beard was going on?

  Intenser bafHements awaited in near futurity, though

  Quicksilver knew it not.

  9

  No SOONER had the supercilious monarch exited, and Hautley

  returned to his tower chamber �or an intensive perusal of the

  Thothian dossier, than his phone flashed. It was the followup : his call to the Librareu.m was now ready to be put through : would Ser Hautley accept it? Ser Hautley would.

  Quicksilver spoke to a prim woman of indeterminate but

  well-preserved age, modestly attired in a black spray gown

  with opal-dusted sternum and exquisitely coifled hair of a

  delicate selection of thirteen contrasting shades of off-grey.

  Passing himself off as the Very Reverent Abdul Nagoob

  von Kessel, a peripatetic Pseudobaptist evangelist checking

  the moral behavior of his recent converts, Quicksilver deftly

  inquired of the recent comings and goings of Pawel Spiro.

  Modestly shielding her opal-dusted sternum with a sheaf of

  overdue notices, in deference to a Man of the Cloth, the Librarian was able to give him some very interesting information.

  'The Learned has been in residence at the Librareum for

  some months now, Padre, engaged in research towards a monograph on, ahem, nuptial customs of the Y'h
arqakukluk Ill Owl People," she replied with a reverent flutter of her lashless lids.

  "Bless you, sister," Hautley said benignly. "You are positive, then, that Brother Pawel has not gone off planet? The opportunities for moral transgression in so sophisticated a region of the galaxy as The Hub . • . fleshpots, scarlet women, the loathsome juice of the grape, even (Allah, Buddha and

  Father Sigmund preserve usl )-spiritous beverages of fermented liquors-!"

  The Librarian-General rolled up her eyes in an extremity

  of horror. "Oh, no, Father-! mean, yes, Father, I am quite

  certain. I see the Learned every day; I am convinced he has

  not left the planet for an instant.''

  Hautley expressed his . appreciation in a lengthy blessing on

  the Librarian-General's ka which, had it been effective,

  should have spared her some millenia in Purgatory, concluding with an extempore rendition of appropriate texts from The Nine Gospels which added measurably to his· monthly

  phone bill He rang off and sat back, stroking with an idle

  fore-finger, the little canary-yellow dragon which clung cozily

  to his left shoulder.

  So . • • Pawel Spiro, it would seem, was a client of that

  rare variety called phonus-balonus. A fake. But a good one;

  very good; in fact, professional class

  . odd

  •

  •

  •

  •

  •

  And what about Heveret Twelfth? Was His Dignity also

  spurious, or the genuine article? Without delay, Hautley set

  about checking the bona fides of the Canopan monarch.

  Directly in front of the door was a rather slippery place

  where the parquet flooring was polished with a frictionless

  compound. Part of the door's archway was a sleek panel of

  glossy chrome set at the average hand-height. To avoid falling on his imperial snoot, the Proprietor of Canopus had to grab this polished panel. Hautley snapped a photogram and

  ran it through the enlarger: sure enough, prints of the right

  hand, and beauties they were, clear as crystal.

  Then he ca1led the Royal Archives at Phungalumdum on

  Canopus II, securing no less elevated a personage than the

  Third Assistant Under-Archivist: a shriveled and vituperous

  gnome with a silvery spike of beard and snapping purple