Doomsman - the Theif of Thoth

by Harlan Ellison

  Avenida san Miguel-so his bunch had proved right, and he

  was one jump ahead of Grey-Complexion & Company! It

  seemed obvious they had missed ·the clue in their search of the

  fiat, for sw-ely they would never have left it intact for Hautley

  to 1ind, but would have seared the title-page to ash, or carried

  the book along with them when they left.

  He took the slideway back to the spaceport, fully expecting

  armed interception at every moment of the trip, but the journey, although a trifle tedious, was uninterrupted.

  Hts slim little speedster, the fastest thing in · space, was

  seemingly untampered with, but just to be certain no nasty explosive devices had been planted aboard her, be went over the graceful little craft with great care, and found nothing. Either

  the forces of Grey-Complexion & Company bad not tried, or

  they had tried to get into the ship but were unable to penetrate

  the several electronic guardians he bad activated before quitting the craft a half an hour earlier.

  The speedster flashed into deep space. With a bone-shivering subsonic drone the Bettleheim-Ortleigh-Robton Drive en-

  gaged, and soon Quicksilver was hurtling towards the distant

  planet of Sol III at seven hundred and fifty-seven light-speeds

  per hour.

  WHILE EN ROUTE, Quicksilver again altered his outward appearance. Blue facial pigmentation, a scalpwig of scarlet bristles, a padded pneumatic suit, and he was now one of the Blue Nomads of Cordova 6, Aristocrat Class, and obviously a tourist from his ritual accouterments.

  The ship's computer brain spoke through the wall-vox, reminding him of the time. He ordered a snack.

  Over a luncheon of boiled wyvem tongue and diced karoly,

  Quicksilver consulted the ship's small but remarkably comprehensive reference library. Ordovik's Galactic Religious and Related Symbolism gave him the answer to the question of the

  Purple Eye he had found in the Meredith Wilsson Room

  above the bar.

  The metallic token stood for the planet Thoth itself. And

  there could be little question that this was more than mere

  coincidence. Obviously, Grey-Complexion and his pals were,

  also after the Crown of Stars, which made yet a fourth entry

  in the race for the enigmatic cult object! Hautley read the relevant information in Ordovik, to see if he could learn anything else of value.

  The circle within the elipse represented the planet, which, as

  it happened, was ringed with a whorl of phosphorescent purple vapor. This particular form of the symbol identified its possessor as a member of the Neothothic Priesthood. Were the fanatic cultists aware their treasure was the object of plots? Or

  was the Eye what might be called a purple herring, planted to

  confuse and mislead him?

  Time (as the ancient maxim ran) would telL

  Next he checked his library for information on Sol III, a

  planet with which he was not familiar. He learned the planet

  was an oblate spheroid of medium size with an oxygen-base

  atmosphere and one grav. Its native culture was very old indeed, although somewhat backwards technologically. The native name for Sol III was "Earth"--quaint conceit, thatland the Centaurus Sector lay in the Orion Spur, that minor archipelago of suns that jutted rimwards from the Carina­

  Cygnus Arm of the galaxy.

  The leading native language was called Portingee or Portuguese or something like that. Sampling it, Hautley grimaced delicately: an uncouth, barbarous jargon, but he supposed he must subject himself to it. He unfolded the hypnopedia from the wall; dialed the appropriate file number, and settled down before whirling lights for a brief snooze from which he would awaken within an hour or less, his mind artificially

  "imprinted" with a complete colloquial familiarity with the

  local native langauge, social customs, cultural mores, etc.

  When he awoke, the ship bad already emerged from the

  mathematical paradox in which it traveled at ultraphotonic

  velocities, and it was with a slight headache and a sour eye

  that Quicksilver viewed the muddy looking planet that swam

  up towards him in the viewplate.

  Only one moon-how bizarre!

  He spiraled down into a soupy atmosphere and hung in

  mid-air while the sphere revolved beneath hun, until the continent called South America slid beneath him. He touched down at Brasialia, and emerged from the ship.

  Now to find Dugan Motley! He hoped it would not take

  long. As be selected an aircab-there were no glidewalks to be

  seen, and you could not get anywhere in the capital city of

  Brasilia unless you want to hoof it on the city's odd mosaicpaved stationary ways-be wondered why, of all the planets in the civilized galaxy, Dugan Motley would have chosen so

  remote and stagnant a backwater as ,fuis little planet, a stellar

  mediocrity if ever he saw one.

  Probably nothing had happened here since Time began.

  His aircab ascended into the steamy drizzle. The driver was

  surly and sullen-at first anyway. Once he sized up Quicksilver as a free-wheeling Galactic tourist with a pouch full of munits, be became more cooperative. Judging from this specimen, the Earthmen were slim, brown-skinned little people with straight black hair and ebon eyes. And to judge from

  their general demeanor, it seemed they still harbored a

  grudge-feud against Galactics. As the wheezing little aircab

  clove the rainy sky on its sputtering rotors, Hautley idly wondered how long it had been since Galactic Imperial forces had opened up this quaint portion of the Orion Spur to the civilizing influences of a superior culture. A modest inquiry directed at the swarthy little driver, elicited, interspersed amongst some

  foul language and a number of pungent epithets, the information that the Conquest had occured way back in A.D. 1968, according to the local calendar. From the lowness of this numerical designation, Hautley assumed "1 968"' must have been at the very dawn of Earthling civilization. In a1l the millenia

  since passed, the Earthlings did not seem to have improved

  their technological levels with particular alacrity, he noted,

  appraising the aircab itself, virtually a museum-piece, with its

  ungainly nuclear power-pack. which must have occupied a

  good cubic foot of space • • .

  Puttering along at a dismally slow crawl of 500 m.p.h., the

  cab left the city of Brasilia proper, and entered into airspace

  above its several suburbs. Before Hautley bad completed

  smoking his second aromatique, they were above endless

  squares of suburban homes, amusing antiques with their biodomes which thermostatically simulated a perfect Nordamericano climate and eaoh with its identical elm tree on the front yard and a two-'copter garage in the rear. Now they were over

  the fashionable Matto Grosso suburb.

  The farther they flew, the higher the fare mounted, and the

  higher the fare mounted, the more sizable grew the potential

  tip in the driver's expectant mind, and the more sizable proportions the tip assumed, the more affable grew the surly little cabby. He became, in fact, downright cordial, and, as they

  began to near their destination, he bad unthawed to the degree

  of volubly pointing out the local sights. Such as the marina at

  the mouth of the Orinoco River, Blasco Ibanez National Park,

  and the replica of the Lost City of "Z" for which a local folk

  hero called "Colonel Fawcett" ·had been searching when he

  met a grisly and enigmatic end somewhere in the trackless and

  swampy wilds of the great Amazonian jungle whose matted

  wildernes
s had once sprawled in oozy grandeur where now

  block after block of suburban homes marched in stereotyped

  squalor. (This exact-size duplicate of the Lost City. Hautley

  learned from the now loquacious cabby. gratuitously passing

  on quaint nuggets of local color, had been constructed entirely

  from tens of thousands of "Mr. Frosty" sticks contributed by

  the schoolchildren of the Earth. Sadly, for antiquarians such

  as Quicksilver, the Lost City of "Z" had been tom down some

  centuries ago so that a fly-in video theatre could be constructed on its site by an enterprising realty entrepeneur.) Ah! progress! thought Hautley, wryly.

  ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN A venida san Miguel proved to be a

  palatial mansion whose stately lines reflected the well-aged patina of an aristocratic colonial culture. It was prefabricated entirely out of pastel nonresinous plastics, in a style which

  nostalgically reminded Hautley of childhood visits to grandma's farm. This imposing structure rose amid flowering parks with gracefully meandering walks and a clutter of greenhouses

  and comparable outbuildings of similar nature. The old boy

  (Quicksilver mused) has certainly done all right for himself/

  Hautley's driver landed the aircab with a bounce and a

  thump that must have loosened half the nuts and bolts holding

  the craft together. Hautley, however, was grateful to have

  come down in one piece. From the sounds it had made in

  ftight, the antiquated vehicle either had a bad case of asthma,

  or could be expected to blow a gasket or lose a venturi at any

  moment during flight. Quicksilver paid the exorbitant fare,

  added a gratuity whose sheer opulent munificence made the

  cabby's toes curl with ecstacy; and rang the doorbell.

  He proffered his card to the robutler, eschewing, for just

  this once, a nom de plume, and while waiting, glanced about

  him curiously. Everywhere was rose-marble from far Capuchine and grillwork of fine Phriote craftsmanship, chastely ornamented with a zircon-studded chromium relief illustrative of various culture heroes from the local religion (Juarez,

  Mickey Mouse, Fidel Castro, Zorro and Joan Blondell, to be

  precise.) Hautley's sardonic brows mounted. What luxury!

  What taste! Dugan Motley, it seemed, had certainly invested

  his criminously-gotten gains wisely and well . . .

  A deep-chested foghorn voice in full-throated bellow interrupted these cultural musings.

  "By dog, the great Quicksilver himself landing on mine

  doorstep, it is! Scintillate me for a no-good, a joy it is for you

  to meeting up with m�no?"

  Surging mountainously in advance of the prim and staid robutler, came Dugan Motley himself, all seven foot-three inches and 325 pounds of him, dwarfing the automataton as

  he waddled into the hall. A gigantic, fiercely-bristling piratical

  beard of flaming crimson, twinkling eyes merry and bright

  and blue as the earth sea, Caribbean, he lumbered forward,

  his inunense paunch of heroic, nay! mythological proportions

  swinging from side to side as he strode, with one fat iridium

  ring glittering from his left earlobe.

  Beaming smiles and thundering forth articulate welcomes

  and little goat-cries of enthusiasm, he bore down on the startled Quicksilver like a super-dreadnaught descending in full force upon a tiny rowboat, enveloping him in a vast, bonecrunching bear bug, thumping him on the back with pats of spine-pulverizing impact; and firing off floor-shaking salvos of

  hearty booming laughter that caused the bric-a-brac to jingle,

  several alabaster busts to quake on their fluted pedestals and

  aroused seismic waves of tinkling among the crystal chandeliers.

  The Master Burglar ushered Quicksilver into a first-floor

  den only a few �crons smaller that the Grand Imperial State

  Audience Chamber itself. Pushing his guest into the seductive

  embrace of a cozy pneumatique that instantly adjusted to his

  contours and began a subtle massage job on his shoulder muscles, Dugan waddled over to the wall and thumbed a dial.

  The wall sank into the floor soundlessly, revealing to Hautley's stunned gaze tlte most astounding collection of cut-crystal decanters filled with potables of every hue in the spectrum

  -an alcoholic's dream of the Land of Oz.

  Roaring with Falstaffian joviality, Dugan Motley grinned

  through the bristling bush of his bright beard.

  "You, my friend, the great Quicksilver of about whom I

  have so much heard, you will drink-what?" He gestured expansively, using for the gesture a hand only slightly smaller than a medium-sized ham.

  "Your choice you will taking, please, of two hundred and

  eleven thousand, four hundred thirty-six different varieties of

  booze, rotgut and panther's sweat (as the earthly Ancients

  would say, ho ho) . So what is it you are choose? Or to the

  smoking perhaps-maybe? Sniff? Inject? Nasal-spray? Nerve

  center electrostimulus? Ovo-Snave? You ask-I got!" he

  boomed, crimson with the flush of hospitality.

  "In other words-name my poison, eh?" Quicksilver

  smiled. For once his aplomb was overwhelmed by the sheer

  prodigality of the Master Burglar's generosity. He assumed

  a judicious air and pondered the row of sparkling decanters.

  "Well . . . Chateau Moskowitz, Dugan, if you have it."

  "If I am having it-to laugh, to laugh it is! Seventeen more

  bottles I am having than the Emperor himself in the Imperial

  booze collection, har-har." Dugan slapped his wobbling

  paunch with one massive hand, a wallop that would have staggered a bullock. ''The bottles, the drinking, it is a lonely, sick old man's only joy," he snorted "But no, yes--scut me for a

  snazzer, I will having the same, by dog!" Waddling over to

  the wall of spirituous beverages, the fat man selected a crystal

  bottle.

  "Vintage of '022, is okay being by you, mine boy? Heh?"

  he rumbled inquiringly.

  Hautley nodded. "A good year, I believe, yes."

  Dugan slopped the priceless beverage into two diamond-

  studded cups il.nd they toasted each other.

  "To crime," Quicksilver proposed aptly.

  "To crime, har bar!"

  They drank.

  DuGAN MOTLEY gargled down his brew with snorting appreciation, and wiped the back of his hand across his whiskery mouth.

  "Pfthaa! Hot damn and by dog, now, but that has the genuine old-fashioned Moxie, or am I be-lying in my molars, heh? Heh!" he belched.

  "Excellent," Hautley commented. Judiciously he swizzled

  the pallid sparkling wine about the outer rim of the goblet

  with a practised twist of the wrist. He threw back his head to

  languidly savor the bouquet with first the left nostril, then the

  right, and then with the left again, as it was particularly sensitive.

  "A charmingly unpretentious little wine," he pronounced,

  after sampling it thoughtfully. "Ever so cautiously verging on

  audacity, but sweetly retiring from the brink, blushing, as it

  were. But pleasant, very . . . ah . . . humble, but touched

  with an amusing degree of self-confidence."

  "Hot damn," Dugan Motley rumbled, admiringly. Hautley

  inserted the very tip of his tongue into the fluid and sipped

  frowningly.

  "Hmm . . . from the, ah, the west side of the vinyard, I

  should say," he continued. "More sun in the afternoons, you

  know," he improvised
, at Dugan's gape of non-comprehension. "Brings out the tannic acid in the soil, of course. Yes

  . . . on the whole, a very hospitable little wine. Very."

  Dugan's huge red face split in two with a grin that revealed

  a display of ivories that would have quickened the heart of a

  pianist.

  "Ho, it is the true connoisseur, this Quicksilver, by hot

  damn and hot dog! What expertise and know-how, not to

  mentioning the savvy too! Oh, the joy it is to an old lonely

  sick man's heart, the very sight of you is bringing,-the great

  Quicksilver!"

  "Happy to meet you, too," Hautley said. "I've always been

  an admirer-"

  Dugan's cement-mixer voice roared on over Hautley's polite interpolation like a bulldozer sliding over a cabbage patch.

  "Upstairs-! can show you!-1 am keeping scrapbooks full of

  you, yes! That time on Zanuck 3 when the ruby eye from the

  idol of N'gumba-Yoh-Yoh the Corn Goddess you are the

  stealing of! What finesse! And the timing, how smooth!"

  "Tut, now!" Hautley said modestly.

  "And the kidnaping for the huge r·ansom of that Prince

  from Niekas 12-how you are, with the adroits and the subties, too, hoy! And him the Prince, too, a forty-foot Crocodile

  Man! Oh, the marvelousness of it all! To an old man's heart it

  is like a breath of the good old days . . .

  "

  Against his innate sense of modesty, Quicksilver could not

  help but bask before the warmth of ,this praise like earth poet

  of pre-antiquity Walter Savage Landor before the fires of life.

  ••old!" he protested, rallying the old bandit. "Why, Dugan

  you sound like a real old-timer, but from the looks of you, I'd

  swear you're not a day over two hundred! Come on, now, I'd

  thumbprint an oath to the fact."

  "Oh, har bar bar!"

  They joshed back and forth over the sparkling wine, as two

  veteran professionals will upon their first meeting. But it was

  grim business that had brought Hautley speeding to this