“We don’t just spring it on them?” Steengo said doubtfully.
“You’re right. We don’t. During the sleepless hours of the night I worked up a cover story. It goes this way, something close to the truth. The nomads found this thing in a stream bed after a flash flood. Tried to trade it to the keepers of the Pentagon who have a strict policy of noncommunication. However it was photographed when presented and only later was it recognized as an archeological artifact of possible interest.”
“Reasonable,” Steengo said doubtfully. “But what are we doing with the photos?”
“Given to us when we were booted out of the place. Hints made of rewards, possible remission of sentence, lots of fedha. With great reluctance we agreed to look for the thing since, simply, what have we got to lose?”
“Thin but plausible,” Floyd said. “Let’s give it a try.”
There was no difficulty talking to the Paradisians; if anything it was hard to get rid of them once approached. How they loved The Stainless Steel Rats! Soon I had a string of adoring fans trailing behind me-along with most of the squad of guards. Everyone wanted to help: none of them knew a thing. But one name kept cropping up during the questioning. Sjonvarp.
Steengo pushed through the crowd and held up the now dogeared photograph. “Still nothing. But a couple of them said to ask Sjonvarp. Who seems to be the top trader around here.”
“I heard the same thing. Grab Floyd, He must be recovering because I saw him looking at the fermented sheot-milk stand. Bring him here before he makes a mistake that he will long remember.”
Sjonvarp was easy enough to find, with countless fingers pointing us the way. He was a tall and solidly-built man with iron-gray hair. His stern face broke into a smile when he turned to see who had called out his name.
“The Stainless Steel Rats in the flesh! I am trebly blessed!”
We hummed two bars of “All Alone” followed by a brisk buck and wing. Which elicited a round of applause from the spectators and a broader smile from Sjonvarp.
“Such rhythm and beauty!” he said.
“We sing ’em the way you like it,” I said. “It is told in the market that you are the master-trader in these parts.”
“I am. Pleased to make your acquaintances, Jim, Floyd and Steengo.”
“Likewise. If you have a moment I have a picture here I would like you to look at.” I hit the high points of our spiel as I passed the pic over. He only half listened, but did put all of Isis attention on the photo. Turning it around at arm’s length, squinting farsightedly to make it out.
“Of course’. I thought so.” He handed it back to me. “Some markets ago, I forget exactly how many, one of these odorous simpletons traded it to one of my assistants. We buy anything that might be of scientific interest for the specialists to examine. It didn’t look like much. But I gave it to old Heimskur anyway.”
“Well that takes care of that then,” I said, tearing the photo up and dropping the pieces. “We’re doing our concert tonight-I can get you a ticket if you want one.”
The artifact was instantly forgotten-as I hoped, although it took some time for us to extract ourselves from the attentive embrace of our fans. Only by saying that it was rehearsal time did we manage to break away.
“Don’t we look for the thing any more?” Floyd asked worriedly. A good musician, but I think drink was eroding his brain cells.
“We have the man’s name,” Steengo said. “That’s what we look into next.”
“How?” Floyd asked, still suffering from semi-paralysis of the neural network.
“Any way we can,” I told him. “Make friends. Drop names. Drop Heimskur’s name among the others. We find out who he is and what he does. Now, as we stroll, I’ll report in.”
Tremearne and Madonette listened carefully to my report. He overed and outed but she stayed to chat.
“Jim, it’s time I left my hole in the wall and visited the other half of the city. It must be safe . . .”