"I don't care to specify, since you would only ask Helsse for more, or try to extract the same from both of us."

Zarfo sighed dismally. "You have a sorry opinion of the Lokhar. Our word is our bond; once we strike a bargain we do not deviate."

The haggling continued on a more or less cordial level until for the sum of twenty sequins Zarfo agreed to guard the privacy of the conversation as fiercely as he might the hiding place of his money, and the sum was paid over.

"Back to the Wankh message for a moment," said Reith. "There were references to a 'leader.' Were there hints or clues by which to identify him?"

Zarfo pursed his lips. "A wolf-tone indicating high-level gentry; another honorific brevet which might signify something like 'a person of the excellent sort' or 'in your own image,' 'of your sort.' It is very difficult. A Wankh reading the ideogram would understand a chime, which then would stimulate a visual image complete in essential details. The Wankh would be furnished a mental image of the person, but for someone like myself there are only crude outlines. I can tell no more."

"You work in Settra?"

"Alas. A man of my years and impoverished: isn't it a pity?

But I near my goal, and then back to Smargash, in Lokhara, for a bit of meadow, a young wife, a comfortable chair by the hearth."

"You worked in the space shops at Ao Hidis?"

"Yes, indeed; I transferred from the tool works to the space shops, where I repaired and installed air purifiers."

"Lokhar mechanics must be very skillful, then."

"Oh, indeed."

"Certain mechanics specialize upon the installation of, say, controls and instruments?"

"Naturally. Complex trades, both."

"Have such mechanics immigrated to Settra?"

Zarfo gave Reith a calculating glance. "How much is the information worth to you?"

"Control your avarice," said Reith. "No more money today. Another sausage, if you like."

"Later, perhaps. Now as to the mechanics: in Smargash are dozens, hundreds, retired after lifetimes of toil."

"Could they be tempted to join in a dangerous venture?"

"No doubt, if the danger were scant and the profit high. What do you propose?"

Reith threw caution to the winds. "Assume that someone wished to confiscate a Wankh spaceship and fly it to an unspecified destination: how many specialists would be required, and how much would it cost to hire them?"

Zarfo, to Reith's relief, did not stare in bewilderment or shock. He gnawed for a moment at the last of the sausage. Then, after a belch, he said, "I believe that you are asking if I consider the exploit feasible. It has often been discussed in a jocular manner, and for a fact the ships are not stringently guarded. The project is feasible. But why should you want a spaceship? ,I do not care to visit the Dirdir on Sibol or test the infinity of the universe."

"I can't discuss the destination."

"Well then, how much money do you offer?"

"My plans have not progressed to that stage. What do you consider a suitable fee?"

"To risk life and freedom? I would not stir for less than fifty thousand sequins."

Reith rose to his feet. "You have your fifty sequins; I have my information. I trust you to keep my secret."

Zarfo sat sprawled back in his chair. "Now then, not so fast. After all I am old and my life is not worth so much after all. Thirty thousand? Twenty? Ten?"

"The figure starts to become practical. How much of a crew will we need?"

"Four or five more, possibly six. You envision a long voyage?"

"As soon as we are in space, I will reveal our destination. Ten thousand sequins is only a preliminary payment. Those who go with me will return with wealth beyond their dreams."

Zarfo rose to his feet. "When do you propose to leave?"

"As soon as possible. Another matter: Settra is overrun with spies; it's important that we attract no attention."

Zarfo gave a hoarse laugh. "So this morning you approach me in a vast carriage, worth thousands of sequins. A man watches us even now."

"I've been noticing him. But he seems too obvious to be a spy. Well, then, where shall we meet, and when?"

"Upon the stroke of midmorning tomorrow, at the stall of Upas the spice merchant in the Cercade. Be certain you are not followed ... That fellow yonder I believe to be an assassin, from the style of his garments."

The man at this moment approached their table. "You are Adam Reith?"

"Yes."

"I regret to say that the Security Assassination Company has accepted a contract made out in your name: the Death of the Twelve Touches. I will now administer the first inoculation. Will you be so good as to bare your arm? I will merely prick you with this splint."

Reith backed away. "I'll do nothing of the sort."

"Depart!" Zarfo Detwiler told the assassin. "This man is worth ten thousand sequins to me alive; dead, nothing."

The assassin ignored Zarfo. To Reith he said, "Please do not make an undignified display. The process then becomes protracted and painful for us all. So then-"

Zarfo roared: "Stand away; have I not warned you?" He snatched up a chair and struck the assassin to the ground. Zarfo was not yet satisfied. He picked up the splint, jabbed it into the back of the man's thigh, through the rust-ocher corduroy of his trousers. "Halt!" wailed the assassin. "That is Inoculation Number One!"

Zarfo seized a handful of splints from the splayed-open wallet. "And here," he roared, "are numbers Two to Twelve!" And with a foot on the man's neck he thrust the handful into the twitching buttocks. "There you are, you knave! Do you want the next episode, Numbers Thirteen to Twenty-four?"

"No, no, let me be; I am a dead man now!"

"If not, you're a cheat as well as an assassin!"

Passersby had halted to watch. A portly woman in pink silk rushed forward. "You hairy black villain, what are you doing to that poor assassin? He is only a workman at his trade!"

Zarfo picked up the assassin's work sheet, looked down the list. "Hm. It appears that your husband is next on his list."

The woman looked with startled eyes after the assassin now tottering off down the street.

"Time we were leaving," said Reith.

They walked through back alleys to a small shed, screened from the street by a lattice of woven withe. "It is the neighborhood corpsehouse," said Zarfo. "No one will bother us here."

Reith entered, looked gingerly around the black benches on one of which lay the hulk of a small animal.

"Now then," said Zarfo, "who is your enemy?"

"I suspect a certain Dordolio," said Reith. "I can't be sure."

Zarfo scrutinized the work sheet. "Well, we shall see. 'Adam Reith, the Travelers' Inn-Contract Number Two-three-o-five, Style Eighteen; prepaid.' Dated today, surcharged 'Rush.' Prepaid, eh? Well then, let us try a ruse. Back to my cottage."

He took Reith to one of the brick towers, entered by an arched doorway. On a table rested a telephone. Zarfo lifted the instrument with cautious fingers.

"Connect me with the Security Assassination Company."

A grave voice spoke. "We are here to serve your needs."

"I refer to Contract Number Two-three-o-five," said Zarfo, "relating to a certain Adam Reith. I can't find the estimate and I wish to pay the charges."

"A moment, my lord."

The voice presently returned. "The contract was prepaid, my lord; and was scheduled for execution this morning."

"Prepaid? Impossible. I did not prepay. What is the name on the receipt?"

"The name is Helsse Izam. I'm sure there is no mistake, sir."

"Perhaps not. I'll discuss the matter with the person involved."

"Thank you, sir, for your custom."