“No. But I have read my mythology. It’s better ‘that you see the rest before we talk about it.”

I started to protest, shut my mouth. Realized that there was no point in probing further. The door opened and our guide reappeared.

“Just the man we are looking for,” I said, remembering our earlier decision. “We have heard, from reliable sources, that there is to be an outdoor market at. dawn tomorrow.”

“Your sources are correct. Tomorrow is the tenth day and that is market day. Always on the tenth day because the nomads remember by marking a finger each day with soot until all fingers are…”

“Right, thanks. I can count to ten without dirty fingers. My fellow musicians and I would like to visit this market-is this possible?”

“You have but to ask, great Jim of The Stainless Steel Rats.”

“I’ve asked. Can someone show us the way in the morning?”

“Tis more fit that you use the Chariots of Fire…”

“I agree, more fit. But more fit that we be fit. Walking is a wonderful exercise.”

“Then walk you shall, if that is your desire. An escort will be provided. It is now the hour of dining and a banquet has been prepared in your honor. Will you be so kind as to follow me?”

“Lead on, my friend. As long as it is not polpettone again we are your avid customers.”

As we followed him out I discovered that my fingers had a fife of their own. Or, more probably, were being twitched into activity by my worried subconscious. They flicked over the computer controls and the glowing numbers appeared before me.

Nineteen and a pulsing red eleven.

Eleven days to go. The morning market had better produce something.

“It is going to be such a lovely day,” the voice said.

Each word shot through my head like a rusty arrow, grating and scraping against the growing headache that was throbbing there. I opened one eye blurrily and bright light added to the pain. I had only enough energy to twist my lips into a surly snarl as our gold-clad host flitted about our quarters. Opening curtains, picking up discarded clothing, generally being as obnoxious as possible at this predawn hour. Only when I heard the outer door slam did I crawl from the bed, turn off the searing lights, stumble on all fours to my pack where it rested against the wall. On the third fumbling attempt I managed to open it and click out a Sobering Effect pill. I swallowed it dry and sat motionlessly while I waited for its beneficent chemicals to seep through my fractured body.

“What was in that green beer?” Floyd said hoarsely, then began to cough. Moaning in agony between coughs as his aching head was kicked about. My headache was seeping away so I clicked out a pill for him and walked unsteadily across to his bed of pain.

“Swallow. This. Will. Help.”

“Quite a party last night,” Steengo said benevolently, joined fingers resting comfortably on the ample bulge of his stomach.

“Die,” Floyd gasped, unsteady fingers groping for the pill. “And burn painfully in hell forever. Plus one day.”

“A bit hungover are we?” Steengo asked cheerfully. “I suppose there is good reason, considering the length of the nights here. Their parties must go on forever. Or maybe it just seems that way. Eat a bit, sleep a bit. Eat a bit, drink a bit. Or maybe more than a bit. I thought that the beer tasted a little on the nasty side. So I only had one. But the meat courses! Tremendous, vegetables, good gravy, liked the bread and red sauce, plus…”

His voice died away as Floyd crawled out of bed and staggered, groaning, from the room.

“You are cruel,” I said, smacking my dry lips together and feeling a little better.

“Not cruel. Just pointing out a few truths. This mission first. Overdrinking, hangovers and Technicolor yawns saved for our victory celebration.”

There was nothing I could say. He was right.

“Message received,” I said, reaching for my clothes. “The quiet life and plenty of rest and raw vegetables. Think positive.”

Dawn brightened the window. A new day. Ten days to deadline. I was thinking negative and I shook myself like a wet dog and tried to shrug off the mood. “Let’s go to the fair.”

When we emerged from the BOQ, Sergeant Ljotur was waiting for us. He snapped to attention and gave a mighty salute – as did the squad of soldiers from the gate guard that he had brought with him.

“We take you to the market!” he called out. “These men are all volunteers, eagerly happy to carry any purchases finest musicians in galaxy may make.”

“Greatly appreciated. Lead on,” I said as we stepped out briskly on the red brick road.

The sun was a glowing crimson disk on the horizon when me reached the market. The Fundamentaloid nomads must lave been early risers because everything was in great swing already. I ready. And gory too; I thought I heard a low moan from Floyd, but the baaing and farting of the sheots tended to drown out most other sounds. Complain they might as the butchered carcasses of their late companions were unloaded from their backs. But there had to be more than a meat market here; eyes averted we hurried past the sanguineous display.

Now bearded nomads solicited our attention in pleading voices, pointing out the attractions of their wares. Which weren’t that attractive. Tired-looking vegetables, crude clay pots, piles of dried sheot chips for the barbecue.

“Pretty grim,” Floyd said.

“Not important,” I told him, jerking my thumb towards the strolling customers. “They are the ones that we are interested in.” I took out the photographs of the artifact that we were looking for and passed one to each of my companions. “Find out if any of the Paradisians have seen this.”

“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.”