The Pervects weren't put off.

The medium-sized one leaned forward imploringly. "Please, just tell us where we can find him?"

"He's on sabbatical, and I'm not going to let you interrupt him on some whim. Go enroll in summer school."

"This is important!" the smallest one said.

"So are his studies," I snarled. "Forget it, I said."

"But we're willing to pay him," the tallest one said.

"He doesn't need it." I crossed my arms. I had recently gone to a lot of trouble to make sure Skeeve wasn't going to be disturbed for as long as he wanted to stay out of touch, and there was nothing these three fashion plates could say to change my mind.

"We really need his help," the tallest one pleaded. "We have GOT to learn how to survive—"

"Shh!" the other two shushed her.

"If you'd just let us talk to him," the smallest one said, fluttering her green-scaled eyelids. "Then he'd understand why we need his help."

"Sorry you wasted your time, ladies," I said. I turned my shoulder on them. The interview was over. I signalled for a refill. The bartender's potboy hustled over with a gallon jug, and slopped a quantity into our glasses. I took a casual swig.

"So, Guido, you try out that new Djinni restaurant yet?"

The Mob enforcer kept a weather eye on our visitors, but he gritted out a reply. "Too spicy for me. I like to keep the enamel on my teeth."

The Pervects drifted off the bench, but they didn't go far. They stood there in the middle of the grimy old pub like a fresh lick of paint on a garbage wagon, a neon sign to pickpockets and muggers that here were three easy victims. Anyone with half an eye could tell they needed some practical advice, but that wasn't my problem. Not really. But I did give a glare to the unsavory elements hanging around in the room to make sure they knew these females weren't to be picked on, even if they were as clueless as newborn kittens. With my luck they'd get creamed in the next bar fight, and I'd have to deal with locals who thought MAYBE Pervects weren't so tough after all.

They were still moaning. I didn't care. Skeeve's privacy wasn't going to be interrupted for a trio of coddled fashion plates.

"What are we going to do?" the tallest one wailed. "We won't be prepared! After my parents put me through MIP at a cost of 5,000 gold pieces a semester, I can't find a lousy tutor when it's a life-and-death matter? My parents would have paid anything to get the Great Skeeve!"

I pointedly hadn't been paying close attention to their conversation, but my keen hearing had picked up the words "thousand gold pieces." They had me from there on.

"You like Djinni food?" Guido asked me.

I held up a finger to put his question on hold.

"HOW much did MIP cost?" I asked the tall Pervect.

"Five thousand" the Pervect repeated, turning toward me. Her eyes were bright gold with unshed tears. "A semester. Plus books and equipment. Plus housing and activity tickets and my allowance—more than fifteen thousand a year!"

I couldn't see it, but I knew the little green-for-greed light had just gone off over my head.

"Sit down, ladies," I purred. "You know, maybe the Great Skeeve could make a little time to help you. If the price was right."

"Y'know, Aahz, the Boss said he don't want—"

"Give the ladies a chance, Guido," I interrupted smoothly, cutting off his protest. I didn't want to blow what suddenly had turned into a potential earner. My inner cash register was playing "We're In The Money" with a brass band and a full chorus. These were trust-fund babies or better. They perched on the bench, looking hopeful.

"Well, you know," I began, "the Great Skeeve don't work cheap. He is the best, and he expects fees according to his skills. And status."

The great-niece nodded. "Auntie Vergetta said we could expect that. How much would he want?"

"Well, the fees have to support our company's efforts," I said innocently, forestalling a squawk from Guido. "To carry on his efforts for the greater good. How about, say, five hundred a week?"

The three smiled with relief.

"Total?" the tallest one asked.

"Each."

"No way!" the middle one protested.

"Take it or leave!" I roared. "The Great Skeeve doesn't deal with pikers!"

"No, no!" the smallest one said. "How about three hundred each?"

I grinned. Now the dealing was going the way I liked it.

"Skeeve, stop it!" Bunny ordered me, exasperation plain on her pretty face. "They're too pink!"

"Are you sure?" I asked. I stopped adding color and stood back to get a better look at my illusion spell.

"Yes, I'm sure! They're Klahds, not Imps!"

I peered at the image. It issued from Bunny's Perfectly Darling Assistant, or PDA, Bytina, a palm-sized clam-shell of brushed red metal, and had been blown up by me with a touch of magik to cover the surrounding walls, covering the peeling paint and worn woodwork of the old inn. Striking poses in a copse of fake hazel trees were several beings wearing elegant clothing that seemed out of both time and place. From what I could tell by the old-fashioned phrases they were spouting, the male wearing the cross-gartered hose was pledging eternal devotion to the young female with long braids and a dress so tightly bodiced that every breath drew my—attention. An older male in a long houppelande and a twisty turban, the female's father, was against the union. They were Klahds, members of my own race. Honesty forced me to admit they were more fuchsia than the usual Klahdish varegations of pale beige through dark brown. Reluctantly, I mentally unreeled some of the rainbow I'd fed into the picture. Bunny tapped her foot impatiently.

"How about now?" I inquired.

"Not yet."

"How about now?"

"No."

"How about now?"

"No."

"Now?"

"No."

"Now?"

"No! Yes," Bunny amended suddenly. Her shoulders relaxed. "Good. Now, make their heads smaller."

"Bunny, they look fine!" I argued. "You can see their expressions better this way."

She redoubled the exasperation and aimed it straight at me. I turned back to my handiwork and studied it. I had to admit she was right again. The people did have the aspect of lollipops on sticks. At the time I had thought it was advantageous, since the last time I'd been to a play the actors were so far away from me I could never tell who was emoting about what. Once I reduced the proportions to normal it seemed as though a crowd was standing in the room of the old inn with us. I liked the effect. I noticed that the backdrop they were standing in front of looked more unrealistic than ever.

"I could improve the scenery," I offered, raising my hands with my thumbs together to make a square. "Make it seem like a real forest."

"No, thanks," Bunny shot back.

"Oh, come on," I wheedled. "It'd be a lot better that way."

"No!" Bunny said. "What IS it about men, that they can't stop fiddling with controls for a single moment? I went for a ride with my uncle on that flying carpet he bought in the Bazaar, and he practically rebraided the fringe on one short little ride!"

I retired to the corner, chagrined.

"Well, if you don't need my help any more—" I began.

Bunny smiled sweetly at me. "I didn't need it to start with. But thank you for enlarging the picture. It does make it easier to watch."

She sashayed back to the cushy armchair in the center of the room, now surrounded by the play, already into its second act. She wasn't so hard to watch herself, being a very curvaceous woman the circumference of whose bosom was approximately two thirds of her height and with red hair that was clipped short to draw attention to the silky skin of her cheeks and neck. Don't misunderstand me—I wasn't interested in Bunny romantically. I had once underestimated her because of her looks. She had used them as camouflage to conceal a surprising intelligence, something that we in M.Y.T.H., Inc. came to appreciate more than her family and former associates in the Mob had. She was one of my best friends, someone whose judgment I trusted absolutely. It didn't hurt that she was fun to look at.