“Gris said what you looked like,” said this (bleep) Faht Bey. “So please don’t take it badly. It’s my guess you’ll be leaving here in two or three days.” Well, (bleep) him! He must have read Lombar’s order to Raht! “So I’ve got to invoke my authority on the subject of base security and ask you not to leave this hangar while you’re here.”

“Can I wander around the hangar?” said Heller.

“Oh, that’s all right, just as long as you don’t leave the outside-world end of the tunnels.”

Heller waved him an airy hand. “Thanks for the tip, Officer Faht.”

And that was the end of that one. I sped ahead to the next light flash that showed the door was open.

Heller was going down the ladder, zip, zip. He landed at the bottom with a tremendous clank. It startled me until I realized he was wearing hull shoes with the metal bars loose.

He started clickety-clacking around, a little notebook held in his hand, making jots and touching his watch now and then. He went around the whole perimeter of the hangar, clickety-clack, POP. I knew what he was doing. He was just amusing himself surveying the place. These engineers! They’re crazy. Maybe he was practicing his sense of direction or something.

I kept speeding the strip ahead. But that was all he was up to. He’d stop by doors and branch tunnels and make little notes and loud POPs.

Now and then he’d meet an Apparatus personnel. The first couple, he gave them a cheerful good morning. But they turned an icy shoulder to him. After that he didn’t speak to anyone. My rumor was working!

He got into some side tunnels and took some interest in the dimensions of the detention cells. It would be hard to tell they were cells for they were not as secure as Spiteos — no wire. They just had iron bars set into the rock. The base crew who had redesigned the place had overdone it on detention cells — they had made enough for hundreds of people and never at any time were there more than a dozen. They were empty now.

Speeding ahead, I saw that he had stopped and I went back to find what was interesting him so much.

He was standing in front of the storage room doors. They are very massive. There are about fifty of them in a curving line that back the hangar itself, a sort of corridor. The corridor has numerous openings into the hangar itself.

They were all locked, of course. And the windows in the doors, necessary to circulate the air and prevent mold, are much too high up to see through. I was fairly certain he would not even guess what they contained.

Lombar, when the pressure was put on Turkey to stop growing opium, had really outdone himself. He had ordered so much of it bought, it would have glutted the market had it all been released. Now, there it was, nicely bagged in big sacks. Tons and tons and tons of it.

But even if one jumped up and got a look through the windows, there was nothing to be seen. Just piles of bags.

Heller examined the floor. But what was there to find? Just the truck wheel wear.

He bent over and picked up some dust and then, to wipe his hand, I suppose, he put his hand in his pocket and brought it out clean.

Unconcerned, he just went on clickety-clacking along with the occasional POP.

Again he stopped. He was sniffing the air. He was looking at a huge barred door. And he certainly wouldn’t be able to get in there — it was the heroin conversion plant!

He went up to it and knocked. How silly. Nobody was in there. It only operates once in a while. But still he knocked, very sharp raps.

Heller must have given it up. He made some notes. Just some figures. Pointless.

And there he went again, clickety-clacking, POP along.

He’d stop by an exit tunnel, go down it a bit and come back. I had to laugh. He even went up the exit tunnel which led to my room! He could never suspect the villa lay on the other side. He didn’t even try the switch which opened the door, didn’t even see it, apparently. It would have brought him within ten feet of where I was sitting.

Some spy!

It had only taken him an hour.

Then he’d done a little sketch, all neat, very fast. Apparently there was nobody near to give it to, to show them how good he was — or maybe he had understood they weren’t talking to him. He just climbed back up into the ship.

And that was that.

I had to laugh. What couldn’t he have discovered if he had been a real trained spy! And what did he have? A silly map he could have gotten in the base construction office anyway.

I packed it up. It had turned ten and I had really important things to do — namely, making Soltan Gris rich!

The villa had three cars, all more or less in what Turkey considers running condition. I went out and considered them. The Datsun pickup was more or less full of the remains of vegetables from the morning marketing. The Chevy station wagon had an empty gas tank. That left the French Renault sedan. I think the car had been left over from the wreckage of World War I: they believe in making cars last in Turkey.

The body was dented from several direct hits, the windshield was cracked. It had to be cranked because the battery was dead. It kicked and had been known to break somebody’s arm, so I got Karagoz to crank it. And off I went to town.

I dreamed that soon I would buy a long, black, bulletproof limousine, the kind gangsters have. I even knew where there was one: a Turkish general had been killed in the 1963 military take-over and the car was for sale cheap.

The Renault, however, had its advantages. It steered erratically and could be counted on to drive carts off the road. They are stupid gigs, usually heavily laden, drawn by donkeys, and they really clutter the place up. If you swerve in close to the donkey as you pass, the cart winds up in the ditch. It is very comical. You can watch the driver shaking his fist in the rearview mirror.

I was just enjoying my fifth cart upset when I noticed I was passing Afyonkarahisar: the vast bulk of the rock rose 750 feet in the air.

Abruptly, I pulled to the left and stopped. I blocked a chain of carts coming from town, but they could wait. I leaned out and looked up the face of the rock.

Even though it was powdered with cement dust, you could see that it had handholds if you didn’t mind losing a few fingernails. Still, I would never attempt to climb it. Never. And in the dark? Absolutely never!

My interest in this was a matter of character, not the character of Heller — I already knew he was crazy — but in the character of a man who had suddenly become vital in my plans of riches: Jimmy “The Gutter” Tavilnasty. He said he had seen Heller climbing it. Obviously, the feat was impossible. Therefore Jimmy “The Gutter” Tavilnasty was a pathological liar. Good. I would watch it when I spoke with him later today and made him my offer.

The engine had died so I got out and cranked it. The drivers of the halted carts were screaming and shaking their fists. I screamed and shook my fist back, got in and drove the rest of the way to town.

The Mudlick Construction Company was my destination. It has branch offices all around Turkey. It does a lot of government contracting and therefore must be crooked. I double-parked and went in.

My business was soon transacted. The manager took my sketch and estimated the cost. When he heard I wanted the hospital built in six weeks, he raised the price. I walked out and he rushed to the sidewalk and brought me back and halved the amount. But he said he would have to build it of mud, the favorite construction material of this district. I told him it had to be of first-class materials. We compromised by planning to build it half of mud and half of proper materials. Then I doubled the price and told him he would owe me half, as a kickback. We signed the contract and parted firm friends.