answered from the wall voder.
“Since you were obviously under attack and were in no condition to issue orders personally, Prime Directive alpha-1 went into effect,” the ship replied in pleasant, even tones. “I am instructed to protect you and myself on my own initiative, under such circumstances—”
“I know all that,” Kirin growled, lurching unsteadily to his feet. “What did you do?”
“I sealed up and lifted off planet into a stable orbit two miles aloft,” the ship answered. “You and your companion are in need of medical attention; the cabinet is to your—”
“I know where it is,” Kirin grunted, heading for it. “Mix drinks. Use your own initiative.”
While the ship busied itself with that delicate task, Kirin activated the robot medical system and dragged his still-nameless rescuer out of the bay to a more comfortable position within reach of the cabinet. While extensible metal instruments probed cuts, swabbed wounds and treated bruises, he took a good long look at the stranger and was puzzled not to recognize him.
He was short and fat and bald as an egg, with tufted brows and an enormous set of bandit-mustachios that gave his fat-jowled red face a piratical look even in repose. It was hard to tell how old he was but old enough, surely, to be Kirin’s father, except that he wasn’t Kirin’s father.
The cabinet gave him a whiff of stimulant that woke him up and Kirin saw that he had mild twinkling blue eyes. And when he opened his mouth, wincing at the assorted cuts and bruises that adorned his physiognomy—to say nothing of the hefty lump above his left eye—Kirin was amused to discover the fellow had an admirable command of invective.
A glastic panel snapped up in the wall, exposing two tumblers of an amber fluid. Ice cubes tinkled enticingly therein as a pressor beam wafted the two containers within reach.
“Lacking specific directives, but cognizant of your tastes in alcoholic beverages, I took the liberty of mixing—” the ship began.
“Dry up!” Kirin snapped. Then as the stranger ogled him, he grinned. “Not you—my loudmouth robot ship. Here, wrap yourself around a little of this.” He handed the other a tumbler and watched as the level of the amber fluid descended swiftly.
“Ah!” his companion remarked after a bit. “Although forbidden by my vows, save for medicinal purposes, that hit the spot!” A more comfortable expression settled over the fat red face and the blue eyes twinkled jovially.
“If this mechanical Aesculapius is quite finished ministering to my bodily needs, I might remark that your yonder pneumo looks a mite more comfortable than this deck . . .” said the stranger tentatively. Kirin helped the fat little man to his feet and guided him to one of the two pneumatic chairs in the cabin before the curved control console where lights twinkled softly. The little man settled back with a sigh, shrugging out of his weather cloak. Which reminded Kirin he was still wearing his own. In fact, the repellor field was still on and laboring valiantly to repel air-born moisture, of which there was none. He snapped the field off and tossed the cloak aside: the ship would hang it up.
“Excellent, excellent!” the little man puffed, nodding about. Kirin was unsure as to whether the remark concerned the ship or the drink. Then the other settled the question by remarking, “For a thief, friend Kirin, you travel in style and comfort. Yes, indeed!”
Kirin was suddenly cold and alert. If the fat, smiling little man noticed the sudden chill in the atmosphere he did not show it.
“You seem to have the advantage of me, sir,” Kirin said. He lounged in the pneumatic chair, his hand a hair’s-breadth from a hidden energy gun clipped under the console.
“Of course, how stupid of me! Temujin, Doctor Temujin,” the fat man huffed and wheezed, making a sketchy little bow which looked absurd when performed from a sitting position. “I wonder if this admirable mechanism of yours could possibly—ah—?” he hinted, tapping his empty tumbler suggestively, tufted brows elevated inquiringly.
“Sure. Ship! Two more of the same.”
Doctor Temujin fixed him with a shrewd, twinkling little eye.
“You will be wondering how I know you, sir.”
“Something of that nature had crossed my mind,” Kirin admitted. “Together with a few other questions…” Temujin nodded, accepting another drink.
“Those ugly little monsters were Death Dwarves from Pelizon,” the little man puffed. He dipped into the tumbler and drank thirstily. When he came up for air, he said, “They came to Zha to slay you; I came to save your life. Alas, I was almost too late for the appointment… and I believe, sir, you ended up by saving mine.”
Kirin’s cold eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Since I have never had occasion to visit Pelizon, I fail to understand how I have earned the enmity of the Death Dwarves,” he said slowly. “And for that matter, I am a bit puzzled as to how you knew of my danger or why you concerned yourself with it.”
The other drained the tumbler and set it down with a little grunt of satisfaction. He settled back in his pneumatic chair, folded his hands comfortably over his fat middle, and beamed at Kirin with twinkling eyes that flashed under tufted brows.
“You are the most notorious and celebrated jewel thief in the Near Stars,” he said mildly. It was a statement, not a question. “It was Kirin of Tellus who stole the Nine Diamonds of Pharvis from the dragon-guarded citadel beside the Flaming Sea. It was you who carried off the tiara of the harlot Queen of Zodah, a trifle composed of eleven thousand matched fire-rubies, worth an emperor’s ransom. That one was not so easy. You left eleven corpses behind you, but you were unharmed. And once, on Mnom the Dark World, you laughingly boasted you could steal the Twin Moons of Urnadon out of the skies, if somebody was willing to pay you a good enough price for them. Am I correct?”
“Very,” Kirin said softly. He was relaxed but wary. The little fat man grinned suddenly, plump cheeks wobbling.
“I am no monitor, if that’s what you’re thinking! Space, no! In fact, I—uh—in my secular days before I joined the Order, I was, ahem, a bit of a thief myself over on Onaldus and Nar.” The doctor sighed nostalgically. “Ah, lad, those were the days…”
“Keep going,” Kirin said.
“Hem! Well then. I came to Zha not only to keep those vile little monsters from scragging you, but to make you a proposition. I want you to steal something for me. A treasure. A jewel, in fact. It is very well and cunningly guarded, and the task requires a man of your calibre and adeptness. The jewel is on the planet Pelizon, where it is watched and guarded by the Death Dwarves, who regard it as a holy object. Somehow the cunning devils learned of our—of my—intent, and, to forestall it, planned to assassinate you so the jewel could not be stolen. I came to Zha to protect you from them. Unfortunately, I came by a freighter. I bought passage with the trader Baphomer. He has a slow ship and I was almost too late…”
Kirin digested this in silence. On the surface, at least, it made sense. But underneath, lay large unanswered questions.
“Temujin… Doctor Temujin, I believe you said. Doctor of what? And where exactly are you from?”
Temujin pursed his lips unhappily.
“I was rather hoping you would not ask that question,” he wheezed, “but I am permitted to answer it. I am a doctor of the Minor Thaumaturgies and I am from Trevelon.”
Trevelon? Curiouser and curiouser! Kirin had heard of that distant mysterious world. The “Planet of Philosophers,” they called it in the Near Stars. But Kirin knew the grey sages of Trevelon were reputed to be more magicians than philosophers. They of Trevelon were masters of the lesser magics and meddled not at all with the doings of the worlds about them. They did not encourage visits and they never visited other worlds themselves. How odd, then, that the Master Mages of Trevelon should become embroiled in thievery, secret treasures and murder…
“Thaumaturgy,” he grunted. “Then you are yourself a magician?”