LITMIR.BIZ

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Belgezad knew that Anson Drake was the former, and Drake knew that Viron Belgezad was the latter. And each one was waiting his chance to get the other.

      A week before, Drake had been relaxing happily on a beach on Seladon II, twelve light-years from Thizar, reading a newsfax. He had become interested in an article which told of the sentencing of a certain lady to seven years in Seladon Prison, when his attention was attracted by another headline.

      VIRON BELGEZAD BUYS ALGOL NECKLACE

      Thizar (GNS)—Viron Belgezad, wealthy Thizarian financier, has purchased the fabulous Necklace of Algol, it was announced today. The necklace, made of matched Star Diamonds, is estimated to be worth more than a million credits, although the price paid by Belgezad is not known.

      Such an interesting bit seemed worthy of further investigation, so Drake had immediately booked passage on the first space liner to Thizar.

      And thus it was that an immaculately dressed, broad-shouldered, handsome young man sat quietly in the Flamebird Room of Thizar’s flashiest hostelry surveying his surroundings with steady green eyes and wondering how he was going to get his hands on the Necklace of Algol.

      The police couldn’t touch Belgezad, but Anson Drake could—and would.

      “Hello, Drake,” said a cold voice at his elbow.

      Drake turned and looked up into the sardonically smiling face of Jomis Dobigel, the heavy-set, dark-faced Thizarian who worked with Belgezad.

      “Well, well,” Anson said, smiling, “if it isn’t Little Bo-Peep. How is the dope business? And how is the Big Dope Himself?”

      Dobigel’s smile soured. “You’re very funny, Earthman. But we don’t like Earthmen here.”

      “Do sit down, Dobbie, and tell me all about it. The last I heard—which was three hours ago—the government of Thizar was perfectly happy to have me here. In fact, they were good enough to stamp my passport to prove it.”

      * * * *

      Dobigel pulled out a chair and sat down, keeping his hands beneath the table. “What are you doing here, Drake?” he asked in a cold voice.

      “I couldn’t help it,” Drake said blandly. “I was drawn back by the memory of the natural beauties of your planet. The very thought of the fat, flabby face of old Belgezad, decorated with a bulbous nose that is renowned throughout the Galaxy, was irresistible. So here I am.”

      Dobigel’s dark face grew even darker. “I know you, Drake. And I know why you’re here. Tomorrow is the date for the Coronation of His Serenity, the Shan of Thizar.”

      “True,” Drake agreed. “And I wouldn’t miss it for all the loot in Andromeda. A celebration like that is worth traveling parsecs to see.”

      Dobigel leaned across the table. “Belgezad is a Noble of the Realm,” he said slowly. “He’ll be at the Coronation. You know he’s going to wear the Necklace of Algol as well as anyone, and you—”

      Suddenly, he leaned forward a little farther, his right hand stabbing out toward Drake’s leg beneath the table.

      But Anson Drake was ready for him. Dobigel’s hand was a full three inches from Drake’s thigh when a set of fingers grasped his wrist in a viselike hold. Steely fingers bit in, pressing nerves against bone. With a gasp, Dobigel opened his hand. A small, metallic cylinder dropped out.

      Drake caught it with his free hand and smiled. “That’s impolite, Dobbie. It isn’t proper to try to give your host an injection when he doesn’t want it.”

      Casually, he put the cylinder against the arm which he still held and squeezed the little metal tube. There was a faint pop! Drake released the arm and handed back the cylinder. Dobigel’s face was white.

      “I imagine that was twelve-hour poison,” Drake said kindly. “If you hurry, old Belgezad will give you the antidote. It will be painful, but—” He shrugged.

      “And by the way, Brother Dobigel,” he continued, “let me give you some advice. The next time you try to get near a victim with one of those things, don’t do it by talking to him about things he already knows. It doesn’t distract him enough.”

      Dobigel stood up, his fists clenched. “I’ll get you for this, Drake.” Then he turned and stalked off through the crowd.

      * * * *

      No one had noticed the little by-play. Drake smiled seraphically and finished his drink. Dobigel was going to be uncomfortable for a while. Twelve-hour poison was a complex protein substance that could be varied in several thousand different ways, and only an antidote made from the right variation would work for each poison. If the antidote wasn’t given, the victim died within twelve hours. And even if the antidote was given, getting over poison wasn’t any fun at all.

      Reflecting happily on the plight of Jomis Dobigel, Anson Drake paid his bill, tipped the waiter liberally, and strolled out of the Flamebird Room and into the lobby of the Royal Gandyll Hotel. The Coronation would begin early tomorrow, and he didn’t want to miss the beginning of it. The Shan’s Coronation was the affair of Thizar.

      * * * *

      He went over to the robot newsvender and dropped a coin in the slot. The reproducer hummed, and a freshly-printed newsfax dropped out.

      He headed for the lift tube, which whisked him up to his room on the eighty-first floor. He inserted his key in the lock and pressed the button on the tip. The electronic lock opened, and the door slid into the wall. Before entering, Drake took a look at the detector on his wrist. There was no sign of anything having entered the room since he had left it. Only then did he go inside.

      With one of the most powerful financiers on Thizar out after his blood, there was no way of knowing what might happen, and therefore no reason to take chances.

      There were some worlds where Anson Drake would no more have stayed in a public hotel than he would have jumped into an atomic furnace, especially if his enemy was a man as influential as Belgezad. But Thizar was a civilized and reasonably well policed planet; the police were honest and the courts were just. Even Belgezad couldn’t do anything openly.

      Drake locked his door, sang to himself in a pleasant baritone while he bathed, put on his pajamas, and lay down on his bed to read the paper.

      * * * *

      It was mostly full of Coronation news. Noble So-and-So would wear such-and-such, the Archbishop would do thus-and-so. There was another item about Belgezad; his daughter was ill and would be unable to attend. Bloody shame, thought Drake. Too bad Belgezad isn’t sick—or dying.

      There was further mention of the Necklace of Algol; it was second only to the Crown Jewels of the Shan himself. The precautions being taken were fantastic; at a quick guess, about half the crowd would be policemen.

      The door announcer chimed. Drake sat up and punched the door TV. The screen showed the face of a girl standing at his door. Drake smiled in appreciation. She had dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a smooth, tanned complexion. It was a beautiful face, and it showed promise of having a body to match.

      “Who, may I ask, is calling on a gentleman at this ungodly hour, and thus compromising her reputation and fair name?”

      The girl smiled, showing even, white teeth, and her eyes sparkled, showing flickers of little golden flames against the brown. “I see I’ve found the right room,” she said. “That voice couldn’t belong to anyone but Anson Drake.” Then she lowered her voice and said softly: “Let me in. I’m Norma Knight.”

      Drake felt a tingle of psychic electricity flow over his skin; there was a promise of danger and excitement in the air. Norma Knight was known throughout this whole sector of the Galaxy as the cleverest jewel thief the human race had ever spawned. Drake had never met her, but he had definitely heard of her.

      He touched the admission stud, and the door slid silently aside. There was no doubt about it; her body did match her face.

      *

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