* * * * *
In order to understand exactly what happened, we'll have to look over
our cast of main characters. Aside from Leland Hale himself, there are
two gentlemen who played no small part in the Apfahlian farce.
Hinrik Fonshliezen was a tall, dark, lean specimen with a corvine
nose, a vulpine mind, and a porcine greed. Lest this list of
characteristics smack too much of the animalistic, let it be said that
Fonshliezen's memory was _not_ elephantine, which was too bad for him.
Hinrik's great grandfather, one Villim Fonshliezen, had managed,
through dint of much hard labor and much underhanded business, to
amass one of the biggest ranches in Sudapfahl. By the time Hinrik's
generation rolled around, the Fonshliezen holdings were great enough
to make it worth Hinrik's while to enter politics--which, of course,
he did. In what is known as due time, he reached the position of State
Portfolio, a chancellorship second only to the Prime Chancellor himself.
It is easily understandable that his ambitions included the Primacy
itself. He knew, however, that his chances of actually getting the
office were slim. He was efficient; he could handle any of the
Portfolios in the File with ease. He had been elected to the File from
his own country because he had financial control of that country, but
winning a General Election was something else again, because he was not
a popular man.
That is not to say he was _un_popular; probably he was no more
generally disliked than any other politician. But he simply didn't
have the knack of attracting favorable attention to himself; he was
not, to put it bluntly, a lovable man. He had very carefully avoided
doing anything that would make the public angry with him, but avoiding
hatred is not the same thing as attracting love.
Having come to this realization, Hinrik Fonshliezen found himself
looking for either a good deed to do or a good press agent--or both.
Let's leave him looking for the moment, and skip up above the border
into the country of Nordapfahl. In the city of Grosstat, we will find
the Museum of Cultural History, and within that museum, seated in a
comfortable, book-lined office, we find the museum's director, Dr.
Rudolf Mier.
Physically, Dr. Mier was easily distinguishable from Fonshliezen. To
parallel the previous trope, Mier was porcine in build, bovine in
manner, and lupine in business matters.
Mier liked the good things of life--food, liquor, women, fine art, good
music, and well-tailored clothes. He overindulged in all of them except
liquor and women. He was moderate in his use of the former because he
found drunkenness repulsive, and of the latter because women found
_him_ repulsive.
The Museum of Cultural History was his great love, however; as long as
he had it and his work, he could dispense with many of life's little
luxuries--if it became absolutely necessary to dispense with them. The
Museum wasn't much by galactic standards. It had only been in existence
for a couple of centuries, and, in a scanty civilization such as that
of Apfahl, two hundred years isn't much time to pick up a museum full
of really valuable and worthwhile exhibits. The faded uniform of Field
Marshal So-and-so might excite the beating, patriotic heart of an
Apfahlian, but it was of very little worth as a cultural relic.
But to Dr. Mier, the Museum was one of the great landmarks of human
history. He envisaged a day, not too far distant, when his small
collection would be known as the Apfahlian Division of the Interstellar
Museum of Natural and Cultural History. According to the records of the
Interstellar Museum, Dr. Rudolf Mier actually made tactful, cautious
reaches toward such a goal. He was tactfully reminded that it would be
necessary to "improve the general standards" of the Apfahlian museum
before any such recognition could be granted.
Dr. Mier did not actually think that such recognition would come in
his own lifetime; he was somewhat of an idealist, and we must give
him credit for that. But one day certain papers--very old-looking and
yellowed papers--came to his attention, and he sent off a hurried
spacegram to the Board of the Interstellar Museum.
In view of the fact that the Interstellar Museum's directors did not
get around to considering the spacegram for nearly two months, it is
unusual that Mier got an immediate reply to his communication. But Mier
didn't know that, and he was very pleased to hear that an art expert,
Dr. Allen H. Dale, was being dispatched immediately to appraise the
situation.
The eminent Dr. Dale had some trouble in reaching the planet; big space
liners did not--and still do not--make regular stops at Apfahl. Dr.
Dale did, however, manage to get the captain of the I.S.S. _Belvedere_
to veer aside from his predetermined course and drop his passenger to
Apfahl in a small flitter. It cost Dr. Dale a goodly sum, but it was
worth it.
When they were near the planet, the _Belvedere_ stopped, and Dr. Dale
went aboard the flitter with the pilot.
Dr. Dale, the art expert, had a full, graying beard that covered half
his face, and a large shock of graying hair. He might have been a
muscular man, but the cut of his clothes made his six and a half feet
of body seem fat and clumsy. He gave the impression of a man who could
neither fight nor run, but who depended on superior pomposity to stare
down his opponents.
The flitter pilot strapped himself down and said: "Not much money on
Apfahl. Still, I hear there's something stirring." He adjusted Dr.
Dale's seat. "Something about art, eh?" He looked at his passenger as
if expecting some comment.
He was not disappointed. Dr. Dale cleared his throat and said: "Yes.
There has been some excitement in artistic circles of late. Of course,
the news only came out a few weeks ago, and it takes time for anything
like that to spread around the galaxy, even among the civilized
planets."
The pilot twiddled switches and control knobs as he eased the little
ship into a landing orbit. "Well, whatever it is, it must be important
for a man to lay out all the extra cash it costs to get Captain Gremp
to stop the _Belvedere_ and drop you off." Again he glanced at his
passenger.
"Young man," said Dr. Dale, "if you are trying to pump me for
information, that is no way to go about it; on the other hand, if you
are merely trying to keep a conversation going, there is no need to be
coy. I am not on a secret mission for the Interstellar Police, nor am
I normally a close-mouthed man. If you are curious, say so; I can give
you a full explanation before we land."
The pilot reddened a little. "Well--uh--yes. I _was_ sort of wondering
what's supposed to be so important about a piece of wood." Gingerly, he
applied power as the ship dropped toward the cloud-flecked surface of
Apfahl.
"Piece of wood!" Dr. Dale seemed in agony. His gray beard bristled
in indignation. "Young man, I presume you have heard of R. Philipp
Dachboden?"
The sarcasm in his voice was light, but even so the pilot reddened more
deeply. A hundred years ago, the brilliant genius of Dachboden was
perhaps not quite as widely appreciated as it is today, but even then,
two centuries after his death, the name of R. Philipp Dachboden ranked
with those of Da Vinci and Matisse.
"You are aware, I think," continued the pompous doctor, "that Dachboden
did all his sculpture in the wood of the _dynak_ tree, which is native
to Apfahl?"
"Sculpture?" asked the pilot. "I thought he was a painter."
"He was," said Dr. Dale sourly. "His paintings are worth tens of
thousands. But his carvings are worth hundreds of thousands. There are
only eighteen examples of his work known to be in existence. Now there
is reason to believe there may be a nineteenth."
"Oh yeah," said the pilot. "He left one in the time capsule, eh?"
"Presumably. We'll know in a few weeks."
"I guess there'll be a lot of art experts coming in pretty soon, then,
huh?" the pilot asked.
"I expect my colleagues to arrive on the _Quinsen_, out of Denebola.
It's the next scheduled liner to make a stop here at Apfahl. I,
however, wanted to get the jump on them. Get in on the ground floor, so
to speak," the doctor told him.
"I getcha," said the pilot. It didn't occur to him to wonder what good
it would do to get in early when the time capsule wouldn't open until
the scheduled time, anyway, and by then all the art experts for a
thousand parsecs around would be clustered on the spot.
* * * * *
When the flitter landed, the self-important Dr. Allen H. Dale
supervised the unloading of his luggage at the third-rate little
spaceport near the city of Grosstat, a few miles from the shores of
the Kaltvosser Sea. It hadn't been grounded ten minutes before a big,
black, newly-made automobile of quaintly antique design rolled up to
the edge of the landing pit. Two uniformed men got out and stood at
attention at the rear door, which opened to disgorge a third man, a
civilian. The civilian was almost as broad as Dr. Dale, but not nearly
so tall; he looked well-fed, almost oily, and he had a smug expression
on his round face.
Flanked by the two uniformed men, the portly civilian moved ponderously
toward the heap of traveling bags and the gray-bearded man who was
standing beside them.
"Dr. Allen Dale?" he asked respectfully.
If, by this time, the astute reader has begun to suspect that Leland
Hale might perhaps be lurking behind that gray beard and that
anagrammatical alias, that reader may give himself a small pat on his
back. Leland Hale was perfectly capable of posing as an art expert
for the very simple reason that he _was_ an art expert. Therefore, it
was with perfect and utter aplomb that he turned to the fat civilian,
evinced moderate surprise, and said: "I am Dr. Dale, sir. And whom have
I the honor of addressing?"
The civilian bowed very slightly, a mere angling of the spine and a
slight bob of the head. "I have," said the chubby one in slightly
accented Standard, "the honor to be the director of the Grosstat Museum
of Cultural History, Dr. Rudolf Mier."
Leland Hale looked pleasantly surprised. "Ah! Dr. Mier! A very great
pleasure to meet you, sir."
"We received your subradiogram, Doctor," said Mier. "Naturally, I,
myself, came to meet you."
"Naturally," agreed Leland Hale.
"We get very few extra-planetary visitors here," Dr. Mier continued
apologetically. "Apfahl is, I fear, a little off the--ah--beaten path.
Of course, we expect--"
"--to be more widely recognized after the opening of the time
capsule," Leland Hale finished for him. "Of course. And it's only
right. The galaxy must give due respect to the birthplace of the great
Dachboden--and they shall, never fear."
The Director looked like a freshly-petted cocker spaniel.
"We have arranged for your stay here, Dr. Dale. The Kayser Hotel is
holding a suite for you. Your instruments--" He gestured toward the
pile of luggage. "--will be taken there. I wonder if you would honor me
with your presence at lunch?"
"By all means, my dear Director--but the honor will be entirely mine."
Within three minutes, Leland Hale was firmly planted in the rear seat
of the car beside the Director of the Museum of Cultural History, while
the uniformed men sat in front, one of them tooling the vehicle off
down the narrow concrete roadway toward the city of Grosstat.
"Tell me," said Leland Hale, "how did all this come about? The news
releases were very sketchy."
Rudolf Mier leaned back comfortably in his seat and allowed a look of
semi-concentration to envelope his face.
"Well, it all began a couple of centuries ago--back during Dachboden's
lifetime. That's when the Museum was founded, you know." Then he
stopped and looked at Hale. "Ah--_do_ you know? I mean, are you
acquainted with the history of Apfahl?"
Hale looked properly embarrassed, "I'm afraid I know very little,
Doctor. In spite of Dachboden's fame, Apfahl has not shared that fame
as it properly should. Let us say that, although Apfahl basks in the
glory of her renowned son, she doesn't reflect too much of it. You will
have to assume I know absolutely nothing, I'm afraid."
"I see," said Mier. "Well, then, at any rate, the Museum was founded
by a group of our forefathers for the purpose of preserving the unique
heritage that is Apfahl's. In accordance with this ideal, they proposed
to bury a time capsule containing contemporary artifacts. You are
acquainted with the practice, I assume?"
"It's quite common," said Hale.
"As it should be. Each age should take pains to be sure that the
ensuing age does not lose its heritage."
"Of course." Hale honestly didn't see why it should--if Hale could ever
be said to do anything honestly. Anything worth preserving was not the
sort of junk that was usually put in a time capsule. Oh, well--
"The capsule is of the standard type," Mier continued. "Hermetically
sealed, with a tamper-proof time lock activated by a radio-decay clock.
It's set to open at ----" He rattled off a string of numbers, and then
went on to explain the Apfahlian calendar, winding it up with: "Our
calendar is very scientific."
"Very," said Hale.
"At any rate, the capsule was buried underneath the Museum and then
practically forgotten. Oh, we knew it was there, but little notice has
been taken of the fact over the past century and more. We don't even
know what is in it--that is, not in detail. The official list, for
instance, simply says that 'various objects of art' are included, but
it makes no mention of Dachboden. That's not too strange, really, since
the great man's contemporaries didn't recognize his genius.
"But recently we have uncovered a book--a very old book, which we
believe was owned by Dachboden himself. Inside it, there was the
beginning of a letter addressed to a friend, in which Dachboden
mentioned that one of his dynak-wood statues had been picked to be put
in the time capsule, and had been sealed in just the day before the
letter was written.
"Naturally, as soon as we heard of that, we of the Museum exhumed the
time capsule to check again the exact date upon which it is due to
reopen. It is now under careful guard within the Museum itself."
As the car rolled into the outskirts of Grosstat, Hale looked around
and remarked: "So this is the birthplace of the famous Dachboden."
The expression on the face of the Director changed slightly; he looked
a little flustered.
"Well, not exactly," he said.
Hale turned on him, surprise showing in his eyes. "Not exactly? Oh,
come now, my dear Director; either it is or it isn't--eh?"
"Ah--well, yes. It isn't. Uh--what I mean to say is that, although
Dachboden spent most of his life in Grosstat, he was actually born in
Grunfelt."
"Oh?"
"Yes." He waved a hand in a little nervous circle. "You must understand
that Apfahl is, as I said, a rather--ah--well, _backward_ is too
strong a word, but--" He stopped, swallowed, began again. "You see,
Dr. Dale, Apfahl does not yet have a united planetary government. We
have--ah--_two_ sectors, each independently governed. Of course, we who
are more enlightened deplore such a state of affairs, but--" He stopped
again and smiled weakly. "However that may be, Dr. Dale, it so happens
that R. Philipp Dachboden was born, not in this nation of Nordapfahl,
but in the country of Sudapfahl."
"But he came here to work, eh?"
Mier bobbed his head in an emphatic _yes_. "Of course! No man of his
brilliance could have been expected to stay in the art-smothering
atmosphere of Sudapfahl as it was two hundred years ago. Or even, for
that matter, as it is today."
"Well, well," boomed Leland Hale with pompous heartiness, "you are
certainly fortunate. Very fortunate indeed, Dr. Mier. To think that
there, in your museum, you have an art treasure worth many hundreds of
thousands of stellors--possibly a million. Marvelous!"
Dr. Rudolf Mier positively glowed. "Well--yes--I suppose we are pretty
lucky at that." A slight frown came over his face. "It has always
been--ah--somewhat of a thorn in the side of Apfahl--especially
Nordapfahl--that Dachboden was a little ungrateful in not allowing us
to keep at least one example of his art."
Leland Hale placidly refrained from pointing out that Dachboden would
have starved to death trying to sell his material on Apfahl two
centuries before. In the first place, no one there appreciated him,
and in the second place, there wasn't much money to be spent on art.
Even the little amount Dachboden got for his work off-planet was a
tremendous sum as far as Apfahl's economy was concerned.
* * * * *
The luncheon was typically Apfahlian fare--rough, tasteless, but
nourishing. Hale ate it stolidly, neither liking nor disliking it; he
was merely indifferent to it. Dr. Mier on the other hand, complained
that it wasn't properly cooked and still managed to put away enough for
three men.
"Tell me, Doctor," said Hale, when he found a lull between courses,
"have you considered the idea that someone might steal such a valuable
object?"
Mier finished chewing a bite, swallowed it, and shook his head. "There
is not much chance of that, Dr. Dale. In the first place, it is locked
within the capsule. Oh, I'll admit that the entire capsule could be
stolen; it is big, but not so big that it couldn't be taken by someone
with the proper equipment.
"However, that kind of equipment isn't available to the average man
here on Apfahl. And besides, it is thoroughly guarded. After we dug it
up from the basement, our government provided the Museum with a full
battalion of armed troops to surround the building day and night. No
unauthorized person can get in, and they certainly couldn't get the
time capsule out."
"Wouldn't it be possible to break into the capsule?"
Dr. Mier chuckled deeply. "You have not seen this capsule. Oh, I'll
grant that it might be broken into, but doing so would involve so
much damage that the contents would be ruined, rendering the attempt
useless. No, Dr. Dale; no one will steal our little treasure." He
chuckled again, and, as the next course was brought on, he began
shoveling it in. The silence was unbroken save for the sounds of eating.
After a few moments, Leland Hale glanced casually at his watch and
compared it with the big mechanical clock on the wall of the hotel
cafe. He hoped his timing was correct.
It was. Seven minutes later, a man wearing the uniform of a Museum
guard scuttled into the room as though he were being followed by a
fleet of hornets. He stopped near the door, glanced rapidly over all
the diners, located Dr. Mier, and made his way hurriedly toward the
table.
"Dr. Mier! Dr. Mier!" His rasping voice was about as secretive as a
stage whisper. The other diners swiveled their heads to look.
Mier, startled, glanced up at the messenger.
"Yes, Mooler? Speak up, man; what is it?"
The uniformed man put a single sheet of paper on the table. "This just
came over the teletype wire from our correspondent in Sudapfahl, sir!
Read it!"
Dr. Mier read, and, as he did so, his eyes widened. "Good Heavens!" he
said at last, "This is terrible!"
"What?" asked Leland Hale, in all innocence.
"This!" Mier shoved the teletype sheet across the table.
GRUNFELT, SUDAPFAHL: THE EXCELLENT HINRIK FONSHLIEZEN, PORTFOLIO
OF STATE, ANNOUNCED TODAY THE DISCOVERY OF A TIME CAPSULE SIMILAR
TO THAT IN THE MUSEUM OF GROSSTAT, NORDAPFAHL. THE CAPSULE, SET
FOR A DATE APPROXIMATELY ONE DAY LATER THAN THAT OF THE NORTHERN
CAPSULE, IS SAID TO BE BURIED BENEATH THE CAPITOL BUILDING,
ACCORDING TO OFFICIAL RECORDS DISCLOSED TO THE PUBLIC THIS MORNING.
EXCAVATIONS WILL BEGIN IMMEDIATELY, ACCORDING TO HIS EXCELLENCY'S
STATEMENT, IT IS EXPECTED THAT THE CAPSULE MAY CONTAIN SOME
EXAMPLES OF THE WORK OF R. PHILIPP DACHBODEN.
Leland Hale read it carefully and shook his head. "Dear me," he said
mildly.
"It may mean nothing to you, an outsider," said Dr. Mier bitterly,
"but do you realize that to us this is a matter of national honor and
prestige?"
"Oh, yes. Of course. Naturally. Believe me, Dr. Mier, I certainly
appreciate your position." He spread his hands slightly. "But, of
course, you realize that, as a representative of the Interstellar
Museum, I will have to check on the Sudapfahlian claim." Before Mier
could voice any objections, Leland Hale silenced him with a wave of
his hand. "You have nothing to worry about, Dr. Mier; as you know, the
Interstellar Museum only allows one branch to a planet. Naturally, your
museum would certainly have priority over that of Sudapfahl."
"Sudapfahl doesn't even have a museum," Mier said, looking fatly
superior.
"Besides," Hale continued mollifyingly, "I shan't go there until after
I have seen what your own time capsule has to offer. It seems to me
that the Sudapfahlian government actually doesn't know what's inside
their capsule. Their statements seem to be made out of pure jealousy."
"You're probably quite right, Dr. Dale," said Mier.
"Oh, I know I'm right," said Leland Hale truthfully.
* * * * *
After lunch, Dr. Allen H. Dale informed Dr. Mier that, as he was a bit
fatigued from his trip, he would like to rest for a few hours. Mier
agreed whole-heartedly, and the two men made an appointment to meet
later in the afternoon for a tour of the Grosstat Museum of Cultural
History, and perhaps dinner and a few drinks afterwards.
After seeing his guest into his room, Dr. Mier strolled out of the
hotel, stepped into his car, and ordered the driver to take him to the
Museum. There were big things to be done. This new threat from the
south was not to be taken too lightly.
At the Museum--a huge, cold-looking, blocky granite structure--Mier
climbed out of his car, toiled up the broad stairs to the entrance, and
strolled rollingly in. On every side, flunkies, both in uniform and
out, bowed and scraped as the Great Man passed by. Dr. Mier reached his
book-lined office just as the telephone rang.
He picked up the instrument, a mechanism of ancient design possessing
no vision equipment, and announced that he was Dr. Rudolf Mier.
"This is Lieutenant-Marshal Dilon, State Police. You have just returned
from lunch with a Dr. Allen H. Dale, purporting to be from the Galactic
Museum?"
"Why, yes; I just--What do you mean, _purporting_?"
"We have reason to believe, Doctor, that this man is wanted by the
Interstellar Police. We have received a communication from I.P.
headquarters warning us that Dr. Allen H. Dale is actually a man named
Leland Hale."
"Who is Leland Hale?"
"A criminal, Doctor. He is wanted so badly that the I.P. is actually
sending a contingent of men here to apprehend him," said the
lieutenant-marshal.
"A criminal, yes--but what kind of a criminal?"
"I gather," said the lieutenant-marshal drily, "that he steals things.
I imagine he's after the Dachboden original."
"That's ridiculous! He couldn't possibly get into the Museum! It's
surrounded by--" His voice choked off as he realized that he, himself,
had already extended an invitation to "Dr. Dale" to come to the Museum.
"But--but--I spoke to Dr. Dale for over an hour! He can't be a thief."
"Possibly not," agreed Lieutenant-Marshal Dilon. "The Interstellar
Police aren't always right, and I must say I don't care for their
high-handed manner at times. Nevertheless, we'll have to take proper
precautions. I'll see that the guard around the Museum is reinforced,
and send out a pickup order on Dr. Dale. If there's been any mistake
made, it will be the fault of the I.P. Meanwhile, I would appreciate
it Doctor, if you would come to my office. We've got to make better
arrangements for the protection of the time capsule."
* * * * *
And thus the call went out for Dr. Allen H. Dale.
He wasn't found, of course. By the time the police got to the hotel, he
had "mysteriously" vanished. By the simple expedient of shaving off his
beard and removing the gray from his hair had changed his appearance
enough so that a mere change of clothing was all that was needed to
completely dispose of Dr. Allen H. Dale. Leland Hale was never one to
be caught napping; he was never one to be caught at all.
Naturally, a planet-wide alarm went out. Even Sudapfahl, warned that
the "arch-criminal" might attempt to steal the contents of their own
time capsule, sent out word to all local police forces to be on the
alert.
Two days later, a fast, fully-armed Interstellar Police cruiser settled
to the landing pit of the spaceport in Grosstat, Nordapfahl, and
disgorged a squad of eighty I.P. troopers under the command of Captain
Bradney W. Whitter, a tough, shrewd law officer with twenty years of
experience behind him.
Whitter had been up against Leland Hale before; he still carried a
white, puckered scar on one leg, a reminder of Leland Hale's ability to
use a megadyne handgun. If Leland Hale was actually on Apfahl, Captain
Whitter intended to get him.
* * * * *
In the office of Dr. Mier, the captain called a conference. Present
were himself, Dr. Mier, Lieutenant-Marshal Dilon, and several others,
high officers of the I.P., the museum staff, and the Nordapfahlian
State Police.
"Gentlemen," Captain Whitter said determinedly, "we are going to get
Leland Hale this time. We've got him."
Lieutenant-Marshal Dilon lifted a heavy eyebrow. "I'm afraid I don't
quite see how, Captain." He made an all-inclusive gesture toward the
window. "He has a whole planet to hide from us in. A great part of it
is still wilderness, jungle, desert, and arid mountains."
The captain's granite face turned toward Dilon. "My dear Marshal, it is
obvious that you don't know Leland Hale. He is not the type of man to
hide out in the hills forever. I doubt that he even took off for the
hinterlands; I wouldn't be surprised if he were right here in Grosstat."
The marshal shrugged heavy shoulders. "I'll admit it's possible. This
is a city of three-quarters of a million people. He might be difficult
to find."
"The galaxy is a damned sight bigger than that," Whitter pointed out.
"Hale could have hidden out long ago if that were the way he operated.
But he doesn't. He hits and runs and then comes back to hit again. A
louse he may be, but I never underestimate an opponent; he's smart and
he's got guts. And he's got pride. And that's what will catch him."
"I'm afraid I don't understand you," said Dr. Mier.
Whitter glanced down at the director. "Your time capsule seems to have
aroused quite a bit of interest in certain parts of the galaxy, Dr.
Mier. That Dachboden carving, especially, has made news on the older
worlds--even on Earth, I understand. And now that it is known that
Leland Hale has practically announced that he wants that Dachboden,
the news services will be watching to see if he gets it." He grinned
sourly. "And believe me, Leland Hale won't turn down a challenge like
that."
Marshal Dilon looked more than mildly skeptical. "Do you mean that you
think he will attempt it in spite of the precautions we have taken?"
"I do." He looked at the quiet group around him. "We'll have to lay a
trap--one that will get Leland Hale when he tries to steal that statue.
And he'll try, believe me. I know Leland Hale."
The captain was right, as far as he went. Pity he didn't know Leland
Hale a little better.
* * * * *
Leland Hale, smooth-shaven and black-haired, leaned back in a
comfortable chair and blew a large smoke ring into the air. He watched
it swirl in on itself and slowly dissolve into nothingness.
"Your Excellency," he said, "I must admit that your southern tobacco
has more flavor than the milder northern type. This is an excellent
cigar."
Hinrik Fonshliezen glared down his long, pointed nose at the big man
in the overstuffed chair. "I'm glad you enjoy them, Mr. Hale," he said
bitterly. "You may not get them in prison."
Hale glanced up mildly. "Prison? Oh, but I never go to prisons--at
least, not for long. I'm allergic to them. They give me a pain--here."
He patted his hip pocket.
"If I don't get that statue in time for the opening of our time
capsule," said the State Portfolio coldly, "I will at least collect the
not inconsiderable reward for your capture."
Leland Hale stood up leisurely and stepped toward the other man. He
pointed a finger at Hinrik's face, stopping with the fingertip a scant
eighth of an inch from the other's nose.
"Now, listen," he said softly, "I don't care for threats of that kind.
Not that they bother me; they don't. But they make me suspicious of my
confederates, and that makes me uncomfortable, and I don't like to be
uncomfortable. Is that clear?"
Hinrik Fonshliezen backed up a step to remove his nose from the
vicinity of the finger. "Don't try to bully me, Hale," he said. But
there was a slight waver in his voice.
"Fair enough. I don't bully you, you don't bully me.
"And don't call me your confederate," added Fonshliezen, somewhat
encouraged by Hale's manner.
"I'm damned if I'll call you a comrade-in-arms," said Hale. "Would
'assistant' suit you better?"