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The other Toka was suddenly nowhere to be seen. Somehow the spell was broken. The barkeep gave a metal-jointed shrug, resumed his work.

“I, er …”

Now that Lando had made his contact, he realized he didn’t quite know what to do with it. The ancient glanced at Vuffi Raa. Lando gave the little droid a scowl, which failed to rid him of the machine at what could be a delicate point in the proceedings. Vuffi Raa remained standing by the table, all attention focused on the old Toka.

“Lord,” the worthy repeated. “I am Mohs, High Singer of the Toka. Knowest thou what thou holdest on thy person?” The elderly character straightened—as much as he was ever going to again in this life—and Lando noticed a tattoo on his forehead, a crude line drawing of the Key itself.

“An unaccountably odd artifact,” he answered, unconsciously patting the irregular lumpiness of it in his inside jacket pocket. “Some kind of three-dimensional practical joke. But, please—sit down. Would you like something to drink?”

The ancient glanced around, a furtive expression tucked deeply into the wrinkles in his face. The tattoo puckered on his forehead.

“Such is not permitted, Lord. I—”

“Master,” the droid interrupted again.

“Shut up, Vuffi Raa! Well, old fellow,” he said turning to Mohs, “wilt—will you at least tell me something more about the Key?” He took it out, held it in his hand.

Mohs had to wheeze a little while before he could get the words out. “Thou wishest to test thy servant, then? So mote it be, Lord. Thy wish is my command.”

The Toka launched into a long, whining gargle in a language that was vaguely familiar to Lando. Perhaps it was an obscure dialect from some system he’d visited.

The effect on the dozen or so other patrons wasn’t exactly salutory: they watched and listened, but Lando couldn’t persuade himself to believe the expressions on their faces were friendly. He found himself wishing he’d sat a little nearer the door.

The Toka’s monolog went on and on, one of Mohs’ bony hands indicating the Key occasionally, the rest of the time his weathered face turned upward toward the ceiling. Finally, the chanting ceased.

“Have I recited rightly, Lord?”

Lando scratched his smoothly shaven chin. “Sure. Perfectly. And—just as another test, mind you—let’s have an abbreviated version in the vernacular.” He indicated the rest of the room. “Might win a few converts among the heathen. Think you’re up to it?”

“Lord?”

The old man reached out shakily toward the Key, apparently thought better of it, withdrew the gnarled hand with obvious reluctance, then began. “This is the Key of the Overpeople, Lord Bearer, the Opener of Mysteries. It is the Illuminator of Darkness, the Shower of the Way. It is the Means to the End. It is—”

“Hold it, Mohs, just tell me what it does.”

“Why, Lord, as thou knowest perfectly well …”

Mohs tapered off. Was that a hint of sudden skepticism in the ancient High Singer’s eye? He began again, in a very slightly different tone of voice.

“It releaseth the Mindharp of the Sharu, which in turn—”

“Bull’s Eye! Look, Mohs. As official Bearer of the Key, I have personally selected you to lead—in a purely ceremonial sense, of course—to lead a pilgrimage. We’re going to use the Key. What do you think of that?”

The thought that everything was happening too easily began to seep into the back of Lando’s mind, but he repressed it savagely. He was stuck with his task and welcomed any lead that would get it over with.

“Why, whatever else would we do, Lord? It must be as it has been told, else it would not have been told to begin with.”

“I’m sure there’s a hole in your logic somewhere, but I’m too tired right now to go poking for it. How soon can you start, then?”

The old man raised his snowy eyebrows, and the crude representation of the Key on his forehead squashed itself from top to bottom like an accordion.

“This very instant, Lord, if that be thy desire. Nothing supercedeth Their holy plan.”

He cast a pious eye toward the