"The totem is an ancient product of the Vanished Ones, ancient M'Hoi priest-technicians skilled in creating coherent neurobeam fields. There is a ninety-five percent chance that the device incorporates a mnemomic enhancement field generator, allowing the M'Hoi — who have never surpassed level two on the Sanderson Long Term Memory Psychoscale — to achieve otherwise unattainable feats of..."

She grabbed the android by the shoulders and shook it hard. "Keep it simple, you reject from a recycle-bin! What the hell are you talking about?"

Helga Glunk could almost hear the android's intellecutron slip into its lowest gear.

"In the most basic terms, mistress: the M'Hoi need the sword to remember their lines, their epic poems. Without it, their culture is dying."

It took a moment or two for that fact to sink in. Then Helga asked, "So how'd we get the damn thing in the first place?"

"It disappeared from their temple center many years ago, about the time that the first human expedition made contact. Evidently someone recognized the sword's thespian value. It found its way into our property inventory."

She threw a sidelong glance at the glowering rodentoids. "Why don't they just take it? They must know that we're not really armed. And they're a hell of a lot stronger than us."

"M'Hoi have a tradition of courtesy to strangers, mistress. It would be sacrilegious to remove anything forcibly from our persons. But they will not permit us to leave the planet until we deliver the sword."

"Oh, that's just great! My morons won't leave without it. The mickeys won't let us leave with it. And I'm looking at the biggest aye-aye since Trumpet dumped its sewage holding tanks over the tomb city of Santos II. I should've taken that job with the interspecies circus on Calon."

"May I make a suggestion, mistress?"

"What? Yeah, sure — anything. I could use a laugh."

To explain its plan without too many digressions, the android needed to be thumped and cursed several times. But finally Helga Glunk grudgingly admitted, "Yeah, that might just work, rust-brain. Anyway, it's the only plan we've got. Now get back up there and talk it over with Big Mick. If he buys it, we've got a chance."

It was tricky to break the news to the troupe, so Helga did what came naturally: she lied. She told them it was all a terrible misunderstanding. The M'Hoi, she explained, had apologized and agreed to let them leave. But they would have to put on a final show, a special performance for a very special audience. That, of course, went over splendidly with the cast.

The M'Hoi chieftain was pleased with the news that the sword would be returned in a special ceremony. In fact, he was so pleased that he allowed communications with Banjo and gave permission for a shipment of "ceremonial regalia" to be sent down. As long as nothing left the planet's surface, of course.

Liaison was a long time in neutrino comms with the ship's engineering department — the ship's replication officer didn't graduate at the top of his class.

* * *

Early the following morning, Banjo's tiny unmanned provisions shuttle dropped out of orbit on a cargo delivery run. Shortly thereafter, Helga returned the prop sword to the cast along with a replicator-fresh assortment of simulated lasersabres, fake arc-axes and the like.

For the rest of the day the theater company primped and strutted, preparing for their command performance before the planet's leadership.

Finally, curtain time arrived.

The house was filled with M'Hoi notables and their harem platoons. Front row center sat the chieftain, his hairy grizzled snout twitching from side to side in anticipation.

Helga Glunk monitored the progress of the play from her perch in the tech-support bubble. Responding to her deft keyboard touch, holoscenery winked on and off as the action flowed. The play was the same awful one they had been murdering for the entire tour, but Helga had to admit to herself that the cast was doing a wonderful job. An extraordinary job. There was a spark of something special. The alien audience loved it. Loud tail-slaps greeted every player's efforts. Even Liaison, squealing commentary from the translator's rostrum, received vigorous applause.

Halfway through, at the point where the play had died before, an actor drew his sword from its scabbard and tentatively raised it above his head. The entire company froze and eyed the M 'Hoi.

There was no reaction from the house.

None.

The cast smoothly recovered and completed their performance. Five curtain calls followed, a company record. After the last, Helga brought up the house lights but kept the main curtainfield transparent. The cast squinted stupidly into the brightness and started to edge offstage. But at Stanley's hissed order, they froze in place.

Liaison began to wave its arms and squeak a long speech. The M'Hoi listened in dead silence. Finally the android pointed at the tech-support bubble. Five hundred pairs of beady eyes swiveled toward Helga Glunk.

She tapped a key to null the bubble's curtainfield and stood on the cockpit's chair. Then, from beneath her tunic, she produced the genuine M'Hoi sword. "Take that, you God-damned mickeys!" she muttered as she displayed the sword for two heartbeats, then quickly hid it again.

The effect was instantaneous. Five hundred M'Hoi were rolling on the floor. Twenty humans were shaking their fists and yelling obscenities at their company manager. But the cast's angry din came to an abrupt halt when coins began to shower down onstage. The rodentoids, recovered from their brief religious ecstasy, were rendering their highest honors in traditional M'Hoi fashion. All pretext of theatrical poise was abandoned as cast members dropped to their knees and scrabbled up handfuls of minted gold.