Helga clambered out of the bubble and made her way down the central aisle to where the M'Hoi chieftain awaited. She was met by the android.

"It worked, widget brain. Now do your stuff. Got to get rid of this pig sticker before I cut off something important."

After another longish speech in M'Hoi dialect, Liaison nodded to the company manager who removed her tunic jacket and passed it to the rodentoid leader. Hidden within its folds was the alien mnenomic enhancement device.

With one more imperious fling of coinage toward the stage, the chieftain spun on his hind paws and strode out of the auditorium, followed by a squealing mass of lessers.

"Well, that's that. Contact the Banjo, gyro-face, and let's get the hell out of here," ordered Helga. She glanced toward the stage. A line of glum faces stared back at her. "So what's your trouble, people?"

The director took a step forward. "You gave away their mascot. Now they're worrying about blowing their lines."

"For Christ's sake, Stanley, use your head! How'd the show go tonight?"

The little man puffed up with pride. "Pretty darn good. Best ever, in fact."

"Any lines blown?"

"None that I could hear."

"And where was your precious mascot?"

"Why, it was right here with us on stage! Uh, wait. No, it was with you… Oh. "

Helga faced the cast. "Look, you clowns. Much as I hate to admit it, you did a good job tonight. And not because of some trick sword. Besides, the thing belongs to the M'Hoi. It's their religion, their culture. It stays here on the planet and we go on to our next and last stop, Tyros III. Is that clear?"

There was a subdued mumble of agreement and some mysterious shuffling in the back row.

"What the hell's going on back there?"

The director glanced back, then reddened. "Nothing, Helga. Absolutely nothing."

"Hey, what's that thing they're passing around back there? You — yeah, you in the orange eye-patch! What 're you holding behind your back?"

The actress sheepishly passed forward an ornate leather belt studded with mysterious symbols. Helga waved it under Stanley's nose. "What the hell is this thing, Stanley?"

The theater company director shuffled and stared at his toes. "Nothing much really. Well maybe just a little, uh, good luck token."

"What kind of luck is it supposed to bring?"

"Now don't get mad. It's just a crazy superstition. But we...er, the players...seem to feel that the belt prevents them from missing cues."

"Sure, Stanley, sure. Just another harmless theater superstition. Any idea where the thing came from?"

"I've heard...uh, that is, I think..."

The android helpfully jumped in. "It originated on Tyros III, mistress, which is the next planet on our tour. The exquisite workmanship is unmistakable. It is a product of the Barruss race, coincidentally our next hosts, who are famed for their..."

Helga Glunk just sighed.