He nodded over his coffee. "You're beginning to make sense. A pop group composed only of security agents. But it will take time to put together, to organize, to rehearse."

"Why?"

"So it will sound good, you moron."

"Who could tell the difference? Have you ever listened to country-and-coal-mining music? Or Aqua Regia and her Plutonium Pals?"

"Point taken. So we get this group together and publicize them well so all Liokukae knows about them — "

"And has heard their music — "

"And wants to hear more. On tour. Which is impossible. The planet is quarantined."

"That is the beauty of my plan, Admiral. When the publicity peaks, and the fame of the group is galaxy-wide, that is when the Rats will commit some crime so awful that they will instantly be shipped off to this prison planet. Where they will be received with great enthusiasm. And no suspicion. Where they will investigate and find the alien artifact and get it back so I can have the antidote. One other thing. Before we start operations I will need three million Interstellar Credits. In coins that have been newly minted here."

"No way," he snarled. "Funds will be supplied as needed."

"You missed the point. That is my fee for conducting this operation. All operating expenses are on top of that. Pay up or else."

"Or else what?"

"Or else I die in twenty-nine days and the operation dies and you get a black mark on your service record."

Self-interest prodded him into an instant decision. "Why not. Those financially overburdened academics can afford it and not even notice it. I'll get that list for you."

He unclipped his phone from his belt, shouted a multi-digit number into it, then barked some brief commands. Before I had finished my coffee the printer hummed to life in the office; sheets of paper began to pile up in the bin. We went through them and ticked off a number of possibilities. There were no names, just code numbers. When this was done I passed the list back to the Admiral.