"You're talking about a composer and an arranger. They could be one and the same-but it is usually better to divide up the jobs."

"Can we get one or both of them? Zach, as the closest thing to a professional here-do you have any ideas?"

"Shouldn't be too hard. All we have to do is contact GASCAP."

"Gascap? You want to fill the tank on a groundcar?"

"Not gascap. GASCAP. An acronym for the Galactic Society of Composers Artists and Players. There is a lot of unemployment in music and we should be able to locate some really competent people."

"Good as done. I'll get the Admiral on it at once."

"Impossible," he growled in his usually friendly fashion. "No civilians, no outsiders. This is a secret operation all the way.

"It is now-but it goes public in seven days. All we do is invent a cover story. Say that the group is being organized to make a holofilm. Or as a publicity stunt by a big firm. Like maybe McSwineys wants to change their image, go upmarket. Get rid of Blimey McSwiney and his alcoholic red nose, use our pop group instead. But it must be done — and at once."

It was. The next day an anorexic and pallid young man was brought to our rehearsal studio. Zach whispered in my ear. "I recognize him — that's Barry Moyd Shlepper. He wrote a pop musical a couple of years back, "Don't Fry for Me, Angelina." He hasn't had a success since."

"I remember it. The show about the cook who marries the dictator."

"That's the one."

"Welcome, Barry, welcome," I said walking over and shaking his bony hand. "My name is Jim and I'm in charge around here."

"Rooty-toot, man, rooty-toot," he said.

"And a rooty-toot to you as well." I could see where we would have to learn the argot of the musical world if our plan were to succeed. "Now — was this operation explained to you?"