more. 'Will you tell me what you have in mind, Doctor?'
Dr. Urth patted his comfortable abdomen with one hand and replaced his glasses. 'Don't you see,
Inspector, that there is one place on board a spaceship where secret numbers are perfectly safe? Where, although in plain view, they would be perfectly safe from detection? Where though they were being stared at by a hundred eyes, they would be secure? Except from a seeker who is an astute thinker, of course.'
'Where? Name the place!'
'Why, in those places where there happen to be numbers already. Perfectly normal numbers. Legal numbers. Numbers that are supposed to be there.'
'What are you talking about?'
'The ship's serial number, etched directly on the hull. On the hull, be it noted. The engine number, the field generator number. A few others. Each etched on integral portions of the ship. On the ship, as the silicony said. On the ship.'
Davenport's heavy eyebrows rose with sudden comprehension. 'You may be all right-and if you are,
I'm hoping we find you a silicony twice the size of the Robert Q.'s. One that not only talks, but whistles, "Up, Asteroids, Forever!" ' He hastily reached for the dossier, thumbed rapidly through it and extracted an official T.B.I, form. 'Of course, we noted down all the identification numbers we found.' He spread the form out. 'If three of these resemble coordinates...'
'We should expect some small effort at disguise,' Dr. Urth observed. There will probably be certain letters and figures added to make the series appear more legitimate.'
He reached for a scratch pad and shoved another toward the Inspector. For minutes the two men were silent, jotting down serial numbers, experimenting with crossing out obviously unrelated figures.
At last Davenport let out a sigh that mingled satisfaction and frustration. 'I'm stuck,' he admitted. 'I think you're right; the numbers on the engine and the calculator are clearly disguised coordinates and dates.
They don't run anywhere near the normal series, and it's easy to strike out the fake figures. That gives us two, but I'll take my oath the rest of these are absolutely legitimate serial numbers. What are your findings, Doctor?'
Dr. Urth nodded. 'I agree. We now have two coordinates and we know where the third was inscribed.'
'We know, do we? And how-' The Inspector broke off and uttered a sharp exclamation. 'Of course! The number on the very ship itself, which isn't entered here-because it was on the precise spot on the hull where the meteor crashed through-I'm afraid there goes your silicony. Doctor.' Then his craggy face brightened. 'But I'm an idiot. The number's gone, but we can get it in a flash from Interplanetary' Registry.'
'I fear,' said Dr. Urth, 'that I must dispute at least the second part of your statement. Registry will have only the ship's original legitimate number, not the disguised coordinate to which the captain must have altered it.'
The exact spot on the hull,' Davenport muttered. 'And because of that chance shot the asteroid may be lost forever. What use to anybody are two coordinates without the third?'
'Well,' said Dr. Urth precisely, 'conceivably of very great use to a two-dimensional being. But creatures of our dimensions,' he patted his paunch, 'do require the third-which I fortunately happen to have right here.'
'In the T.B.I, dossier? But we just checked the list of numbers-'
'Your list, Inspector. The file also includes young Vernadsk's original report. And of course the serial number listed there for the Robert Q. is the carefully faked one under which she was then sailing-no point in rousing the curiosity of a repair mechanic by letting him note a discrepancy.'
Davenport reached for a scratch pad and the Vernadsky list. A moment's calculation and he grinned.
Dr. Urth lifted himself out of the chair with a pleased puff and trotted to the door. 'It is always pleasant to see you. Inspector Davenport. Do come again. And remember the government can have the uranium, but
I want the important thing: one giant silicony, alive and in good condition.' He was smiling.
'And preferably,' said Davenport, 'whistling.' Which he was doing himself as he walked out.
***
Of course, there is a catch about writing a mystery. You are apt to concentrate so bard on the mystery itself, on occasion, as to lose sight of important peripheral values. After this story first appeared, I received quite a bit of mail expressing interest in the silicony and, in some cases, finding fault with me for allowing it to die in so coldblooded a fashion. As I reread the story now, I