He went first to Bit o' Junk, but Ben's shop was closed. Then he tried the store that sold tech-tiques, and for the first time since Qwilleran had arrived in Junktown, the place was open. When he walked in, Hollis Prantz came loping from the stockroom in the rear, wearing something somber and carrying a paintbrush.

"Just varnishing some display cabinets," he explained. "Getting ready for the big day tomorrow." "Don't let me interrupt you," Qwilleran said, as he perused the shop in mystification. He saw tubes from fifteen- year-old television sets, early hand-wired circuits, prehistoric radio parts, and old-fashioned generator cutouts from 1935 automobiles. "Just tell me one thing," he said. "Do you expect to make a living from this stuff?" "Nobody makes a living in this business," said Prantz. "We all need another source of income." "Or extremely monastic tastes," Qwilleran added. "I happen to have a little rental property, and I'm semi-retired. I had a heart attack last year, and I'm taking it easy." "You're young to have a thing like that happen." Qwilleran guessed the dealer was in his early forties.

"You're lucky if you get a warning early in life. It's my theory that Cobb had a heart attack when he was tearing that building apart; that's heavy work for a man of his age." "What kind of work did you do — before this?" "I was in paint and wallpaper." The dealer said it almost apologetically. "Not much excitement in the paint business, but I get a real charge out of this new shop of mine." "What gave you the idea for tech-tiques?" "Wait till I get rid of this varnish brush." In a second Prantz was back with an old straight-back office chair. "Here.

Have a seat." Qwilleran studied the disassembled innards of a primitive typewriter. "You'll have to talk fast to convince me this junk is going to catch on." The dealer smiled. "Well, I'll tell you. People will collect anything today, because there aren't enough good antiques to go around. They make lamps out of worm-eaten fence posts. They frame twenty-year-old burlesque posters.

Why not preserve the fragments of the early automotive and electronics industry?" Prantz shifted to a confidential tone.

"I've got a promotion I'm working on, based on a phenomenon of our times — the acceleration of obsolescence. My idea is to accelerate antiquity. The sooner an item goes out of style, the quicker it makes its comeback as a collector's piece. It used to be a hundred years before discards made the grade as collectibles. Now it's thirty. I intend to speed it up to twenty or even fifteen…. Don't write this up," the dealer added hastily. "It's still in the thinking stage. Protect me, like a good fellow." Qwilleran shrank into his overcoat when he left Hollis Prantz. The dealer had changed a five for him — with dollar bills folded crosswise — but there was something about Prantz that did not ring true.

"Mr. Qwilleran! Mr. Qwilleran!" Running footsteps came up behind him, and he turned to catch an armful of brown corduroy, oppossum fur, notebooks, and flying blond hair.

Ivy, the youngest of the three sisters, was out of breath. "Just got off the bus," she panted. "Had a life class this morning. Are you on your way to our shop?" "No, I'm heading for Mrs. McGuffey's." "Don't go there! 'Mrs. McGuffey is too damn stuffy! That's what Cluthra says." "Business is business, Ivy. Are you all ready for Christmas?" "Guess what! I'm getting an easel for Christmas! A real painter's easel." "I'm glad I ran into you," Qwilleran said. "I'd like to decorate my apartment for the holidays, but I don't have your artistic touch. Besides, this tricky knee — " "I'd love to help you. Do you want an old-fashioned Christmas tree or something swinging?" "A tree would last about three minutes at my place. I have a couple of cats, and they're airborne most of the time.

But I thought I could get some ropes of greens at Lombardo's — " "I've got a staple gun at the shop. I can do it right now." When Ivy arrived at Qwilleran's apartment, the cedar garlands — ten dollars' worth — were heaped in the middle of the floor, being circled warily by Koko and Yum Yum. The latter left for parts unknown at the sight of the blond visitor, but Koko sat tall and watched her carefully as if she were not to be trusted.

Qwilleran offered Ivy a Coke before she started decorating, and she sat in the rocking chair made of twigs, her straight blond hair falling like a cape over her shoulders. As she talked, her little-girl mouth pouted and pursed and broke into winning smiles.

Qwilleran asked, "Where did you three sisters get such unusual names?" "Don't you know? They're different kinds of art glass. My mother was madly Art Nouveau. I'd rather be called Kim or Leslie. When I'm eighteen I'm going to change my name and move to Paris to study art. I mean, when I get the money my mother left me — if my sisters haven't used it all up," she added with a frown. "They're my legal guardians." "You seem to have a lot of fun together in that shop." Ivy hesitated. "Not really. They're kind of mean to me. Cluthra won't let me go steady… and Amberina is trying to suppress my talent. She wants me to study bookkeeping or nursing or something grim like that." "Who's giving you the magnificent Christmas present?" "What?" "The easel." "Oh! Well… I'm getting that from Tom. He's Amberina's husband. He's real neat. I think he's secretly in love with me, but don't say anything to anybody." "Of course not. I'm flattered," said Qwilleran, "that you feel you can confide in me. What do you think about all the mishaps in Junktown? Are they as accidental as they appear?" "Cluthra says the Dragon dropped that thing on her foot on purpose. Cluthra may decide to sue her for an enormous amount of money. Five thousand dollars!" "An astronomical figure," Qwilleran agreed. "But what about the two recent deaths in Junktown?" "Poor C. C.! He was a creep, but I felt sorry for him. His wife wasn't nice to him at all. Did you know she murdered her first husband? Of course, nobody could ever prove it." "And Andy. Did you know Andy?" "He was dreamy. I was mad about Andy. Wasn't that a horrible way to die?" "Do you think he might have been murdered?" Ivy's eyes grew wide with delight at the possibility. "Maybe the Dragon — " "But Mary Duckworth was in love with Andy. She wouldn't do a thing like that." The girl thought about it for a few seconds. "She couldn't be in love with him," she announced. "She's a witch!

Cluthra says so! And everybody knows witches can't fall in love." "I must say you have a colorful collection of characters in Junktown. What do you know about Russell Patch?" "I used to like him before he bleached his hair. I kind of think he's mixed up in some kind of racket, like — I don't know…" "Who's his roommate?" "Stan's hairdresser at Skyline Towers. You know all those rich widows and kept women that live there? They tell Stan all their secrets and give him fabulous presents. He does Cluthra's hair. She pretends it's natural, but you should see how gray it is when it starts to grow out." "Sylvia Katzenhide lives in the same building, doesn't she?" The girl nodded and reflected. "Cluthra says she'd be a brilliant success at blackmail. Sylvia's got something on everybody." "Including Ben Nicholas and Hollis Prantz?" "I don't know." Ivy sipped her Coke while she toyed with the possibilities. "But I think Ben's a dope addict. I haven't decided about the other one. He may be some kind of pervert." Later, when the garlands were festooned on the fireplace wall and Ivy had departed with her staple gun, Qwilleran said to Koko: "Out of the mouths of babes come the damnedest fabrications!" Furthermore, the experiment had cost him ten dollars, and the decorations only served to enshrine the bad-dispositioned old lady hanging over the fireplace. He determined to substitute the Mackintosh coat of arms as soon as he could get some assistance in hoisting it to the mantel.