"There must be!" Walther insisted. "Do you mean to tell me that in all the homes of Earth there are no treasured heirlooms of the past? No books? No paintings? No recordings?"
"Oh, I'm sure they are," Willy agreed. "But how to reach them? We can hardly advertise."
He paused, hesitated, then snapped his fingers.
"Wait—there may be a way—even more illegal than your first suggestion, but still a way...."
"What is it?"
"I used the word 'underworld' in speaking of our Bohemian group last night, but actually there is an underworld, of a sort ... trafficking mostly in liquor. The cartel's one-drink restriction has never been too enforceable." Willy lifted the seat of his piano bench and took out a bottle. "If you can afford it, you can always buy a bootleg supply."
"What's liquor got to do with art?"
"For a price—the underworld may be willing to traffic in art, literature and music ... in addition to alcohol!"
Willy sent out word through a bootlegger who supplied some of the opera singers with their favorite beverages. The next night, after final curtain, a greying, bespectacled and very distinguished looking gentleman in formal dress met Willy and Walther in a vacant dressing room backstage. He spoke tersely, and Willy translated:
"He says he has friends who could be interested in your proposition, if there's money enough in it."