The Man Who Staked the Stars

by Katherine MacLean

look of the passengers in the tube trains on theway to the office. They all looked more friendly. And as he pushedthrough the second glass door into his offices he liked the cleanshine of the glass and the rich blended colors and soft rugs and graytextured desks and the soft efficient hum of work in progress.

  Bryce usually passed Kesby's office with a businesslike nod, butPierce smiled in, stopping for an instant with Bryce. "Good morning,Kesby. We're glad to see you." It was true enough and expressed whathe felt.

  Bryce exchanged a grin with Kesby at the boy's insolence and then wenton into his office.

  It was a good day.

  It was a good day for what he had to do.

  In the luxury of his inner office he sank into the deepest, softestchair, letting his cousin-from-Montehedo sort the mail, agreeing withthe boy's suggestions for action or sometimes issuing his owninstructions, keeping only half his mind on the routine day'sbusiness, relying on Pierce, and concentrating the other half on thedeed to be done. The plan was set in his mind but he had changes tomake.

  He was barely conscious of the time slipping by as he lay, rarelymoving, in his chair, while Pierce worked at top speed.

  By one o'clock the deck was cleared for action.

  Bryce stood up, stretched, and checked his watch again. It was 1304hours. A telephone call was scheduled in about another hour, and fivemore successively about a half hour apart.

  "Order us some lunch, Pierce, before I lift the drawbridge."

  The food came in as he was instructing his staff to leave themundisturbed for the rest of the afternoon.

  By the time they had finished eating, their isolation was complete.The office was a command post now, with only the slender, unattendedtelephone wires connecting them with the outside worlds.

  Bryce moved over behind his desk. He drew the telephone toward him anddialed a number. Somewhere, in the locked safe, the phone rang.

  From the case he took a toy dial phone. Pierce's eyes were on it, hiseyebrows lifted quizzically, but Bryce offered no explanation. The boywas due for a series of surprises. And when it was over, he would knoweverything without any explanations, and too late to interfere.

  "Hi Al," Bryce said to the recorded "Yeah?" at the other end. Hedialed a number on the toy dial, the one receiver against the other'sback. After the usual ritual, Bryce said, "Hello George, how'severything going?"

  This is it, Bryce thought. This was the first part of the final blowto UT. And the only instrument he needed in his delightfully simplemethod was a telephone. Originally he had planned six brief warningcalls to the six key numbers of the ground organization. He would tellthem to refuse to take anything from the hands of the UT branch, andbreak contact with them immediately after accepting cash formiscellaneous items. That would set the stage.

  The police trap would close on all members of the UT branch of theorganization while they were encumbered with a maximum ofincriminating objects to dispose of in too little time. Then wouldcome his anonymous tip to the police. He'd inform them that certainemployees of UT in a few listed cities would be found to be smugglingin large quantities of drugs. The thing would be so simple. And thewhole works would blow up with the efficiency of the calculatedexplosion of nuclear reaction.

  That had been his original plan.

  But things would be different now. The morning in the easy chair hadchanged his approach. The newer, more elaborate program, stillremarkably simple, would bring down the whole structure within UTwithout the help of the police, but by himself alone, planning it,initiating it, executing it with no one's help. Not even Pierce's.

  He heard himself saying:

  "This is 'Hello George.' Listen to me and don't interrupt.

  "Somebody has talked. I've been betrayed myself. Get that? HelloGeorge is washed up. Right now the cops are tapping this line. Itdoesn't make any difference to me, now. But it does to you. This is anopen warning from Hello George to you. Spread the word. I'll keepmaking calls until they break in on me and cut this line.

  "Meanwhile, spread the word. Break connections with me and the wholeorganization. Get out of range before the trap closes. But pass onthis warning first.

  "I'll hold out against questioning a short time. The police will getme eventually, of course. And when they do they'll pump me dry.They'll get names and addresses. The whole works will get grabbed,unless you move fast. Spread the word."

  Bryce paused and winked at Pierce who was standing at his elbow, "Anyquestions? Yes, I'm sure. Of course I'm sure. Any other questions?Good luck, Okay."

  He hung up.

  As Caesar once said, the dice were rolling.

  Pierce, beside him through it all, simply stood there, his eyes wideand his face sharp with curiosity and incredulity, his body twitchingnow and then from the infection of the excitement which rippled overthe room. That excitement had been there, though Bryce had notpermitted himself to indulge in it in any visible way. He had showedPierce a new facet to his operations, one which Pierce could notanticipate immediately, one in which only he, Bryce, could make thesnap decisions and evaluate the immediate responses demanded of him.

  That was with the first call.

  * * * * *

  With the second one Pierce began to contribute, rising to the occasionas he had so often and quickly done in the past. He began pacing upand down between calls, smoking furiously and laughing under hisbreath.

  "Tell 'em the police are breaking down the door," he suggested duringthe third call. "Say you're hypnoed to hold out against questioningfive days at the most, two hours more likely."

  His suggestions were a howl. Bryce repeated them into the phone withcounterfeit desperation and was rewarded by the sounds of panic at theother end. He and Pierce chortled over the frantic queries andexclamations from the victim. The whole thing, succinct and pointedand with the dramatic power of simplicity, was one super practicaljoke which would set the entire solar system scurrying around for thenext few weeks.

  The ramifications would be endless. Persons would vanish abruptly andtake up new names and identities in the obscure countries, otherswould draw out their heavy savings and take the first rocket out fromEarth. There would be a new influx of refugees to the Belt, newsettlers to be honest farmers and factory workers and repair men.

  Yes, the situation was dramatic.

  The day was a good day.

  But as Bryce hung up on the last call, a depressing sense of calamity,unsettlingly anti-climatic, began to press down on him. Pierce wastalking about plans for the next week with an enthusiasm which shouldhave been completely contagious.

  But there was something wrong. There was something wrong.

  What was it?

  Bryce felt Pierce's enthusiasm catch at him and start to sweep himaway. He savored the pleased glow produced by the shattering changeshe had managed to cram into one day. With six telephone calls he hadbroken the drug ring completely and forever, broken it so completelythat no member of it would ever have dealings with any member of itagain. All of them were out of business, fleeing with the imaginaryhounds of the law baying at their heels.

  He smiled at the thought.

  And then his smile faded for some strange reason and he ceasedlistening to Pierce for a moment, looked away and ceased listening,for hearing Pierce just then distracted oddly from the clarity of histhinking. He wanted to review what he had just done.

  What was wrong?

  What?

  He struggled with a mounting confusion, the desk top and telephonesblurring as he tried to concentrate with desperate effort.

  Unexpectedly the question sprang into focus. It was as if the roomturned inside out, the day turned upside down.

  He had smashed himself--not UT!

  Why?

  Why had he made those calls--changed his plans--and made those calls?

  With the most perfect and terrible clarity he saw the results of whathe had done. The organization destroyed. The contacts he had madefifteen years ago as an anonymous y
oung dock hand, contacts that asBryce Carter he could never make again--vanishing--merging with thegreat mass of the public--becoming gray unknown figures. The buildingof years melting like a sugar castle melts into the tide--theinvisible army that had obeyed his sourceless voice without being ableto blackmail or rebel, the perfectly balanced tool in his hands thatcould be used for the bribing of venal politicians, with a limitlessfund for the bribery, the growing secret control of the most venal ofthe political machines of Earth, that by the time he needed it itwould have been an irresistible weapon in his hand for the singleswift political blow that would rip the Belt from Earth control, andgive it a seat on the Assembly of the Federated Nations, and masteryof the solar system--

  But as he sat there the organization dissolved.

  He grasped the phone, but there was nobody to call now, no one wouldanswer. He could never reach them again.

  This was sanity now, but what had it been before when he wascheerfully