Beatty said, “Dueling is permitted here?”
Aaui nodded. “The legal precedent came in 1804, when Alexander Hamilton killed Aaron Burr in a duel.”
“I guess we’d better get to work,” Beatty said. “But I wish we had more equipment.”
“We took all we could carry. Let’s get on with it.”
INSIDE the Prince Charles Coffee Shop, Brynne sat at a table far in the rear. His hands were trembling; with an effort, he controlled them. Damn that First Order Crusader! Lousy, overbearing blowhard! But would he accept a duel? No, of course not. Had to hide behind the privileges of his station.
Rage was rising in Brynne, black and ominous. He should have killed the man and the blazes with the consequences! The blazes with everything! No man could step on him that way . . .
Stop it, he told himself. There was nothing he could do about it. He had to think about Ben Baxter and the all-important meeting. Looking at his watch, he saw it was nearly eleven o’clock. In two and a half hours, he would be in Baxter’s office and—
“Your order, sir?” a waiter asked him.
“Hot chocolate, toast and a poached egg.”
“French fries?”
“If I wanted French fries, I’d have told you!” Brynne shouted.
The waiter went pale, gulped, said, “Yes, sir, sorry, sir,” and hurried off.
Now, Brynne thought, I’m reduced to yelling at commoners. Control—I must get myself under control.
“Ned Brynne!”
Brynne started and looked around. He had distinctly heard someone whisper his name. But there was no one within twenty feet of him.
“Brynne!”
“What is this?” Brynne muttered in unwilling reply. “Who’s speaking?”
“You’re nervous, Brynne, losing control of yourself. You need a rest, a vacation, a change.”
Brynne went dead while under his tan and looked around the cafe. It was almost empty. There were three old ladies near the front. Beyond them he could see two men, talking together earnestly.
“Go home, Brynne, and get some rest. Take some time off while you can.”
“I have an important business appointment,” Brynne said, his voice shaky.
“Business before sanity,” the voice pointed out mockingly.
“Who’s talking to me?”
“What makes you think someone is talking to you?” the voice asked silkily.
“You mean I’m talking to myself?”
“You should know.”
“Your egg, sir,” the waiter said.
“What?” Brynne roared.
The waiter stepped hastily back, slopping hot chocolate into the saucer. “Sir?” he quavered.
“Don’t creep around that way, idiot.”
The waiter looked at Brynne incredulously, deposited the food and fled. Brynne stared after him suspiciously.
“You are in no condition to see anyone,” the voice told him. “Go home, get into bed, take a pill, sleep, heal!”
“But what’s the matter? Why?”
“Because your sanity is at stake! This external voice is your mind’s last frantic attempt at stability. You can’t afford to ignore this warning, Brynne!”
“It can’t be true!” protested Brynne. “I’m sane. I’m—”
“Beg pardon, sir,” said a voice at his elbow.
Brynne whirled, prepared to chastise this further intrusion on his privacy. He saw the blue uniform of a policeman looming over him. The man was wearing the white shoulder epaulets of a Noble Lieutenant.
BRYNNE swallowed hard and said, “Anything wrong, Officer?”
“Sir, the waiter and manager tell me you are talking to yourself and threatening violence.”
“Preposterous,” snapped Brynne.
“It’s true! Ifs true! You’re going crazy!” the voice screamed in his head.
Brynne stared at the great square bulk of the policeman. Surely he heard the voice! But apparently the Noble Lieutenant didn’t, for he continued to look somberly down at him.
“It’s not true,” Brynne said, feeling secure in staking his word against a commoner’s.
“I heard you myself,” the Noble Lieutenant said.
“Well, sir, it’s this way,” Brynne began, choosing his words with care. “I was—”
The voice shrieked in his head, “Tell him to go to hell, Brynne! Who’s he to question you? Who’s anyone to question you? Hit him! Blast him! Kill him! Destroy him!”
Brynne said, through the barrage of noise in his head, “I was talking to myself, perfectly true, Officer. I frequently think out loud. It helps me to organize my thoughts.”
The Noble Lieutenant gave a half nod. “But you offered violence, sir, at no provocation.”
“No provocation! I ask you, sir, are cold eggs no provocation? Are limp toast and spilled chocolate no provocation?”
The waiter, called over, insisted, “Those eggs were hot—”
“They were not and that is all. I do not expect to sit here and argue a point of fact with a commoner.”
“Quite right,” the Noble Lieutenant said, nodding emphatically now. “But might I ask you, sir, to curb your anger somewhat, even though it may be perfectly justified? Not too much can be expected of commoners, after all.”
“I know,” Brynne agreed. “By the way, sir—the purple edging on your epaulets—are you related to O’Donnel of Moose Lodge, by any chance?”
“My third cousin on my mother’s side,” said the Noble Lieutenant, looking intently now at Brynne’s sunburst medallion. “My son has entered the Chamberlain Halls as a probationary. A tall boy named Callahan.”
“I will remember the name,” Brynne promised.
“The eggs were hot!” said the waiter.
“Don’t dispute the word of a gentleman,” ordered the officer. “It could get you into serious trouble. Pleasant day to you, sir.” The Noble Lieutenant saluted and left.
Brynne paid and left shortly after him. He deposited a sizable tip for the waiter, but determined never to come into the Prince Charles again.
RESOURCEFUL fellow,” Aaui said bitterly, putting the tiny microphone back in his pocket. “For a moment, I thought we had him.”
“We would have, if he’d had any latent doubts about his sanity. Well, now for something more direct. Got the equipment?”
Aaui took two pairs of brass knuckles out of his pocket and handed one to Beatty.
“Try not to lose it,” he said. “We’re supposed to return it to the Primitive Museum.”
“Right. It fits over the fist, doesn’t it? Oh, yes, I see.”
They paid and hurried out.
* * *
Brynne decided to take a stroll along the waterfront to quiet his nerves. The sight of the great ships lying calm and steadfast in their berths never failed to soothe him. He walked steadily along, trying to reason out what had happened to him.
Those voices in his head . . .
Was he really losing his grip? An uncle on his mother’s side had spent his last years in an institution. Involutional melancholia. Was there some explosive hidden factor at work in him?
He stopped and looked at the bow of a great ship. The Theseus . . .
Where was it going? Italy, perhaps. He thought of blue skies, brilliant sunshine, wine and relaxation. Those things would never be his. Work, frantic effort, that was the life he had set for himself. Even if it meant losing his mind, he would continue to labor under the iron-gray skies of New York.
But why, he asked himself. He was moderately well off. His business could take care of itself. What was to stop him from boarding that ship, dropping everything, spending a year in the sun?
Excitement stirred in him as he realized that nothing was stopping him. He was his own man, a determined, strong man. If he had the guts to succeed in business, he also had the guts to leave it, to drop everything and go away.
“To hell with Baxter!” he said to himself.
His sanity was more important
than anything. He would board that ship, right now, wire his associates from sea, tell them—
TWO men were walking toward him down the deserted street. He recognized one by his golden-brown Polynesian features.
“Mr. Brynne?” inquired the other, a rangy fellow with a shock of brown hair.
“Yes?” said Brynne.
Without warning, the Polynesian threw both arms around him, pinning him, and the shock-haired man swung at him with a fist that glinted golden!
Brynne’s keyed-up nerves reacted with shattering speed. He had been a Knight Rampant during the Second World Crusade. Now, years later, all the reaction patterns were still there. He ducked the shock-haired man’s blow and drove his elbow into the Polynesian’s stomach. The man grunted and his grip relaxed for a second. Brynne broke free.
He chopped at the Polynesian with the back of his hand, hitting the nerve trunk in the throat. The man went down, gasping for breath. At the same time, the shock-haired man was on him, raining brass-knuckled blows.
Brynne lashed out, missed, caught a solid punch in the solar plexus. He fought for air. Blackness began edging into the periphery of his vision. He was hit again and went down, fighting for consciousness. Then his opponent made a mistake.
The shock-haired man tried to finish him with a kick, but he didn’t know how to kick. Brynne caught his foot and jerked. Off balance, the man crashed to the pavement, striking his head.
Brynne staggered to his feet, breathing hard. The Polynesian was sprawled in the road, his face purple, making feeble swimming movements with his arms and legs. The other man lay motionless, blood seeping slowly through his hair.
He should report this incident to the police, Brynne thought. But suppose he had killed the shockhaired man? He would be held on a manslaughter charge, at least. And the Noble Lieutenant would report his earlier irrational behavior.
He looked around. No one had witnessed the incident. It was best to simply walk away. Let his assailants report it, if they wanted to.
Things were falling into place now. These men must have been hired by one of his many business competitors, men who were also trying for an affiliation with Ben Baxter. Even the voice in his head might have been a clever trick.
Well, let them try to stop him! Still breathing heavily, he began walking toward Ben Baxter’s office.
All thoughts of a cruise to Italy were gone now.
“ARE you all right?” a voice asked from somewhere up above.
Beatty returned slowly to consciousness. For a short, alarmed while, he thought he had a fractured skull. But, touching it gently, he decided it was still in one piece.
“What did he hit me with?” he asked.
“The pavement, I think,” Aaui said. “Sorry I couldn’t help. He put me out of action pretty early.”
Beatty sat up, clutching his aching head. “What a fighter!”
“We underestimated him,” said Aaui. “He must have had some kind of training. Do you think you can walk?”
“I think so,” Beatty said, letting Aaui help him to his feet. “What time is it?”
“Nearly one o’clock. His appointment’s at one-thirty. Maybe we can stop him at Baxter’s office.”
In five minutes, they caught a taxi and sped to Baxter’s building.
The receptionist was young and pretty, and she stared at them open-mouthed. They had managed to clean up some of the damage in the taxi, but what remained looked pretty bad. Beatty had an improvised bandage over his head and Aaui’s complexion bordered on green.
“What do you want?” the receptionist asked.
“I believe Mr. Baxter has a one-thirty appointment with Mr. Brynne,” said Aaui in his most businesslike tone.
“Yes.”
The wall clock read one-seventeen. Aaui said, “We must see Mr. Brynne before he goes in. It’s very urgent. So if you don’t mind, we’ll wait here for him.”
“You can wait,” the girl said. “But Mr. Brynne has already gone in.”
“But it isn’t one-thirty yet!”
“Mr. Brynne was early. Mr. Baxter decided to see him at once.”
“I must speak to him,” Aaui said.
“I have orders not to disturb them.” The girl looked frightened and her finger hovered over a button on her desk.
Aaui knew that the button would probably summon help. A man like Baxter would have protection near at all times. The meeting was taking place now, and he didn’t dare interfere. Perhaps his actions had changed the course of events. It seemed likely. The Brynne in that office was a different man, a man altered by his adventures of the morning.
“It’s all right,” Aaui said to the receptionist. “We’ll just sit here and wait.”
BEN BAXTER was short, solid, bull-chested. He was totally bald and his eyes, behind gold pince-nez, were expressionless. His business suit was severe, and affixed to the lapel was the small ruby-and-pearls emblem of the Wall Street House of Lords.
For half an hour, Brynne had talked, spread papers on Baxter’s desk, quoted figures, mentioned trends, predicted movements. He was perspiring anxiously now, waiting for a word out of Baxter.
“Hmm,” said Ben Baxter.
Brynne waited. His temples were pounding with a steady, dull ache and he was having trouble with the tight knots in his stomach. It was years since he had fought in anger; he wasn’t used to it. He hoped he could control himself until the meeting was over.
“The terms you request,” said Baxter, “are just short of preposterous.”
“Sir?”
“Preposterous was the word, Mr. Brynne. You are, perhaps, hard of hearing?”
“No,” said Brynne.
“Excellent. These terms you present might be suitable for negotiation between two companies of equal holdings. But such is not the case, Mr. Brynne. It amounts to presumption that a company of your size should offer such terms to Baxter Enterprises.”
Brynne’s eyes narrowed. He had heard about Baxter’s reputation for in-fighting. This was not personal insult, he reminded himself. It was the kind of business maneuver that he himself had often used. It must be dealt with as such.
“Let me point out,” Brynne said, “the key nature of this forest area I have an option on. With sufficient capitalization, we could extend the holding enormously, to say nothing—”
“Hopes, dreams, promises,” Baxter sighed. “You may have something worth while. As yet, it is inadequately demonstrated.”
This is business, Brynne reminded himself. He does want to back me—I can tell. I expected to come down in the bargaining. Naturally. All he’s doing is beating down the terms. Nothing personal . . .
But too much had happened to Brynne in one day. The red-faced Crusader, the voice in the restaurant, his short-lived dream of freedom, the fight with the two men—he knew he couldn’t take much more.
“Suppose, Mr. Brynne,” said Baxter, “you make a more reasonable offer. One in keeping with the modest and subsidiary status of your holdings.”
He’s testing me, Brynne thought. But it was too much. He was as nobly born as Baxter; how dare the man treat him this way?
“Sir,” he said through numb lips, “I take exception.”
“Eh?” said Baxter, and Brynne thought he glimpsed amusement in the cold eyes. “What do you take exception to?”
“Your statements, sir, and the manner in which you say them. I suggest you apologize.”
STANDING up stiffly, Brynne waited. His head was pounding inhumanly now and his stomach refused to unknot itself.
“I see nothing for which to apologize, sir,” said Baxter. “And I see no reason to deal with a man who cannot keep personalities out of a business discussion.” He’s right, Brynne thought. I’m the one who should apologize. But he could not stop. Desperately he said, “I warn you—apologize, sir!”
“We can do no business this way,” said Baxter. “And frankly, Mr. Brynne, I had hoped to do business with you. I will try to speak in a reasonable manner, if you will try to r
eact in an equally reasonable manner. I ask you to withdraw your request for an apology and let us get on.”
“I can’t!” Brynne said, wishing passionately he could. “Apologize, sir!”
Baxter stood up, short and powerfully built. He stepped out from behind the desk, his face dark with anger. “Get out of here then, you insolent young dog! Get out or I’ll have you thrown out, you hot-headed fool! Get out!”
Brynne, wishing to apologize, thought of the red-faced Crusader, the waiter, his two assailants. Something snapped in him. He lashed out with all his strength, the weight of his body behind the blow.
It caught Baxter full in the neck and slammed him against the desk. Eyes glazed, Baxter slumped to the floor.
“I’m sorry!” Brynne cried. “I apologize! I apologize!”
He knelt beside Baxter. “Are you all right, sir? I’m truly sorry. I apologize . . .”
A part of his mind, coldly functioning, told him that he had been caught in an unresolvable ambivalence. His need for action had been as strong as his need to apologize. And so he had solved the dilemma by trying to do both things, in the usual ambivalent muddle. He had struck—then apologized.
“Mr. Baxter?” he called in alarm.
Ben Baxter’s features were congested and blood drooled from a corner of his mouth. Then Brynne noticed that Baxter’s head lay at a queer angle from his body.
“Oh . . .” Brynne said.
He had served three years with the Knights Rampant. It was not the first broken neck he had seen.
II
ON THE morning of April 12, 1959, Ned Brynne awakened and washed and dressed. At 1:30 that afternoon, he had an appointment with Ben Baxter, the president of Baxter Industries. Brynne’s entire future hinged upon the outcome of that meeting. If he could get the backing of the gigantic Baxter enterprises, and do so on favorable terms . . .
Brynne was a tall, darkly handsome man of thirty-six. There was a hint of deep gentleness in his carefuly bland eyes, a suggestion of uncompromising piety in his expressive mouth. His movements had the loose grace of an unselfconscious man.
He was almost ready to leave. He tucked a prayer stick under his arm and slipped a copy of Norsted’s Guide to the Gentle Way into his pocket. He was never without that infallible guide.
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