* * *
The Directorate guards fanned out in the meeting chamber. After them came a Directorate official with a brief-case gripped in one hand. More jets were landing, on the roof and on the pavement outside. The sound of traffic died; the street was being sealed off. Two heavy cargo-carrying transports rumbled down the suddenly deserted street and began discharging ugly-snouted cannon.
"You're Leon Cartwright," the official said. He glanced briefly at Cartwright and then put down his case. Opening and leafing through a notebook he said: "Give me your papers."
Cartwright slid his plastic tube from his inside coat pocket, unsnapped the seal and spread out the thin metal foil. One by one he laid papers on the table. "Birth certificate. School and training records. Psycho-analysis. Medical certificate. Criminal record. Status permit. Statement of fealty history. Last fealty release. All the rest." He pushed the heap towards the official, removed his coat and rolled up his sleeve.
The official glanced at the papers, then compared the identification tabs with the markings seared deep in the flesh of Cartwright's forearm. "We'll have to examine fingerprints and brain pattern later. Actually, this is superfluous; I know you're Leon Cartwright." He pushed back the papers. "I'm Major Shaeffer, from the Directorate. There was a change in control this morning.
Major Shaeffer touched Cartwright's status permit. "You're not classified?"
"No."
"I suppose your power-card was collected by your protector, Hill. That's usual, isn't it?"
"That's the system," Cartwright said. "But I'm not under fief to any Hill. I was discharged earlier this year."
Shaeffer shrugged. "Then of course you put your power-card on the blackmarket." He closed his notebook with a snap. "One way or another, classifieds managed to get hold of power-cards."
Cartwright laid his card on the table. "There's mine."
Shaeffer was astounded. "Incredible!" He rapidly scanned Cartwright's face. "You knew already. You knew this was coming."
"Yes."
"We came instantly. The news hasn't even reached Verrick; you're the first person outside the Corps to know." He moved close to Cartwright. "How did you know it was coming?"
"That two-headed calf," Cartwright said vaguely.
"We'll take up positions here. In a few minutes Verrick will be informed. We want to be ready." The official pushed Cartwright's power-card into his hand. "Hang on to this. It's your sole claim to your new position."
Cartwright pocketed the power-card carefully.
Shaeffer licked his lips reflectively. "You're now our superior and Verrick is nothing. It may be some time before we can make the psychological change-over. Some of the younger Corps members who don't remember any other Quizmaster..." He shrugged. "I suggest that you place yourself in Corps hands for a while. We can't stay here, and a lot of people at Batavia have personal fealties to Verrick, not to the position. Verrick has been using them to gain control over the Hills."
"I'm glad you came," Cartwright admitted. "When I heard the noise I thought it was Verrick."
"It would have been, if we had notified him. If it hadn't been for the older guards we probably would have told him first and taken our time getting here. Peter Wakeman made a big thing of responsibility, and duty."
Cartwright made a mental note. He would have to look up Peter Wakeman.
"As we approached," Shaeffer continued slowly, "our first group of psychics picked up the thoughts of a number of people, apparently leaving here. Your name was in their minds, and this location. They were moving away from us, so we couldn't catch much. Something about a ship. Something to do with a long flight."
"You sound like a Government fortune-teller."
"There was an atmosphere of excitement and fear. And some anger."
"Creditors, perhaps."
"One thought was passed on to me. You might file it away. Somebody in that group was pleasantly contemplating you lying dead with a crushed-in skull."
In the courtyard outside the Society building Rita O'Neill stood watching the unit rising into the mid-morning sky. One by one the elements disappeared in the direction of Batavia.
She walked in a circle, suddenly lost. The great moment had come and gone.
Against the Society building stood the small crypt in which the remains of John Preston lay. She could see his dark, ill-formed body suspended within the yellowed, fly-specked plasti-cube, hands folded over his bird-like chest, eyes shut, glasses eternally superfluous. The crypt was dusty; trash and debris were littered about it. Nobody came to see Preston's remains. A forgotten, lonely monument, housing a dismal shape of clay.
Half a mile away the fleet of archaic cars was unloading its passengers. The battered ore freighter was jammed tight on the launcher; the people were clumsily climbing the narrow metal ramp into the unfamiliar hull.
The fanatics were setting out to locate and claim the mythical tenth planet of the Sol System. The legendary Flame Disc, John Preston's fabulous world beyond the known universe.
Chapter III
Before Cartwright reached the Directorate buildings at Batavia the news was out. He sat fixedly watching the television screen as the high-speed intercon rocket hurtled across the South Pacific sky. Below them spread the blue ocean and endless black dots, conglomerations of metal and plastic houseboats on which Asiatic families lived. Fragile platforms stretched from Hawaii to Ceylon.
The screen was wild with excitement. Faces blinked on and off; scenes shifted with bewildering rapidity. The history of Verrick's ten years was shown: shots of the massive, thick-browed ex-Quizmaster and summaries of what he had accomplished. And vague reports on Cartwright.
He laughed in a nervous aside that made the others start. Nothing was known about him, only that he was somehow connected with the Preston Society. The newsmachines had dug up as much as possible on the Society: it wasn't much. The story of John Preston himself, of the frail man creeping from the Information Libraries to the observatories, writing his books, collecting facts, arguing futilely. Finally, death in obscurity. The first meeting of the Society. The printing of Preston's half-crazy, half-prophetic books...
That was all they knew (he hoped). Cartwright kept his eyes on the screen.
He was now the supreme power in the nine-planet system. Quizmaster, surrounded by a telepathic Corps, with a vast army and warfleet and police force at his disposal. He was unopposed administrator of the whole structure, of the vast apparatus of classification, Quizzes and lotteries and training schools.
On the other hand, there were the five Hills, the industrial framework that supported the social and political system.
"How far did Verrick get?" he asked Major Shaeffer.
"He did fairly well. By August he would have eliminated most of the things he wanted eliminated."
"Where is Verrick now?"
"He left Batavia for the Chemie Hill, where he's strongest. He'll operate from there; we got some of his plans."
"I can see your Corps is going to be invaluable."
"Up to a point. Our job is to protect you: that's all we do. We're not spies or agents. We guard your life."
"What's been the ratio in the past?"
"The Corps came into existence a hundred and sixty years ago. Since then we've protected fifty-nine Quizmasters. Of that number we've been able to save eleven from the Challenge."
"How long did they last?"
"Some minutes, some years. Verrick lasted longest, although there was old McRae, back in 'seventy-eight, who ran his whole thirteen years. For him the Corps intercepted over three hundred Challengers."
"A telepathic Corps," Cartwright mused, "to protect me, public assassins to murder me."
"Only one assassin at a time. Of course, you could be murdered by an amateur unsanctioned by the Convention. Somebody with a grudge. But that's rare."
"Give me my length ratio."
"Average, two weeks."
Two weeks! And Verrick was shrewd. The
Challenge Conventions wouldn't be sporadic affairs put together by isolated individuals hungry for power. Verrick would have everything organized. Efficient, concerted machinery turning out one assassin after another, creeping to Batavia until at last Leon Cartwright was destroyed.
"In your mind," Shaeffer said, "is an interesting vortex of the usual fear and a very unusual syndrome I can't analyze. Something about a ship."
"You're permitted to scan whenever you feel like it?"
"I can't help it. If I sat here talking you couldn't help hearing me. When I'm with a group their thoughts blur, like a party of people all babbling at once. But there's just you and me here."
"The ship is on its way," Cartwright said.
"It won't get far. The first planet it tries to squat, Mars or Jupiter or Ganymede——"
"The ship is going all the way out. We're not setting up another squatters' colony."
"You're counting a lot on that old ore-carrier."
"Everything we have is there."
"You think you can hold on long enough?"
"I hope so."
"So do I," Shaeffer said dispassionately. He gestured towards the island coming into existence ahead and below. "When we land there will be an agent of Verrick's waiting for you."
"Already?"
"Not an assassin. There's been no Challenge convention yet. This man is under fief to Verrick. A personal staff member named Herb Moore. He's been searched for weapons and passed. He just wants to talk to you."
"How do you know this?"
"During the last few minutes I've been getting the Corps headquarters. You have nothing to worry about: at least two of us will be with you when you talk to him."
"Suppose I don't want to talk?"
"That's your privilege."
Cartwright snapped off the television as the ship lowered over the magnetic grapples. "What do you recommend?"
"Hear what he has to say. It'll give you an idea what you're up against."
Herbert Moore was a handsome blond man in his early thirties. He rose gracefully as Cartwright, Shaeffer and two other Corpsmen entered the main lounge of the Directorate building.
"Greetings," Moore said to Shaeffer.
Shaeffer pushed open the doors to the inner offices and stood aside as Cartwright entered. This was the first time the new Quizmaster had seen his inheritance. He stood in the doorway, completely entranced by the sight.
He wandered over to the desk and touched the polished mahogany surface. "I had all the abstract significance figured out. Power to do this, power to do that. I had it all down in symbolized form, but the sight of this big desk——"
"This isn't your desk," Major Shaeffer said "This is your secretary's desk. Eleanor Stevens."
"Then where is she?"
"She left with Verrick." Shaeffer slammed the door, leaving Herb Moore in the lounge outside. "She came to the Corps after Verrick was Quizmaster. She was seventeen and Verrick was the only person she ever served. After a couple of years she changed her oath from what we call a positional oath to a personal oath. When Verrick left she packed up her stuff and went with him. Interesting that such personal loyalty could be built up. As far as I know, there's no romantic relationship. In fact, she's been the mistress of Moore, the young man waiting outside."
Cartwright roamed round the luxurious office, examining file cabinets, the massive ipvic sets, the chairs, the desk, the paintings. "Where's my office?"
Shaeffer kicked open a heavy door. He and the other Corpsmen followed Cartwright past a series of check-points into a bleak chamber. "Big, but not as lush," Shaeffer said. "Verrick was a realist. When he came this was a sort of Arabian erotic house: girls, couches, drink, music, colours. Verrick sent the girls to the Martian work-camps, tore down the fixtures and gingerbread, and built this." Shaeffer rapped on the wall; it echoed dully. "Bomb-proof, shielded from radiation, has its own air-pumping system, its own temperature and humidity controls, its own food supply." He opened a cupboard.
The cupboard was a small arsenal.
"Verrick could handle every kind of gun known. Nobody can get into this room except through the regular door. Or——" He ran his hands over one of the walls. "Verrick designed this. When it was finished all the workmen were sent off to the camps. During the final hours the Corps was excluded."
"Why?"
"Verrick had equipment installed that he didn't intend to use while Quizmaster. However, we dealt with some of the workmen." He slid a section of wall aside. "This is Verrick's special passage. Ostensibly, it leads out; in reality, it leads in."
The passage opened up behind the desk; it wasn't hard to picture the wall sliding back and an assassin emerging directly behind the new Quizmaster. "Should I have it sealed up?"
"We'll sow gas capsules under the flooring, the length of the passage, and forget about it. The assassin will be dead before he reaches here."
Shaeffer shrugged.
Cartwright managed to ask: "Is there anything else I ought to know at this point?"
"You ought to hear Moore. He's a top-flight biochemist, a genius. He controls the Chemie research labs; this is the first time he's been here for years. We've been trying to scan something on his work but, frankly, the information is too technical for us."
One of the Corpsmen, a dapper man with moustache and thinning hair, spoke up: "It would be interesting to know how much of that stuff Moore formulates in technical jargon just to throw us off."
"This is Peter Wakeman," Shaeffer said.
Cartwright and Wakeman shook hands. The Corpsman's fingers were dainty, fragile, diffident fingers. It was hard to believe that this was the man who headed the Corps. who had swung it away from Verrick at the critical moment.
The guard showed equal interest in the tall old man.
"How does one become a Prestonite? Preston was an astronomer who got the observatories to watch for his planet—right? They found nothing. Preston went out after it and died in his ship. Yes, I once thumbed through Flame Disc. The man who owned it was a crackpot. I tried to analyse him; a chaotic jumble of passions."
"How do I analyse?" Cartwright asked tightly.
There was absolute silence. The guards were all at work on him; he forced his attention on the elaborate television set and ignored them.
"About the same," Wakeman said presently. "You've got everything tied up in your ship. If it goes down that's the end of you."
"It won't go down," Cartwright said.
"After you've talked to Moore," Wakeman said, "it'll be interesting to see if you still predict success."
Herb Moore rose as Cartwright and Wakeman entered the lounge.
"What do you want?" Cartwright demanded.
"Let's put it this way. You're in. Verrick is out. You hold the supreme position in the system. Right?"
Moore began pacing about, cheeks flushed with excitement, gesturing vividly, highly animated by the flow of words beginning to pour out of his mouth.
"Reese Verrick was Quizmaster for ten years. He was Challenged daily and he met every Challenge. Essentially, Verrick is a skilled leader. He operated this job with more knowledge and ability than all the Quizmasters before him put together."
"Except McRae," Shaeffer pointed out, as he entered the lounge.
Cartwright felt sick. He threw himself into one of the chairs and lay wearily back as it adjusted itself to his posture. The argument continued without him; the words that flowed between the Corpsmen and Verrick's bright young man were remote, dreamlike.
In many ways Herb Moore was right. He had blundered into somebody else's office, position and problems. He wondered vaguely where the ship was. Unless something had gone wrong it would soon be heading out towards Mars and the asteroid belt.
Who wanted him dead?
Moore's sharp voice brought him back. He sat up and opened his eyes.
"All right!" Moore was saying excitedly. "The word's gone out on the ipvic. The Convention will probably be held at the Westinghouse H
ill; there's more hotel space there."
"Yes," Wakeman was saying tightly, "that's the usual place for the murderers to collect."
The Challenge Convention.
Cartwright got unsteadily to his feet. "I want to talk to Moore. You two clear out of here."
The men conferred silently, then moved towards the door.
"Be careful," Wakeman warned him. "You've had a lot of emotional shocks today. Your thalamic index is too high."
Cartwright closed the door and turned to face Moore. "Now we can get this settled once and for all."
Moore smiled confidently. "Anything you say, Mr. Cartwright. You're the boss."
"I'm not your boss."
"No, that's so. A few of us stayed loyal to Reese."
"You must think a lot of him."
Moore's expression showed that he did.
"Reese Verrick is a big man, Mr. Cartwright. He's done a lot of big things."
"What do you want me to do? Give him back his position?" Cartwright heard his own voice waver with emotion. "I'm here and I'm staying here. You can't intimidate me! You can't laugh me out!"
Cartwright tried to keep his hands from shaking. He was excited; he could hardly speak. And he was afraid.
"You can't operate this," Moore said quietly. "This isn't your line. What are you? I examined the records. You were born on 5 October, 2140, outside the Imperial Hill. You've lived there all your life; this is the first time you've been on this side of Earth, let alone on another planet. You had ten years of nominal schooling in the charity department of the Imperial Hill. From high school onwards you took courses, in welding, and electronic repair and that sort of thing. After you left school you designed a few circuit improvements but the Directorate rejected your patents."
"The improvements," Cartwright said with difficulty, "were used a year later."
"Then you became embittered. You tried many times to win a classification but you never had enough theoretical knowledge. When you were forty-nine you gave up. When you were fifty you joined this Preston Society."
"I had been attending meetings for six years."
"There weren't many members at the time, and finally you were elected Presidents. You put all your money and time into the crazy thing. It's become a mania." Moore beamed happily, as if solving an intricate equation. "This position—Quizmaster over billions of people, endless quantities of men and material... . And you see all this only as a means of expanding your Society."
World of Chance Page 3