The Coordinator and the Vice-Coordinator were chosen by that most hallowed of political methods—naked power struggle within the Council.
Vladimir Khustov, the most powerful man in the Hegemony, was speaking in clipped tones of ill-concealed rage:
“You find it amusing, do you Jack? And what if it were you that they had tried to kill?”
Jack Torrence, the Vice-Coordinator, sipped evenly at a jigger of raw vodka, his thin, rodentlike features puckered into a sardonic grin.
“But Vladimir,” he said slowly. “After all it was you they were shooting at, not me. Personally, I think the League showed excellent taste.”
“We all know how eager you are to become Coordinator,” Khustov snapped. “And I know how desolate my death would leave you. But even you should be able to understand that the fact that the League almost killed a Hegemonic Coordinator is what counts. What if you were to become Coordinator, Jack? Would you enjoy being shot at?”
Torrence weighed his next words, ran his gaze quickly over Obrina, Kuryakin, Lao, Cordona and Ulanuzov—Khustov’s five sure captive votes on the Council—and when he spoke, he was really speaking to them.
“Perhaps it would not be so bad,” he said, “if my friends in the Brotherhood of Assassins were there to protect me.”
“That remark was totally uncalled for!” Khustov snapped, and his followers looked properly scandalized. But only properly, Torrence noted with interest.
“Maybe you’d like to install a Beam and Eye in the Council Chamber, Vladimir?” suggested Torrence. “That would certainly take care of ‘uncalled for’ remarks.” Steiner and Jones, Torrence’s men, dutifully chuckled.
“I’m sick of your brand of humor,” Khustov said. “This is a serious situation. The Democratic League may be ineffectual, but it’s the only real enemy we have, the only obstacle to complete Order. Once the League is eliminated, we’ll be able to go on to establish absolute control of the entire human race. Look how far we’ve come already! Three short centuries ago, the human race was on the verge of destroying itself. The Greater Soviet Union and the Atlantic Union were ready to fly at each other’s throats. If the Sino-Soviet war hadn’t brought them to their senses … Well, fortunately both sides realized in time that the human race needed Order to survive. And now, after three hundred years, look what Order has achieved. Disease all but wiped out. War eliminated. The living standard quadrupled. And I tell this Council that the League is the only real obstacle to even more complete control. Once we are rid of them, we can afford to install Beams and Eyes everywhere. Or why stop there? Why not control genetics as well as environment? I tell you, we are just beginning!”
Torrence sighed. Every time Vladimir spouts off like that, I have a hard time deciding whether he’s an utter imbecile, or just a bigger hypocrite than I am, he thought. One would think he really believes that the so-called Guardian executions for Unpermitted Actions are really the omniscience of the computers we pretend they are instead of mere random blowing of Beams!
“And for this millenium to come about; Torrence drawled, refilling his jigger, “we have to spend millions of credits and tens of thousands of man hours rooting out a bunch of hare-brained romantics? Come on, Vladimir, as you said yourself, our control is already all but total. Do we really have to treat a tired joke like the League as if it were a serious threat?”
“When was the last time you were shot at?” Khustov blurted.
Time to apply the needle! Torrence thought. “Aha!” he said. “Now we come down to it! You have been shot at, and this is the great threat. This is what transforms a pack of fools into a dangerous conspiracy. Tell me, Vladimir, why aren’t you as hot to eliminate the Brotherhood? After all, they’ve caused far more trouble than the League. Could it be that you know something about the Brotherhood that we don’t? Could it be that you and the Brotherhood have … an understanding? After all, they did save your life. …”
Torrence noted with considerable satisfaction that even Khustov’s men on the Council looked rather thoughtful now.
“You’re going too far, Torrence!” Khustov roared. “The Brotherhood is just a collection of religious fanatics, like the old Judeo-Christians. How do I know why they saved my life? They say the old religionists used to cut open the guts of animals and decide what to do on the basis of how the entrails fell out. The Brotherhood of Assassins is cut from the same cloth. The Judeo-Christians had their Bible, the Communists had their Marxlenin, and the Brotherhood has Markowitz and his Theory of Social Entropy. It’s all the same kind of meaningless mumbo-jumbo. Religious fanatics may be pests, but they can’t be a serious threat because they don’t even live in the real world!”
“And the League, of course,” Torrence said “is a perfectly real menace?”
“Yes, it is, because they offer what is superficially a real alternative. What if they had killed me?”
Torrence laughed. “Don’t ask me to be so crude as to answer that,” he said. For the millionth time, he wondered how Khustov could keep power—and the answer was the same: five other Councilers believed the same garbage he did. And no wonder, since Obrina, Cordona and Kuryakin had all been selected by the Guardian.
“I mean aside from your becoming Coordinator! The League could then boast that they had killed a Coordinator, and over live television to boot. No doubt they had an annunciator bomb all set to go off as soon as I was dead. They were moments from becoming a genuine threat.”
“And the Brotherhood of Assassins robbed them of that pleasure,” said Torrence. “Most … ah … curious.”
“Damn you, Torrence, I—”
“Please, Councilors,” Councilor Constantine Gorov said, and Torrence groaned. This bald-headed, emotionless creature was the closest thing to a human computer that Torrence had ever met—a fitting choice indeed by the Guardian for the Council. Gorov was brilliant in an academic way. You had to give him that, Torrence thought. But when it came to dealing with human beings, the man was a tiresome imbecile.
“Don’t you see that this is exactly how you’re supposed to react to the Brotherhood’s actions?” Gorov said earnestly. “If one studies the Theory of Social Entropy and the rest of Markowitz’ work, it becomes plain that the very randomness of the Brotherhood’s activities is a pattern in itself. We are certain, as Vladimir has pointed out, that the Brotherhood believes in the work of Marokwitz much as the Judeo-christians used to—”
“Enough, Gorov, enough!” barked Khustov. “This is getting us nowhere. We must act! I think that it is safe to say that no one on this Council, not even our good Vice-Coordinator, can see any reason why the Democratic League should continue to exist.”
“Hardly the point,” Torrence said tiredly. “It’s the cost that I object to, the cost of ferreting two or three thousand League members out of a population of twenty billion.”
“But what if we could break the League’s back cheaply?” Khustov said.
“I gather you have a proposal to make,” Torrence said. “Please go ahead and make it.” This was all becoming pointless, he thought. Vladimir had the votes to push virtually anything through the Council.
“Very well. First of all, we must tighten up security. Guards must be more carefully screened and must be required to undergo depth interrogation every six months. That should eliminate any further League infiltration of the Guards. All in favor?”
The approval was unanimous. Even Torrence could find no reason for not going along.
“Second, the proper professionals in the Ministry of Guardianship should be instructed to evolve a cheap plan for destroying the Democratic League.”
Again, the vote was unanimous.
“Finally, I propose that our original schedule for installing Beams and Eyes in all new dwellings be advanced so that such installations shall begin immediately.”
Torrence grimaced. To him, the whole matter of Eyes and Beams was ridiculous. To be sure, the Guardians actually could detect and deal with really gross violations of the
Code, but the widespread belief that the Beams would kill for even minute violations was just propaganda, propaganda reinforced by killing hundreds of innocent Wards at random. The danger was that Khustov and Gorov and their kind would someday try to turn propaganda into truth—and if control got that tight, nothing would ever be able to dislodge Khustov.
But the vote on the proposal was strictly a power struggle, with only Torrence, Jones and Steiner voting ast it. As Torrence had expected, Gorov went along with the majority—even though he was just not human enough to be part of Khustov’s cabal.
The asteroid’s orbit carried it several degrees above the ecliptic, and much closer to Jupiter than the other rocks in the Belt. It was a tiny worldlet, about a mile in diameter, and there were thousands of other asteroids just like it. It was worthless, useless, and far, far off the normal shipping lanes between Mars and the Jovian satellites. By all the logic of economics, logistics and astrogation, it would remain unused forever.
Therefore, it was inhabited.
But the habitation was indetectable from space, for all the installations were underground—in fact, it would be more accurate to think of the asteroid as a building, since chambers and passageways and droptubes honeycombed it completely. Near the core of the asteroid, a nuclear reactor, shielded far more heavily than safety required, provided power—it was important that no detectable radiation leak off into space.
For this was the headquarters of the Brotherhood of Assassins.
Arkady Duntov stood mutely in a great chamber in the bowels of the asteroid, a chamber whose walls and ceiling and floor were the rock of the asteroid itself. He stood facing a massive round table, also carved from the living rock and continuous with the floor. Eight men were seated around the table, dressed in plain green shorts and T-shirts—standard wear for a closed environment—and each man wore a gold medalion on a chain around his neck. The medalions bore the letter “G” raised above a blackened background.
Although the table was perfectly round, one man, it seemed to Duntov, made the place at which he sat the head of the table by his very presence at it. He was old, how old Duntov could not tell, for his long, thin hair was still black and his copper skin had carefully leathered into a neat network of a million tiny wrinkles. His deep black eyes were but vaguely oriental, but his high, blunt cheekbones made his ancestry clear.
“In the name of Chaos,” he said, in a surprisingly powerful voice, “I, Robert Ching, First Agent, call this meeting of the Prime Agents of the Brotherhood of Assassins to order.”
It seemed to Duntov that nothing could be more purely ceremonial, for he could not imagine these men in a state of disorder. He had been in this chamber five times before, yet still these men were but names to him—Ching, N’gana, Smith, Felipe, Steiner, Nagy, Mustafa, Hoover—the Prime Agents, men so remote, placid, sure, that he was content to follow them without question, without knowing their first names—and without wanting to know.
“We will now hear the report of Agent Arkady Duntov, who was in charge of our recent Martian operation,” Robert Ching said. “Proceed, Brother Duntov.”
Arkady Duntov took a deep breath. Several of the Prime Agents—Hoover, Felipe, Nagy—might be less than a decade younger than himself. Yet he felt as if he were addressing a conclave of ancients.
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“Yes, First Agent,” he said, his broad, rather Slavic face solemn and half-downcast. “As I was ordered, I left my primary assignment and proceeded to Mars where I met five other Brothers. According to plan, we strolled casually about on the secondlevel street by the Ministry as the Coordinator’s speech was about to begin. After the riot started, and the League agent in Khustov’s personal bodyguard turned his gun on the Coordinator, we burned him down. We then dispersed and after the search for the League agents had subsided, regrouped at our ship in the desert and I returned here to report.”
Although he knew he had carried out his orders to the letter, he had the uneasy feeling that perhaps he had somehow failed, that these men must judge him by standards he could never comprehend.
“So,” said Ching. “And what of the League agents? What of Boris Johnson?”
“Nine League agents were captured, First Agent. Johnson was not among them. Since the Hegemony hasn’t announced his capture, I would assume that he was able to leave Mars.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Ching. “A total victory for Chaos! It is well that Mr. Boris Johnson escaped. Indeed, had he been captured, we might have decided to intervene on his behalf. It is interesting, is it not, how the Democratic League, despite its so-limited resources, still manages to somehow survive. …”
“It could very well be merely a run of Random Factors favoring them,” suggested the tall, thin Negro who Duntov knew only as N’gana.
“Perhaps,” replied Robert Ching. “But then, it is not merely a run of favorable Random Factors which enables us to survive, now is it? Planning is required. For instance, how were Brother Duntov and his men able to wait out the Hegemonic search on Mars while the League agents had to flee or face certain capture. Both groups had perfect papers. The League, however, forges papers, while we forge people. Six Wards disappear and are replaced by six Brothers, altered, where necessary, to be their exact duplicates. By using real papers and false people, we have no need to fear the Guards checking papers against the records. Planning, Brother N’gana! It is heresy to equate the Reign of Chaos with mere luck.”
“Well taken, First Agent,” said N’gana. “My point was that the Democratic League does not seem to be terribly long on planning—or on brains, for that matter.”
“Do not mistake ignorance for stupidity,” said Ching. “After all, the Wards of the Hegemony are kept in total ignorance of the Way of Chaos, of the Law of Social Entropy. And that, of course, includes the Democratic League. It is not their fault that they must grope in the dark, unsure of their way. Rather than laugh at their numerous failures, we should admire them for their few successes, since, though they grope, they grope for the right reasons.”
“Their hearts may be pure,” N’gana said dryly, “but they are rapidly becoming a Predictable Factor.”
Ching frowned, nodded, and said, “Perhaps you are right. But now is not yet the time to make such decisions. We have another report to hear, and this one, I’m sure, will cause nothing but pleasure.”
Duntov, who had been listening in growing confusion to the conversation that had been going on almost entirely over his head, took a step toward the door, but Ching called him back. “Brother Duntov,” he said. “You have served Chaos well. I deem it fitting that you be allowed to remain.”
“Thank you, First Agent,” Duntov said dutifully. He wondered if he really wanted to learn more of the cause he served. Wasn’t it enough to serve a cause, men, one could believe in, without being expected to comprehend the incomprehensible?
Ching pressed a button on the small communicator-console built into the table. The door opened, and a tiny, wizened old man entered with energetic little mincing steps.
Murmurs swept the table. “Schneeweiss?” “News of the Project?”
Ching smiled. “I believe that all the Prime Agents know Dr. Schneeweiss, and vice versa. Dr. Schneeweiss, let me introduce Brother Arkady Duntov, a most valuable field agent.”
“You … you are Dr. Richard Schneeweiss?” Duntov stammered. “The Schneeweiss? The Hegemony thinks you’re dead!”
Schneeweiss laughed sharply. “A gross exaggeration, as you can see,” he said. “I am very much alive, and very much at work.”
“You’ve been a Brother all along?”
“No, my boy,” Schneeweiss said, “not all along. But as a physicist, my work took me further and further into certain areas which lead towards increased Social Entropy, in the long run. And when Councilor Gorov, a most perceptive man, realized the direction my work was taking, he reported it to the Council, and the Council, somewhat to Gorov’s displeasure, discontinued my subsidy. The next step, no doubt, would’ve been to
… ah … discontinue me. It was then that I was approached by one of my assistants, who had been a Brother for years. My ‘accident’ was arranged, and here I am.”
“Come on, Doctor,” broke in the one called Smith, whose hard, intense blue eyes were at strange variance with his corpulent body, “you may chat with Brother Duntov at another time. Let’s hear the latest about Project Prometheus!”
“Yes, let’s have the progress report!”
“Very well, gentlemen,” Schneeweiss said. “Let me say that the theoretical work has been completed, the technical details more or less ironed out, and a small model is in the process of being successfully tested right now. Moreover, the preliminary work on Prometheus itself is well under way, and we can expect that Project Prometheus will be operative in between four to six months.”
“Only another half year!”
“The end of Order is at last in sight!”
Robert Ching laughed mirthlessly, and it seemed to Duntov that his large black eyes were gazing off into some vast and mystic vista which he alone, of all the men in the room, truly saw. “Yes, my Brothers in Chaos,” Ching said, “Project Prometheus is no longer a dream; it is fast becoming a reality. For three centuries, we have fought the deadly Order of the Hegemony of Sol, bolstered only by our knowledge of Markowitz’ great work. For three hundred years, we have kept our faith in the inevitable triumph of Chaos. And now, the beginning of the end of the Hegemony is come at last. In six months, the work of three centuries will come to fruition, and the unnatural rule of order will begin to crumble, though it may take decades to fall.
“And the Reign of Chaos will at last resume.”
Arkady Duntov had the feeling that if he pressed Chihg or Schneeweiss, he could learn things that no Ward could even imagine. But somehow, he let himself be dismissed without uttering a word. Some things it was better, perhaps not to know.
It was enough to follow those who knew them. It was good to follow the Way of Chaos, good to have faith in the triumph of something greater than Man. But it was something else again to try to understand the force called Chaos.
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