The Grand Wheel

by Barrington J. Bayley

  Kabala, it was said, if played properly, brought about a change of consciousness in the players. Scarne, already brain-weary from his interrogation, found the contest with Dom equally an ordeal. The game required a unique combination of calculation and intuition, and he was forced to think so fast, to extend his mind so far, that at times he did feel almost as though he were on some drug-induced high. But it was only the kind of mental exhilaration that came from prolonged effort.

  Perhaps the reward of changed consciousness came only to the winner. Because Dom, of course, won. Two hours later the Wheel master sat back silently, eyes glazed, drawing meditatively on his cigarette holder and blowing out puffs of smoke.

  ‘You play well, Scarne,’ he said at length. ‘One day, perhaps, you will be able to beat me.’

  Scarne felt that he had passed the final test. Whatever the scheme was that was afoot, he was in it.

  ‘How did you like it?’ Dom murmured. ‘Your first game?’

  ‘It was taxing – but satisfying. Very satisfying. To tell you the truth I’ve never been sure if I was equal to it.’ Scarne, in fact, felt drained.

  Dom inclined his head in an abbreviated nod. ‘It sorts out the men from the boys, all right. If you can play Kabala you can play anything – and that’s an established fact. That’s why we need men like you.’

  Dom rose, pushing away his chair and stretching, so that he seemed to loom over Scarne. ‘I want to show you something,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’

  Full of anticipation, Scarne followed. Dom led him to even deeper levels of the manse. They went down in an elevator (Scarne experiencing an embarrassed, privileged nervousness to be sharing the cubicle with so unique a personage), and then down a winding staircase to a concrete cellar.

  The denouement was not what he had expected. At one end of the cellar, fed by dozens of pipes and cables and surrounded by humming machinery, stood a glass tank filled either with a liquid or a dense gas – it was hard to tell which. It provided a murky, brownish-purple environment which was inhabited by a flapping, aquatic-looking shape.

  Dom stepped before the tank and gazed into it with an ironic expression. ‘The sequence of events that have led to your coming here began with the arrival in Sol of this creature,’ he told Scarne. ‘We call him Pendragon – just a name, no particular significance. As for his origin, it hardly matters; he’s been everywhere. He really is travelled – like all hustlers.’ Dom was chuckling, as though at some joke known to himself.

  Scarne peered closer. The creature, resembling no alien race that Scarne could recall, raised itself off the floor of the tank and began surging to and fro as though aware of their presence.

  ‘What is he, a guest or a prisoner?’

  ‘He’d like to leave. But he’s too useful to us, in fact we’re most grateful to him. Let me tell you the story. As I said, Pendragon is a hustler – an interstellar gambler preying on less skilled races. He came to Solsystem expecting to clean up from the ignorant natives – but he came unstuck.’ Dom nodded with self-satisfaction. ‘He underestimated the Grand Wheel, so he’s getting what the hustler usually gets: no consideration.’

  Swimming to one side of the tank, Pendragon seized in an undulating flapper what looked like a rod-mike, the flesh of his limb enclosing it completely. A voice, at once resonant and hissing, came from an external speaker.

  ‘I deserve consideration now! I have done what you asked! Release me!’

  The demand reminded Scarne of his own angry remonstrances with Magdan. Dom’s reply, too, followed the same form. ‘We’ll free you on completion of the arrangement, Pendragon,’ he said. ‘Not before.’

  Pendragon let go the rod-mike and retreated sullenly to the rear of the tank.

  ‘What is this arrangement?’ Scarne enquired. ‘Or shouldn’t I ask?’

  For an answer Dom stepped to a pedestal and operated a small control unit. The adjoining wall of the cellar suddenly vanished, eradicated by a floor-to-ceiling hologram.

  ‘You may ask,’ Dom said, ‘since you will have to know eventually, provided you understand that your life will be conditional upon your respecting my confidence.’

  The hologram was a map of the galaxy, including, like off-shore islands, the Magellanic Clouds. Further to one side, in an inset, was a smaller map of the Andromeda galaxy. Scarne studied the layout briefly. The minute portion controlled by human civilization was clearly marked, as was the territory of the Hadranics – the latter’s expansionist tendency being shown by thrusting arrows. The map contained other data, too: wavering coloured lines, stars indexed according to a code at the bottom of the hologram.

  ‘Little of this information is definite,’ Dom said. ‘We’ve gleaned it, one way and another, from Pendragon. It locates some of the civilizations in unexplored parts of the galaxy, and also some particular contact points.’

  ‘Contact points?’

  Dom was staring raptly at the map. ‘The world, it emerges, is bigger than any of us had thought,’ he murmured. ‘There are wheels within wheels, Scarne. Wheels within wheels, worlds within worlds.’

  He turned his back to the map, his manner suddenly brisker. ‘And gambling, it is clear, is by no means a preoccupation unique to humanity. Most intelligent life has a taste for it – yet one more indication, one might think, that contingency and hazard, rather than formal laws, are what lie at the root of existence. Not only that, but there is gambling on a very large scale – larger than anything our civilization can offer.’

  He glanced at Scarne. ‘Given these circumstances, it shouldn’t take you long to guess that there exists an organization analogous to our own, but operating on a galactic scale, or greater: a syndicate whose operations cover thousands, if not millions, of species.’

  This colossal, totally new thought was spoken so blandly that Scarne could scarcely believe he was taking in the import of Dom’s words. Yet Dom had no reason to lie. Scarne looked again at the creature in the tank … there was the evidence.

  ‘Oddly enough this super-syndicate also calls itself the Wheel,’ Dom ruminated, ‘possibly for the same reason – the language of symbols might well turn out to be universal. That would be interesting, wouldn’t it? Or perhaps it’s to represent the wheel of the galaxy. As yet we’re not sure whether they are restricted to this galaxy alone, or if they actually originate from outside. That’s why we’ve tried to get Pendragon to tell us something about Andromeda, but his knowledge of that quarter is sketchy.’

  ‘Then your game,’ Scarne said quietly, ‘is with them.’

  ‘Yes!’ Dom’s eyes became lustrous. ‘A game with the Galactic Wheel – that’s what this is all about. With the help of Pendragon we eventually made contact. Now we’re on the verge of setting something up.’

  ‘Are the Hadranics anything to do with this? I heard this training programme has something to do with the war.’

  Dom shook his head. ‘We’re not interested in them. We’re thinking on a bigger scale. We aren’t the sort of people to stay huddled in our own little corner, collecting pennies, now we know what’s going on out there in the wider world. If this Galactic Wheel exists we want a piece of it. I think we’ve got what it takes to get it.’

  ‘How do you know you can play your way into this galactic thing?’ Scarne asked. ‘You might just stay punters. How intelligent are they? How much experience have they got? Do you even know any of this?’

  Dom moved his shoulders in a sinuous motion. ‘They could be millions of years old for all we know,’ he admitted. ‘But we’ve a thousand years of experience ourselves. I think we’re out of the kindergarten stage. After all, Pendragon made the mistake of underestimating us.’ He leaned closer. ‘I taught him to play Kabala, you know. Offered him his freedom if he could beat me. But he’s quite hopeless at it. Can barely play at all.’

  There was a sudden surge of movement at the back of the tank. The fluid roiled and became congested. A bunch of plastic plaques, oblong in shape, were flung towards them to splatter a
gainst the near wall of the tank, spinning and tumbling in the murk, displaying the coloured Tarot figures etched on them: Pendragon’s special pack.

  ‘And if this game comes off,’ Scarne said, ‘what will the stakes be?’

  Dom’s expression became veiled. The hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is the big question.’

  After Scarne had left for Luna, Marguerite Dom received a briefer, rarer visitor.

  Historically the interview was unique, though since it was held in secret it would remain unrecorded. Never before had a meeting taken place between the Chairman of the Grand Wheel and the Premier of the Legitimacy. And even now it would have seemed unthinkable, to the public mind, that the Premier should have been the one to make the move, to request the meeting, and to travel to the demesne of Marguerite Dom.

  Dom reposed himself in his main lounge to await the Premier’s arrival, permitting himself feelings neither of triumph nor of curiosity. When Premier Mheert entered, he found him to be a fair copy of the personality profile he had already studied: a white-haired man of about Dom’s age, with flinty blue eyes, a strong, prominent nose, and a face that displayed an obdurate, committed character.

  They wasted no time in dispensing pleasantries. Mheert, his subdued tone expressing how burdensome he found the necessity for his visit, told Dom that the war situation was grave. Every effort would be needed to beat back the Hadranics. War production would have to be expanded. For this, industry would have to be re-directed. Otherwise there was a possibility of total military collapse.

  The Legitimacy, regrettably, did not have enough practical power to achieve the necessary rationalization. Too much commercial influence – the huge stock and commodity exchanges, the banks, the commercial houses – was under the aegis of the Grand Wheel. To avert catastrophe, therefore, the Legitimacy had need of an unprecedented co-operation from the Wheel.

  Dom listened to this argument coolly, and when the Premier had finished he fitted another purple cigarette into his long holder, blowing out fragrant streamers. The Grand Wheel was not a government, he pointed out, and had none of the responsibilities of a government. The conduct of the war was, entirely and absolutely, a matter for the Legitimacy.

  Mheert was shocked and indignant at his refusal. ‘Do you not understand the consequences? We have our backs to the wall. We are all in this together!’

  Dom made a proposal of his own. ‘You’re asking us to bail you out because you can’t handle this thing on your own,’ he said. ‘You’re asking me, in effect, to save humanity for you. All right, we’ll co-operate on the industrial side – if you can meet the price. Something reciprocal and condign.’

  ‘And what is that?’ asked Mheert suspiciously.

  ‘The Legitimacy becomes our property.’

  Mheert snorted, aghast. ‘You want to own mankind!’

  ‘Yes!’ Dom’s eyes blazed. ‘If we pull it out of the fire, it belongs to us. We are not for hire, Premier. I’m putting you the same deal you just put me. If you want to hold off the Hadranics, move over.’

  ‘It is impossible. You cannot simply take over the government. There would be chaos.’

  Dom’s expression mellowed. ‘We don’t want to be the government. We want the Legitimacy to stay on in that role. The only difference will be that you’ll be in thrall to us. You’ll make a secret covenant with us. Nobody will know about it for the present, maybe not ever. I don’t even say we’ll necessarily ever invoke that covenant. But it will be there if we want to.’

  ‘To destroy everything we have tried to achieve – to plunge humanity into disorder, superstition, random activity!’ Mheert spoke with passion – the passion of a man who had spent his life trying to construct a civilization that was durable, in control of itself, and not subject to the contingencies of nature. Always the fight had been against nature’s tendency to disorder, to chance and hazard. Mheert saw mankind as fighting a perpetual war against these destructive natural forces – and he saw the Grand Wheel as merely an extension of the same forces, capitulating to them by reason of its evil philosophy and threatening any hope for the future.

  ‘It won’t be so bad,’ Dom said blandly. The basic ideology of you people is that you can build a civilization so solid that it will always be able to resist the shocks of chance. That’s a rigid concept; and anyway it can’t be done. In the long run you can’t go against nature, any more than King Canute could stop the tides. We all come under the law of accident. The gambler learns to live with it, but the Legitimacy thinks it can build a kind of siege civilization, a rigidly controlled shell isolated from accident.’ He shook his head sadly. In a way he admired the Legitimacy for its obstinacy; but he was sure that, come what may, the Grand Wheel would outlive it – just as it had preceded it.

  ‘The law of accident!’ Mheert muttered. ‘I’ll tell you what the law of accident means. It means that every plan, every effort, is endangered. Years of preparation go into some vital endeavour, and then something unforeseen happens to wreck everything. Only if chance eventualities can be eradicated can mankind be assured of a continued existence. Otherwise, something like this –’ He slipped his jacket over one shoulder and pulled aside the shirt beneath, displaying the surgery scars at the shoulder where the arm was grafted on. ‘You know well what these scars mean, Chairman Dom. A medicinal drug added to the water supply, harmless as it was thought. Yet it caused an entire generation to give birth to limbless children. It was years before the source of the deformities was isolated.’

  Dom was indeed familiar with the scars. He had them himself, at shoulders and hips. Everyone of their age group had. ‘In that case science triumphed,’ Mheert continued. ‘Thanks to Legitimacy planning we were able to grow culture limbs from each victim’s body cells and graft them on. Chance was overcome. But another time –’

  Dom laughed sourly. ‘Planning had nothing to do with it. It was luck. What if it had happened centuries earlier, when it wasn’t known how to switch off repressor genes in individual body cells? Then no limbs could have been grown. We would have had a generation with neither arms nor legs.’

  ‘We could still have managed with prosthetics. But granted, the disaster could have been worse. By the law of averages some such worse disaster awaits mankind at an unspecified date in the future – unless we learn how to eliminate these accidents. The war with the Hadranics is itself an accident, an interruption of our plans. Let’s see you try to gamble your way out of that one.’

  Dom’s sour smile had not left his face. ‘Let’s see you plan your way out of it,’ he said.

  The meeting proceeded little further. Men of diametrically opposed minds cannot discourse for long. Dom sat musing for a while after Premier Mheert departed. In one sense, he reflected, both of them worshipped the same thing: power. Unfettered, broad and absolute power.

  Not for one moment had he expected Mheert to accede to his demand, even though the covenant, by its nature, would have been virtually unenforceable.

  But it had been worth a try.

  A few days later Dom was obliged to travel several thousand miles to the partly abandoned town of Voridnov, where he entered a large building so decrepit it was hard to believe it was still air-tight.

  Within, he paused at the head of a flight of iron stairs, recovering his breath. It was a long climb, but tradition had to be respected; all who entered the room to which the staircase gave access had to get there on their own two feet – hence, there could be no elevator.

  The armed vigils standing guard outside the steel door snapped to attention. He put them at ease with a wave of his hand.

  ‘Are all present?’

  ‘Yes, Chairman. All are here.’

  He stepped forward. The door, responding to secret factors about his person, moved ponderously aside. He walked through a bare ante-room, and then into the dusty sacrosanct council chamber.

  The eyes of the eleven men seated at the large circular table turned to meet him. He, Do
m, made the twelfth. He took his place, his eyebrows lifted in private amusement. Twelve men of disparate character, he was thinking to himself, bound together in close brotherhood. Hadn’t that been so of another crucial time in history? But no, that would have to be thirteen if he, Dom, was to regard himself as the leader. And somehow he couldn’t think of himself as a Christ.

  The chair grimed his clothes as he sat down. Everything in the council chamber was filthy. It was never cleaned: nobody was allowed in except for council members, and that was the way it had been for centuries here in this gutted building on the nether, unfashionable side of the Moon (Dom, like many fond lunarites, liked to refer to his adopted planet by its affectionate archaism, the Moon).

  To call a full meeting a consensus of four voices was necessary. In this case the number had been six, which meant that Dom’s policy was being challenged. He was, however, sure of his five assenters.

  His eyes glittered as they roved over his co-members. ‘Well, gentlemen, you have called this meeting, as is your right – or some of you have. Now, put your business.’

  The first to speak was the tall, smooth, engaging Holt. ‘The business of the meeting is already known to you, Chairman. Some of us are doubtful about the coming project.’

  ‘So. And why?’

  ‘Think what we stand to lose!’

  ‘What has the Wheel come to?’ Dom said suavely. ‘I find it difficult to take you seriously. Are you afraid now of a little gamble? In my view, the odds are favourable.’

  Pawarce, a thick-set man with hard, brutal eyes, took up the argument. ‘There’s another angle to this caper. Supposing this Pendragon animal is smarter than he seems? It could be that we are still being hustled – railroaded into playing a game where we’re out of our depth.’

  This point had not escaped Dom. Essentially, he could only answer it in a pragmatic sense. ‘That is something we have to assess for ourselves as we proceed,’ he said. ‘If we feel suspicious, we can always withdraw. So far, I see nothing to indicate that we are being tricked. Safeguards can be arranged – are being arranged. I believe our opponents are as interested in testing our performance as we are in testing theirs.’