In 2410 A.D., Kemal Nazir (IQ 198), the 82nd Prime Thinker, made opposition to Crozerian principles a felony.
Blak Roko's Post-Atomic Earthman.
Krull returned to Sydney with a sense of urgency, a feeling he had to conclude the investigation to Yargo's satisfaction and get back to Waimea-Roa before he was caught in a political explosion. The election was only days away. If Ivan Shevach won . . . the prospect wasn't pleasing. The revelation of Merryweather's true role shook him.
When the carrier landed, he hurriedly disembarked, almost bumping into Hardface Cathecart coming down the ramp. Krull recoiled and managed a grin.
"Nice to see you again."
Cathecart tried to conceal his surprise. He grunted and walked past him, stationing himself on the float. When the last passenger emerged, he turned with a frown. Krull grinned. He wanted to tell him that Earlywine must have missed the plane, but refrained. He returned to his room to formulate a plan of action: the esper seemed his best bet. He discarded the idea of working through Anna Malroon; that-would forewarn Bok.
After dark he took a cab to an address a few blocks from Bok's house. His destination turned out to be an area of rolling tree-shaded hills occupied by spacious mansions that clearly spelled HIQ. When the cab's lights receded, he started toward Bok's address.
The^ House of Espers proved to be a spacious two-story residence of pale green plastiglass and brick with a large pyrmont stone fireplace climbing up one side. It was, he noted, more pretentious than the mansion allotted Yargo. At the moment it seemed dark and lifeless except for a yellow shaft of light from an upper window that made a long rectangle across the ground. He paused a moment before going to the porch. The wind stirred through the trees but the house was still. He reached the door, hesitated, rang the chimes and waited. No answer. He tried again with the same result. He tried the knob; it turned.
He paused inside to get his bearings, aware that he was perspiring and his nerves were on edge. Because he was going to face the esper? That was silly. Bok was a doddering eighty-seven. There was a flight of stairs that led toward the place he had seen the streamer of light. He reached the top of the stairs and spotted a half-open door leading to the room he sought. He moved quietly, and stopped with his eye against the opening. The opposite wall of the room was lined with books and, lower, the top of a nearly bald head protruded above the top of an easy chair. Beyond was the reflection of flames from an open hearth.
He was congratulating himself when an ancient voice wheezed, "Come in, Mr. Krull. I've been expecting you." He pushed the door open sheepishly and entered. "Come, sit by the fire." Krull glanced around. Bok—for it was Bok—was alone. He tried to conceal his discomfiture as he walked over to the hearth.
"Old bones like fire," Bok said. "Sit down, Mr. Krull." He motioned toward an easy chair.
"Thank you, I will." He studied the old man while trying to pull his thoughts together. If Bok felt the victory, his face didn't show it. It bore a look of welcome, as if a dear friend had come to visit.
"I've always liked an open hearth," Bok continued conversationally, "much better than electrical heat." He chuckled. "A psychmaster would probably say it's related to racial memories, when man had no other form of heat. Or maybe it's because a hearth always seems conducive to dreaming." He smiled gently. "Old men do fall into that habit, you know.
In fact, their lives center around their dreams. But I suppose you wouldn't know that—yet."
"We all dream," Krull retorted.
"Yes, I suppose so, but with a difference."
"What's that?"
"Young people dream of the future—old men of the past. Your dreams, I suppose, are largely hopes. Ours . . . are regrets, mixed with pleasant memories—thoughts of what might have been as well as what was." He looked gently at Krull. "But I don't suppose you came here tonight to hear an old man reminisce."
"No, as a matter of fact, I didn't." He tried to introduce a note of harshness into his voice and failed. "You have information I need, Mr. Bok. Need and intend to get."
"Ah, yes, Mr. Butterfield again,"
"And the rest of the facts about the conspiracy."
"I'm not a conspirator," Bok remonstrated gently.
"I won't argue the point," Krull said coldly. "You've already admitted extensive knowledge of the conspiracy. Now I want the rest of it."
Bok smiled. "I'm afraid I can't supply the information you want, Mr. Krull."
"Can't or won't?"
"I'm only interested in guiding you into proper channels of thought. Have you ever considered the satellites, Mr. Krull? Aren't they more to you than mere weather-forecasters-TV relays?"
"I don't know what you're driving at," Krull snapped. "I'm interested in conspirators, not weather stations in space."
"Ah, yes, just weather stations." Bok contemplated the flames. 'Yes, they go around and around, unvarying, telling us about such things as monsoons and sunny days. Very practical, Mr. Krull, but consider their history."
"I'm not interested."
"The conspirators are." Bok's pale eyes caught and held his. "The first satellites were put up before the Atom War —Sputniks, Explorers, Vanguards and dozens more. Mechta still circles the sun. Probes lie on the barren deserts of Mars and beneath the mists of Venus. The heavens are not entirely alien to the hand of man. The moon was circled and televised. In time men went up, Mr. Krull, went up and rode the fringes of space in manned orbital vehicles. Do you know why? It was the first step into space. All they needed was more power—atomic power. They built the first interplanetary vehicle, were ready to strike out when the Atom War dawned . . . and darkened the world." Bok's voice dropped.
"Now we use satellites to tell us about winds and rains and we've forgotten our dreams. We send satellites into orbit to use as TV relays. Do you know why, Mr. Krull? To transmit lurid pictures and sensational plays, to keep the populace amused and"—he chuckled whimisically—"to transmit commercials. That's what we do with our knowledge, Mr. Krull—prostitute it. But the men you call conspirators remember. They know that man has a destiny far beyond the borders of this speck of dust we seem to prize so highly. Now they have the power . . ."
"To wreck the world," Krull grimly cut in. "Do you want that to happen? Do* you want to see Earth wiped out?"
"I want to see mankind realize its destiny," the old man said. "Unfortunately, I won't be here when that event occurs. But it will occur. I can tell you that much."
"You couldn't know so much without being a member of the conspiracy," Krull accused.
"Wrong," Bok replied, "but my role is more than that of a sympathizer. They haven't asked my aid, but I'm giving it . . . freely."
"They're undoubtedly appreciative," Krull said drily. "Yes and no." "Explain that."
"Only a few of the conspirators are aware of my—shall we say—sympathy toward their cause. None know I hold the key to their success."
Krull was startled. "Key?"
"Yes." He felt the ancient eyes, the color of sunstruck ice, rest on his face. "You see, the conspirators are working in the blind . . . lack the knowledge of how to make the final step come true. They know, only, that some miracle will happen to make the dream live. They are working on faith, Mr. Krull." "And you . . . f
"Will help the miracle come true." "How?"
"You will see, but it's no honor to me. I'm merely a link in the causal chain, a pawn that moves and acts according to destiny. Not that I have any alternative. 'Tis all a chequer-board of nights and days where Destiny with men for pieces plays—but perhaps you've never heard of Omar, Mr. Krull." He chuckled softly.
"Men . . . men with dreams. That's all I can tell you. The rest you'll have to find out for yourself."
"I could force it from you."
"No—no, you couldn't. My frail body couldn't take any force, and you couldn't get information from a corpse. But you wouldn't use force." He smiled faindy. "It even makes you wince to contemplate it."
He felt trapped. No
, he couldn't use force, not on such a harmless old man as Herman Bok.
Bok said thoughtfully, "My murderer will be a much more brutal man, Mr. Krull."
"Your murderer?"
"Yes, I suppose you would call it murder. As I said, I'm frail. It would take but slight force."
"No, I don't think anyone would use force on you."
"You're wrong—unfortunately."
"You seem to know."
"I know."
"You're a fatalist."
"With good cause."
"Or, perhaps, I should say a pessimist." "No, not a pessimist, Mr. Krull. To the contrary, I'm exceedingly optimistic about the future." "Even if you're going to be murdered?" "My optimism is not for me." Bok chuckled. "A man of
eighty-seven would have to be optimistic, indeed, to see a good future in terms of himself. No, I'm optimistic for mankind. I see a glorious future."
"But there's nothing you will tell me?"
"Nothing beyond what I've already said. Except, when the time comes, you won't disappoint me." "What do you mean by that?"
"You'll see, you'll see." Bok smiled. "Don't be discouraged, though. You'll find your conspirators. I can promise that." "Thanks," Krull said drily. He got up to go. "Be ready when you leave the house," Bok said. "Why?"
"There's a man waiting for you." Krull was startled. "Why?" "To kill you." "Is that a joke?"
"Do I look like a joker, Mr. Krull?" He searched the ancient face. No, he thought, he didn't. The old man who headed the espers might be mad but he wasn't a joker.
"How do you know someone's waiting to kill me?"
"I know." The words were uttered with finality.
"How?"
Bok smiled faindy; his eyes closed and his head nodded as if he were falling asleep. Krull studied the fragile figure; the narrow chin was slumped forward and his hands, blue-veined talons, lay relaxed on the arms of the chair. He turned and stole from the room, pausing at the door for a final backward glance before leaving, then descended the stairs.
He hesitated at the front door. Was Bok mad? A dreamer? A senile old man with an overworked imagination? He decided he was none of those and drew his gun, then opened the door a few inches and peered out. The porch and sidewalk seemed clear, but the latter was hedged in with tall shrubbery and overhanging trees. He decided he'd have to chance it and stepped out on the porch, glanced nervously around and started down the walk.
He had taken only a few steps when he sensed rather
than saw movement in the bushes beside him and automatically ducked and whirled just as a hand came through die bushes.
A gun blasted alongside his face.
He brought his weapon up and triggered it three times, leaping backward. A dark form stumbled from the shrubbery, and slumped to the ground at his feet.
He held his gun ready and bent over, grasping the man's arm and flipping him over. Kruper's face stared vacuously at him. The Manager's manl He dropped the dead arm just as a voice grated in his ear:
"Stand still—don't move."
Krull froze, feeling his heart rise to a hammer in his chest; slowly, deliberately, he turned his head. Gullfin's flat face stared at him and his hand gripped an automatic that resembed a field piece.
"Drop the gunl"
Krull straightened his fingers—his weapon clattered on the walk.
"I'm going to kill you, rip you open."
"No you won't," Krull countered, trying to sound calm. He heard a thumping and realized it was his heart. "Why not?" Gullfin sneered.
"Because—if you were going to kill me, you would have done it already."
"Wrong. I want to see you squirm—feel it, taste it, sweat a little, then I'll let you have it right in the middle. I don't want it to be easy."
"Bastard!" Krull spat the word without losing his watchfulness. When Gulffin's finger started to tighten . . .
"I know what you're thinking but you won't have time." Gullfin's eyes became pinpoints, his lips pulled tight against his teeth. The gun moved upward slightly.
The front door opened ... a sharp scream . . . Gullfin whirled with a startled curse and Krull twisted, bringing a smashing right against the stocky agent's jaw. Gullfin staggered backward, and he followed through with hard lefts and rights, dropping him with a hard rabbit punch.
"Quick—inside." Krull whirled toward the porch and.saw Anna Malroon standing at the door. He stooped to retrieve his gun and took the steps four at a time. She stepped back into the house and slammed the door behind him. "Follow me—out the back," she gasped.
She turned without waiting for his answer and darted down the hall, Krull at her heels. She fled through the rear door and across the lawn, keeping in the shadows of the trees until she reached the street. There she stopped, motioning him to silence, before starting down the sidewalk.
He reached her side and whispered, "Where to?"
"Don't try to talk now," she gasped. "My car's parked a-round the next corner." She walked quickly.
"Take it easy," he counseled. She didn't answer. When they reached the next intersection she motioned to a car parked halfway down the block. When tb#y reached it, he saw it was the same one she had used the first time he'd met her. She had the engine started almost before he got in beside her, and pulled away from the curb. She pushed to a high rate of speed, twisting down the hill to the freeway, turned and reduced her speed until she was moving with the flow of traffic.
Krull broke the silence. "You showed up just in time."
"Yes, I was on schedule."
The way she said it made him turn toward her. "Sched-"Mr. Bok's schedule," she explained. ■
"At least he's Bok instead of Bowman," Krull observed. When she didn't reply, he asked, "What does Bok do, schedule things like this for a hobby?"
"He didn't schedule it, really. He just told me of the schedule," she explained. "He was a wonderful man."
"Was?"
"Yes, Mr. Bok is dead, now." "What do you mean dead? I just saw him." "Gullfin just killed him—a moment ago." "How do you know that?"
"When Gullfin regained consciousness, he was enraged.
He figured Mr. Bok was in league with you and he . . . handled him roughly. Too roughly."
"How do you know? You weren't there."
"Mr. Bok told me."
"Oh . . ." He slumped back in the seat and gave up trying to solve the puzzle. Anna was talking riddles. The fact she was an esper didn't answer anything.
The car swung off the freeway, climbing along a narrow road which led to the brow of a hill. He recalled the route from the first visit; Anna's apartment lay just ahead. She turned into the driveway and parked.
"Wait here," she said hurriedly, and got out of the car without waiting for a reply. He heard her sandals receding down the drive toward the front of the house. A door banged, then there was silence. She returned a short time later.
"I've called a cab."
He looked inquiringly at her, but she didn't offer any further information. She looked nervously over her shoulder and said, "Let's wait in front."
"Okay." He crawled from the car and walked with her back along the dark driveway to the front of the apartment, halting in the shadows of a lace fern tree. She was visibly nervous and kept scanning the street in both directions.
"Do you have a light, Mr. Krull?"
"Sure, but call me Max." She smiled wanly, fumbled in her purse for a pack of cigarets, extending it toward him.
"Thanks, Anna." He took one and held a light for her, looking down into her face. He wanted desperately to ask questions but refrained—she seemed to have a course of action in mind. They smoked in silence. After a while a cab cruised up and halted at the curb. Anna flipped the stub of her cigaret into the shrubbery, looked nervously up and down the street and started toward it. Krull followed at a more leisurely rate.
"Emberly Hotel," she told the driver. He nodded and pulled away from the curb, heading back down the hill. Krull watched the flashing colored neons
of the town draw near while he tried to fathom his position. The cab pulled up in front of the Emberly; Anna paid the driver and got out before Krull could offer a protest. He followed sheepishly. She waited quiedy until the cab pulled back into the stream of traffic before speaking.
"Let's get another one." She looked both ways along the street and started in the direction of another parked taxi. He nodded and followed, getting the idea. They changed cabs several times before they finally reached the center of the LIQ business district.
The cab passed through a series of narrow streets lined with small plastiglass houses of soiled shades onto an older street dominated by small businesses and somewhat decrepit hotels. The driver stopped at the address Anna had given, and this time Krull was ready with the change. After the cab left, she led him down the street to a shabby building whose flashing red neofl proclaimed it the Charles Hotel. She paused and turned toward him, looking up into his face.
"Take my arm," she murmured. "For the time being we are Mr. and Mrs. Bowman . . . Chester Bowman." He grinned. "I like the idea, but why Bowman?" "It's as good a name as any." "I suppose Bok dreamed this up." "As a matter of fact, he did."
"Well, bless him." He took her arm possessively as they entered a dilapidated lobby and approached the desk clerk, an ancient bespectacled man. He lowered his girlie magazine and got slowly to his feet. Krull was momentarily alarmed—were they already registered?
She saw his predicament and spoke up, "Room 211, please."
"Yes, Mrs . . ." The clerk fumbled for the keys and waited.
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