"Not a jailer, Mr. Krull."
"Call me Max."
She laughed softly. "And I'm Jan."
"Okay, Jan, now that we're on first-name terms, why did you really come here?"
"Because . . . well, for my father." "Does he know you're here?"
"No," she confessed, looking suddenly defiant. "You represent a danger to my father."
"I didn't ask for the job." He suppressed the desire to peep her.
"No, I suppose not," she said finally.
"If your father's on the level, why the run-around?"
"Run-around?" She looked puzzled.
"The agent," he said softly, watching her face. "He's no more Butterfield's brother than I am."
She regarded him calmly. "No, his name's Foxhill . . . Raymond Foxhill."
"Why did Foxhill—if that's his real name—tip me off about Butterfield being an esper? Was that hokum, too?"
"No, it was true . . ."
Another thought occurred to him. "If Butterfield had just been dead a few days, how did your father know he was an esper?" He watched her, sharp-eyed.
"He was informed of it," she said simply.
"By whom?"
Her face clouded. "A Mr. Bowman, but I'm not quite sure who he is. Dad didn't explain."
He dropped the subject of Bowman. "Why the wild-goose chase in the first place? Why did he have Foxhill pose as Butterfield's brother?"
She deliberated a long moment, watching him enigmatically. "He had to be sure of you—he needed time."
"Benbow Deeps was just a stall?"
^Yes."
"But why the tip about Butterfield?" "He wanted to know your reaction." "Why?" he asked curiously. "He wasn't sure of you."
"If he wasn't sure of me, why did he summon me in the first place? It doesn't make sense."
"No, I suppose not." She bit her lip. "It was because of some developments that came up after he talked with you."
"What developments?" he challenged. She hesitated, obviously nervous, and he repeated the question without taking his eyes from hers.
"You . . . you weren't truthful about your past and . . . he found out."
Krull was startled. "Not truthful?"
"You didn't tell him you were an . . . esper."
"What?" He stared incredulously at her, and broke into a mirthless laugh. "Who told Yargo that—Mr. Bowman?"
"No."
"Who, then?" he persisted.
"Can I trust you to keep it in confidence?"
He looked curiously at her. "Yes, certainly."
She hesitated before answering. "I did."
"You?" he blurted.
"Yes."
He didn't bother to deny the accusation. The certainty of her words told him she knew it was true, knew it beyond any shadow of doubt. His eyes searched her critically. She was an overly-tall, slender girl with evenly-chiseled features, disarming blue eyes, a mass of red curls piled high and just now—dressed in disturbingly scanty attire. She was, he thought, every bit as lovely and desirable as Anna Malroon, but with a difference. The girl sitting on his bed didn't possess the dark girl's haunted look. Her face was calm', certain, and it was evident she knew exactly what she was saying. He measured her again before speaking.
"Who told you that?"
She pursed her lips, abruptly got up and moved toward the door. When she reached it she turned, with one hand on the knob, and looked at him over the span of long seconds.
"No one told me," she said quiedy. "I'm like you, Max."
She was gone—the door closed silently behind her. He was falling asleep when the real reason for her nocturnal visit came to him. She had peeped himl All the time they had talked she was searching his mind, finding out exactly how trustworthy he was.
The sunlight filtering through the window from a position high in the sky awoke Krull. He had slept long and, for the first time in days, felt completely rested, as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. His secret was out—his days of hiding over. For better or worse he was no longer a hidden esper. Jan knew and Ben Yargo knew, and how many others?
Merryweather.
Shevach.
He slowly showered, shaved and dressed, luxuriating in the knowledge that for the time being he faced nothing worse than a pleasant confinement, cared for by a quite lovely jailer. He finished and turned on the TV.
Another murder had been pinned on him—this time the killing of Agent Henry Cathecart, IQ 115. The announcer named Cathecart a representative of Gordon Gullfin, Chief of Special Agents for the Manager. According to the broadcast, he had shot the agent to death in the deserted cellar of a furniture warehouse after Cathecart had recognized him and pursued him into the dark building. The Searchmaster wasn't mentioned. The announcer pictured him as a maniacal murderer rumored to be allied with a secret group plotting to build atomic weapons; also recalled that Krull was the handpicked choice of Prime Thinker Ben Yargo. Yargo seemed the prime target; Krull was merely an instrument for his destruction. Shevach—for he was sure it was Shevach —was using him to undermine public confidence in their leader.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Jan with a tray of food.
"Too late for breakfast and too early for lunch," she greeted. "I brought along a bite to tide you over."
"Hello, fellow esper."
"Hello." Her eyes held his and she whispered softly, "I've never known anyone like myself, before. I'm glad, Max . . . glad." She turned quickly and left. He started to call after her, but desisted. She had told him all he wanted to know.
Yargo stopped by in the early afternoon, looking calm and at ease. He greeted Krull cordially—nodiing in his demeanor suggested he owed him any apologies. The agent marveled at his composure, thinking an outsider would never guess that the square, graying figure was the focal point of a vicious intrigue and, within hours, would be battling for the highest office on earth at what promised to be a bitterly-contested election. Yargo went through the pleasantries of a good host, before plunging briskly into the real reason for his visit.
"It's going to be necessary for you to remain here until after the elections."
"Dutterfield told me that," Krull replied drily.
"He also indicated you weren't pleased with the idea— that you might have thoughts of leaving." Yargo looked sharply at him. "That would be unwise."
He wanted to reply that it wasn't true, so long as Jan was his keeper, but didn't. Instead he said, "There's no worry on that score. I'll stay."
"Good," Yargo said, pleased. "As soon as the elections are over we'll get this little matter cleared up and you can get back on the job."
"Shevach won't let it die so easily."
"To hell with Shevach," Yargo replied amiably. "The computers indicate I'll have a more favorable crew next term. With a unanimous Council behind me I can remove him from office." He paused and eyed the agent keenly. Krull wondered if he would try to explain his duplicity in sending him on the wild goose chase to Benbow Deep—or his espership. He didn't. He made fight conversation for a moment longer, repeated his advice to stay close, and departed abruptly.
Krull passed the remainder of the day alternately reading and watching TV. The announcers were whooping it up and he was, he thought, becoming more of a menace by the moment. Not that he gave a damn. He had all his chips in the pot and there was only one way to win—break the conspiracy. In the meantime, it didn't matter what people thought. Except Jan. And Anna, he added as an afterthought. Wherever she was, he hoped she was safe. Later that evening an announcement sobered him a little.
The miners of Melville Deeps had gone on strike, demanding that the Government do something about the atomic conspiracy. The something they demanded was vague, but the main fact was they had struck, had quit work. He tried to recall when he had last heard of a strike against the Government and couldn't. It was a bad omen.
A computer extrapolation of preliminary returns of the latest UPOP results showed Yargo's popula
rity taking a sharp dip. Seventy-three percent of the people polled expressed the belief Yargo knew where Krull was hiding. Sure, Yargo knew—and so did Shevach and Merryweather, he thought grimly.
Jan brought his supper that evening but, to his disappointment, lingered only a moment. She appeared disturbed. He watched the door close behind her. Well, tomorrow was it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
He awakened to the high clear sound of a txumpet, opening his eyes with a start, and remembering. Election Day. The trumpet heralded the formal ceremonies to come. He grimaced, thinking his fate hung on the outcome. If Ben Yargo won, he'd have a breathing spell; Shevach would be off his neck. If Yargo lost. . .
He hurriedly shaved and showered. It would be a day of rigidly prescribed formalities until the new Prime Thinker and Council of Six were elected. A world wide celebration would follow; all laws except those governing felonies would be suspended. Festivities, carnivals, brawls—the world would go wild. Social and intellectual barriers would be brushed aside, the rich and poor would mingle and hilarity would be king. Until dawn. To some it would be a time of debauchery, to some a time of prayer.
He finished dressing and went to the window overlooking an open square alongside the house. It was already thronged widi uniformed police, black-caped agents, dignitaries of Government; a portable platform had been erected and the drive was filled with gleaming open-topped limousines flying purple streamers. Below him a TV crew was positioning cameras.
The crowd stirred as a portly litde man wearing a voluminous white cape fringed with red braid started up the platform. His face brimmed with importance. He reached the top and faced the house. The cape denoted his position as Caller of the Bureau of Elections, an honorary position highly sought for its prestige.
Krull idly scanned the crowd. A figure caught his eye and he stepped back, startled, then moved to one side where he could peer out without being seen. Yes, he was right—Menyweather. The Searchmaster stood at the rear of the square.
The Searchmaster's head was pivoting like, he thought, a radar scan. Suddenly die face stopped, turned toward the window. He knew.
Krull's apprehension was replaced by a feeling of defiance. To hell with him, he told himself, and deliberately stepped into full view, disregarding the gaunt man. From time to time the Caller glanced at his watch, finally motioned toward the TV crew and lifted a mike to his hps. A hush fell over the square.
"Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye . . ."
His voice twanged from the speaker with a nervous tremor. He paused, took a deep breath and continued.
"Now the person of Ben Yargo, having been found qualified on appropriate tests, and having been adjudged IQ 219 by the World Board of Psychmasters, is hereby invited . . . invited . . ."—he glanced desperately at his notes—"by the people of the world to participate in election for the office of Prime Thinker."
He paused; a trumpet sounded, followed by the low roll of drums, then silence. The Caller threw back his shoulders and boomed, "If you accept, come forth and so state."
Drums rolled, trumpets blared, the crowd milled expectantly and here and there a voice cried: "Come forth." The call became a chant; the Caller threw up his hands for silence. The noise died away, quiet except for the resdess shuffling of feet. A moment passed.
Ben Yargo strode purposefully from the house, his formal tri-cornered hat and purple garb designating bis candidacy for office. The crowd parted before him. He reached a point a dozen yards from the base of the platform and halted, looking up at the Caller. There was an awed silence before he spoke.
"I accept."
A cheer swept the square and trumpets and drums added to the din. He stood with face turned upward until the roar died away; then, to the measured roll of drums, marched to the official limousine which would bear him to the Hall of Elections. Engines roared to life and the cavalcade started slowly down the drive. It was a scene enacted in four parts of the city simultaneously—the official invitation to each of the candidates for Earth's highest office.
Krull tried to spot Menyweather but he had disappeared. Within minutes the House of the Prime Thinker was shrouded in silence. Alone and forgotten, his brief moment of glory past, the Caller descended from the platform and walked slowly across the deserted grounds.
There was a knock at Krull's door. It was Jan with coffee. She greeted him with a nervous smile.
"Mind if I share your screen?"
"Not a bit," he prompdy declared. He didn't worry her about Merryweather. He turned on the TV while she poured the coffee. Yargo's cavalcade was winding through streets lined with cheering, flower-bedecked crowds whose dress proclaimed a mixture of IQ's. A closeup of the lead car revealed him smiling, waving, being pelted with flowers. Signs proclaiming We want Yargo and large photos of him were hoisted in front of the camera. Krull caught a glimpse of a sign reading, Down with the atom men before the camera hurriedly swung away. The cavalcade was met by three similar ones, each bearing an official candidate, and the entire procession moved on to the Hall of Elections. It halted in front of the building, where cordons of police held back the crowds until the candidates descended, bombarded -by flowers and shimmery streamers of colored tape.
The camera moved in on Yargo's face: it was square, hard, but a crinkling around the lips gave him a slightly paternal expression. He nodded. The camera swung toward Shevach; his face was lean, saturnine, pale, with the broad high forehead somehow oddly out of proportion with the delicate bone structure beneath.
The lens moved again. Sherif was a squat dark figure with bushy brows and piercing eyes set deep in a confident face. He was, Krull knew, a controversial figure. His chief platform was based on what he termed the equality of man. He was outspoken in his opposition to castes founded upon IQ, which made him the darling of a large segment of the LIQ's. Watching him now, Krull had the feeling he was sincere; there was a quality about the dark eyes that suggested compassion. Only William Harshberg, scholarly and pale, with a narrow intelligent face and watery eyes, was visibly nervous. The camera recorded the slight quivering of his lips. The candidates met at the bottom of the steps, formally shook hands, and marched into the building flanked by a guard of special agents in spit-and-polish splendor.
"I'm glad this only happens once every five years," Jan said nervously.
"Don't worry, hell come through."
"Sometimes I wish he hadn't tried again. Two terms are enough to give." "It's for the world." "I know—he had to run."
The candidates were entering the main auditorium. One end contained a large stage holding the election booths and computers. A podium in the center was occupied by a florid-faced man whose ceremonial dress identified him as the official Host: behind him sat Karl Wemer, Psychmaster of the World, and Marvin Chadwick, the Archon, who headed the World Court. Eight subarchons dressed in formal scarlet tophats and matching capes sat behind them. The Host, whose name was Clender, pompously held up a hand for attention; the auditorium grew silent.
"Elections are in order. The Right Honorable Archon, Marvin Chadwick, will attest to the procedures." He turned and bowed as Chadwick came to the mike.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the world—Archon Chadwick."
The Archon nodded, adjusted the mike and looked solemnly at the row of scarlet-clad official judges. He was a tall, lantem-faced man with sharp brown eyes and brisk movements.
He announced that a Pime Thinker and six members to the World Council of Six would be elected, in that order. He spoke slowly, measuredly, conscious that his audience was the world. He explained that election to the office of Prime Thinker would be by test. Each candidate would take three tests—the same three—and the person having the highest total score would be adjudged winner. The tests would be machine-scored with the results automatically translated into IQ values. He paused occasionally while the official judges nodded agreement.
Krull listened interestedly. There were an even twelve thousand tests, of which three would be selected on the basis o
f random numbers. The scoring and converting to IQ values would be recorded by cameras so the citizens of the world could judge the fairness of the procedures.
He finished. The subarchons nodded and Clender resumed his place at the microphone and announced he would introduce the candidates with precedence based on present IQ raring. He turned toward the entrance and nodded. Ben Yar-go rustled forward, his face a mask.
"Ben Yargo, IQ 219, philosopher-ecologist . . ." Clender pumped Yargo's hand vigorously, dropped it and signaled the attendant. Yargo smiled faintly and retreated to a row of chairs set in front of the election booths as Ivan Shevach came to the mike. The Manager smiled sardonically when his IQ rating was announced as 217. He turned abruptly from the mike and sat alongside Yargo. Mustapha Sherif (IQ 216) and William Harshberg (IQ 214) followed. Sherif's expression was wooden, all except the dark eyes glowing under bushy brows. Harshberg appeared jittery and had some difficulty controlling a facial twitch. When he was seated, a trumpeter appeared, sounded a silvery blast and disappeared into a wing. The elections had begun.
Clender beamed into the camera. "Citizens of the world, Dr. Karl Wemer, Psychmaster, will activate the election computer for selection of test number one. Dr. Werner . . ."
Wemer stared myopically through thick-lensed glasses, nodded briefly and limped toward the election machine. The camera moved in until only his hand was visible, one finger pointing to a red button. The finger moved, pressed the button, and the camera focused on a spinning counter, which gradually slowed and finally stopped at number 8250. Another camera cut in with an overview of the chamber.
The Psychmaster announced: "The official number is 8 ... 2 ... 5 ... 0." The Archon rose, repeated the number and the judges nodded confirmation. Wemer came into view again with his hand poised above the control panel. He turned a pointer to figure "4" and moved his hand to a selector dial. Again only his finger and the dial face were visible. He slowly dialed the official number. Another camera cut in to show the face of the computer. Lights blinked, the machine hummed and four booklets tumbled into a slot at the base of the console. Wemer scooped them up and held them toward the lens to display the number for the world to witness. An overview came on and Clender said:
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