This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and
resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
  Copyright © 1986 by The Literary Estate of Mack Reynolds
  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
  A Baen Books Original
  Baen Publishing Enterprises 260 Fifth Avenue New York, N.Y. 10001
  First printing, February 1986
  ISBN: 0-671-65552-3
  Cover art by Wayne Barlowe
  Printed in the United States of America
  Distributed by SIMON & SCHUSTER TRADE PUBLISHING GROUP 1230 Avenue o
Americas New York, N.Y. 10020

Foreword

  The greatest land acquisitions by any power in the history of the world took place without
the faintest threat of arms. Not a shot was fired by the conqueror in this unprecede
colonization program. Alexander, Caesar, Genghis Khan, and Tamerlane were tyros
comparison, for none of them ruled a whole continent, much less two, with scores of neighbo
islands.
  And it was possibly the softest sell of all time. The United States Government simply issu
declaration that it welcomed any countries in North, Central, or South America, or the Caribb
to join it, conferring all rights pertaining to American citizens, including the Guaranteed An
Stipend, or GAS—sometimes called Negative Income Tax. Our English friends called it "the d
They had seen it before. The English had seen everything before—including permanent declin
  Though the United States of America became the United States of the Americas without force
was not simplicity. Military dictatorships, particularly in the banana republics, did all in
power to remain separate. Armies were ordered to fire upon mobs demanding admission to
new United States. But the soldiers laughed. One had to reach the rank of major to attai
income equal to that of a citizen of the United States on GAS.
  So, with little strain on the Yankees, the Western Hemisphere assimilated into the United S
of the Americas.
  And, in the eyes of some, that was only the beginning…

 Chapter One: Horace Hampton

  A battered hovercar pulled up in the parking lot behind the aged apartment building. There
few other vehicles there.
  Three men got out and headed across the parking area for the back door. The one in the m
carried a cane and affected a slight limp. The other two carried tired-looking attaché cases. All
were dressed neatly, though their clothing was only a thin cut better than prole level.
  The one in the middle looked up at the paint-flaked wooden building which was their destina
"You could sell it for an antique," he said.
  One of the others grunted and told him, "You could sell all New Salem as an antique. Re
it—something like colonial Williamsburg over in Virginia. You could put up a big sign for
tourists: 'New Salem, Bible Belt Town, Circa 1900.' "
  They ascended the stairs to the second floor. Thus far they had seen nobody at all, which
understandable. They had counted on the total population being down at the park for the pol
rally. Aside from Tri-Di, there was precious little in the way of local entertainment.
  On the second floor, the largest of the three men looked up and down the hall, dipped a hand
his side pocket, and brought forth a pair of thin black gloves. His right hand went back into
pocket of his shorts and came forth with a key. He unlocked the door and all three filed thr
quickly. He locked the door behind him.
  The other two put their attaché cases and the cane on the room's center table and also do
gloves. They seemed in no hurry. They took out handkerchiefs and carefully wiped the cane
case with professional care.
  Their leader, a black, went through the small apartment, which consisted of bedroom, bath,
kitchen, besides the living room into which they had entered, and checked it out carefully. He,
had left his attaché case on the table after wiping it clean.
  His companions looked about at the nondescript furniture, which included a broken couch an
old-fashioned rocking chair.
  The two were of dark complexion, but there the resemblance ended. One was tall, wiry,
cougarlike of movement, black of hair and eye. The other was below average height, sto
muscular. He tended to smile, while his companion was stoic of expression in keeping with
Amerind tradition. The smaller man was Latino.
  The stocky one said, "Look, civilization." He pointed at the sole representative of mo
furnishing, a small Tri-Di set.
  The black, who had checked out the other rooms, returned and said, "Wizard, let's get the s
roadbound."
  Jose Zavalla took up the walking stick and began to unscrew the handle. His limp was gone.
handle came away and he upended the cane to let its contents slide gently into his right hand. It w
metallic tube about three feet long, threaded on one end externally, internally on the other. He l
back on the table.
  "Jesus, it's light," he said.
  Tom Horse, the Indian, who was opening the two attaché cases, said, "Titanium alloy."
  The sole contents of the hand luggage consisted of seven items, all carefully wrapped in
rubber. Tom took them out gingerly, one by one, and laid them in a row on the table.
  He said, "How's it look up the road, Hamp?"
  Hamp was the black, a well-built, dark-chocolate man with features more Caucasian than Bantu
went over to the middle of the three curtained windows that lined the street side of the room
pulled one curtain aside a bit and peered out, looking toward the north. From a jacket pocke
brought forth a small monoscope, twisted it open, and took off both lens shields. He pu
eyepiece to his right eye, adjusted the focus.
  He said, "Quite a turnout. Must be triple the population of the town."
  "You don't hear the governor sound off every day in New Salem and environs," Tom told
unwrapping his packages with love care.
  "Nice big banner above the speaker's stand," Hamp said. "Says, America for the Americans.
sentimental. American flags at both ends. They look a little out of date. How many stars in the
these days?"
  "Who keeps track? About a hundred," Tom said. He had taken up the tube Joe had extracted
the hollow cane and was carefully screwing one of the other objects—a stubby rectan
affair—into the threads of its interior.
  He said bitterly, "America for the Americans. You can be an Englishman or German whose pa
came over twenty years ago and took out citizenship papers and you're an American. But you
have ancestors going back twenty thousand years on this continent and you're on the shit list."
  Hamp said, still surveying with his monoscope, "You damn redskins are always complaining.
a minute, I think they've erected that speaker's stand thirty meters farther up than we figured on."
  "Hell," the Indian said, taking up an aluminum rod from the table. One end of it was threade
had it all zeroed, sighted-in, calibrated."
  Joe, watching the assembly job, said, "That's the smallest breech I've ever seen."
  "Uh huh," Tom said, winding the aluminum rod into a hole at the end of the deadly device. "Th
a single-shot bolt action. But the bolt doesn't stick out to the side, it's this little knob on the top."
  "What's that?" Joe said of the steel rod the other was manipulating. He had obviously never
the thing before, assembled or otherwise.
  "Part of the skeleton stock," Tom told him, tightening it firmly. The rod canted downward from
breech at an angle.
  Hamp came back to the table where Tom Horse and Jose Zavalla were assembling the gun.
  Tom was saying to Joe, "Hand me that other rod."
  Hamp brought a quarter-liter bottle from an inner pocket. He studied its label for a moment,
unscrewed the top. He held it to his lips and took a long pull.
  "What's that?" Tom said, not looking particularly happy as he twirled the new rod into its place
  "Cognac," Hamp told him. "Brandy. Have a slug. Listen, what effect is it going to have,
erecting that stand in the wrong place?"
  "No thanks," the Indian said, still not happy about the liquor. "I'm driving. Besides, didn't
know we savages can't handle firewater?"
  Joe said, "Brandy?" reaching for the bottle. "You mean aguardiente? Man, you blacks really l
up. I haven't had anything but syntho-gin for as long as I can remember." He took a hearty
brought the bottle down, and stared at the label admiringly. "V.S.O.P. What the hell's that mean?
  "It means it's worth its weight in diamonds," Hamp said. "Cloddies like us can't afford it
forced on me by admiring women who lust for my body. I brought it along as medicine—n
know when I might get sick. How about the range, Tom?"
  Tom had finished screwing the shorter aluminum rod into the back of the breech. It stuck out
shallower angle, so that the two rods looked like two sides of a narrow triangle. Joe handed him
short, curved base, padded with holes drilled into it near both ends. There was no threading
Tom simply inserted the aluminum rods in the holes and gave the base a whack with the heel o
right hand, driving it tightly home.
  He said to the black, "It's not important. This scope we've got is an Auto-Range. Latest t
Combines a range finder with a regular telescopic sight. No sweat. Hand me that silencer, Joe."
  "You're sure?" Hamp said, pushing the back of his left hand over his mouth.
  "Sure I'm sure," the other told him. "Take a minute or so to get it all sighted in again.'' He too
long tube Joe handed over and began screwing it into the barrel. It projected about a foot and a
when he had it tightly fitted. The silencer was about two and a half times the diameter of the barre
  Tom said, "Where'd you get this sweetheart, Hamp? It's a handmade work of art."
  "News reporter I used to know. Used to collect offbeat guns. He picked it up in one of the
wars over in Africa. Assassin gun. For all I know, it's the only one ever made."
  "He was crazy, giving this away," Tom said. "It's a real collector's item."
  Joe handed him the telescopic sight. There were grooves gouged into the metal top of the b
The Indian carefully eased the sights into them. On the top and right-hand side of the instrument
small vernier screws for adjusting the crossed hairs inside the scope.
  "Where's the fuckin' trigger?" Tom said, holding out his hand.
  "Mind your fuckin' language," the Chicano told him. "I'm a lady on my mother's side." He bro
forth from one of the attaché cases a twirl of tissue paper, unwrapped it, and handed the con
over.
  The sliver of a trigger was slightly curved and there were threads on one end. Tom Horse b
screwing it into place below the breech.
  "Why couldn't that have been built in?" Joe said.
  The Indian took up the assembled gun and handled it admiringly. "Same reason there'
protruding bolt. This whole thing is constructed to disassemble into parts that any man could
around while wearing an overcoat. Most of it would go into deep pockets. The barrel would b
only thing that's clumsy. You'd have to suspend it from your belt, or maybe by a strap under
shoulder."
  Hamp took another slug of the cognac and looked at his watch. He said, "The governor an
committee ought to be showing up any time. Let's move this table over to the window."
  While the others were doing that, Tom went to one side of the room and selected a straight c
He put the chair next to the end of the table, which now stood against the middle window, and
from one of the attaché cases a very light, bipod rifle support. It was of aluminum, held in plac
an elastic strap. He slipped it over the end of the rifle and its attached silencer.
  He said to the black, "How does it look now, Hamp?"
  Hamp had his monoscope to his eye again. "Wizard. They're filing onto the speaker's s
everybody shaking hands and smiling at each other. Very jolly. They've really got a turnout.
crowd must have come from all over the county."
  "The more the merrier," Joe growled. "Bastards will have something to see this time."
  Hamp said, "Now here's the setup, one last time, Tom, just to be sure. The speaker's stan
about twenty-five feet high. Old Drive 'Em Out Teeter stands way above the assembled mob so
they have to throw their heads back to gawk at him. He likes to speak with a rail before him s
can lean on it and thump it from time to time. Somewhere along the line he must have seen som
the old historic films of Mussolini hassling the wops from his balcony."
  "All right, all right," Tom said impatiently, bringing forth from one of the attaché cases a b
rubber block in which were stuck three long, pointed cartridges. They were of small caliber
necked down from a large casing. He pulled one round out and put it on the table next to him.
brass casing gleamed softly in subdued light.
  Hamp was saying, "Teeter doesn't like to speak directly into a mike. Instead, he has two of
hooked into the railing to each side of him, about two meters apart."
  "Right," Tom muttered, brushing the window curtain slightly to one side so that he could se
the street. "So I focus a meter beyond the mike nearest us."
  Hamp pushed his left hand over his mouth again. "Wizard."
  Joe had stationed himself at the window behind where the Indian was setting up his assassin
He said, "You better get your ass in a hustle. Here comes the chairman."
  "Plenty of time," Tom said evenly.
  Hamp took up the small bottle of brandy, now nearly empty, and took a quick swig before sett
down on the table. Tom shot him a disapproving glance but said nothing.
  The Indian glued his right eye to the telescopic sight. It had already been sighted in, but he rea
out delicately and adjusted the focus. The chairman's face leapt into clarity before him.
  The marksman took the nub of the bolt in his thumb and index finger and gave
counterclockwise twist, pulling the bolt back in its groove to reveal the trough for the long bulle
took up the cartridge and inserted it, thumbed the bolt back home and flicked it clockwise, smoo
locking it into place.
  He settled comfortably into his chair, pushed the curtain of the window back a little more.
  "Open it," he said softly.
  Hamp pushed the window up sufficiently to make room for firing.
  The Indian snuggled into position behind the scope eyepiece. "All right, Governor Teeter, la
the racist rabble-rousers," he murmured softly. "You've sounded off once too often."
  On the outskirts of the teeming crowd which had gathered to hear Teeter, two blacks s
inconspicuously in the shade of an ancient live oak, near the trunk. From their distance
white-clad speaker was hardly distinguishable, but the loudspeaker system brought his words cl
enough and his fist-shaking gestures of emphasis could not be misunderstood.
  One of the blacks said softly, "Old Drive 'Em Out is in full voice today. I'm beginning to sus
he doesn't like bloods."
  Without warning, the figure on the speaker's stand came to a shocked stiffening; red blosso
out in a large blot on his white shirt. He staggered for a moment and then slowly crumbled, fallin
of sight.
  One of the blacks shook his head. "Drunk as a lord," he said.
  The other surreptitiously brought a transceiver from his pocket, activated it, and said so
"Bullseye." He put the communication device back into his pocket and said urgently, "Let's ge
hell out of here, Jackie."
  In the run-down apartment, Hamp picked up the assassin rifle by its fore end, its bipod still han
free, and took it into the bedroom. He pulled the bipod off, held up the aged mattress with one h
and stuck the gun and stand under it. He smoothed out the bed neatly and returned to the other t
  Joe said, in deprecation, "It won't take them long to find that."
  "Who cares?" Hamp said. "It's untraceable."
  He picked up the rubber container holding the two unspent rounds and dropped it into a
pocket, then took the small flask of brandy. After offering it to both Tom and Joe Zavalla,
shook their heads, he finished it. "Let's drag ass," he said.
  He unlocked the door, let them precede him, and then relocked it. They headed for the s
unhurried as before. They'd left the cane and attaché cases behind.
  Down in the parking lot, they stopped before a waste receptacle, stripped the gloves from
hands, and dropped them in. Hamp also discarded the empty bottle and the unused ammunition
wiping them.
  They got into their hovercar, all three in front, the black driving, and unhurriedly left the par
area.
  They emerged onto the main street and headed away from the park where the rally had been ta
place. Even at this distance, they could hear the swell of shouts and screams, though al
drowned by police sirens.
  "Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy," said Joe, who was sitting by the window, his vague s
on his lips. "I wonder how many men, women, and children have been killed as a result of his r
rantings?"
  They left the environs of New Salem and headed, at a moderate speed, out into the country
They passed a sign welcoming all to New Salem.
  "Salem," Tom said, musing. "Wasn't that where they burned all the witches?"
  "Yes," Hamp told him softly. "This time we reversed it and clobbered a witch hunter. Joe, ther
bottle in that glove compartment."
  But the Indian beside him shot the black one of his looks from the side of his eyes and
quickly, "Take it easy, Hamp. The day's not over. We wouldn't want them to hang a drunk dr
romp on you."
  "Wizard," Hamp said. "But I'm not drunk."
  "You don't have to be. They'd book you anyway, if you showed any indication at all of drin
Joe, throw that bottle out."
  Joe took the half-liter of booze from the dash compartment and looked at the label sadly be
tossing the bottle far off the road into a field of sweet corn.
  For a while, they drove along silently, each absorbed in his own thoughts in the anticlimax of
they'd just been through.
  Joe said finally, "That was a good spot to pot him from. How'd you locate it?"
  Hamp said, "Not much trouble. Teeter always starts off his campaigns in New Salem. It's
oldest town of any size in the state. That apartment was ideal. The renter lives alone and goes u
Chicago six months of the year to work on some part-time job. He hates the big city, so he re
here for the rest of the year. As it turned out, we needed the place just when he didn't."
  Tom looked over at him. "How'd we find out about it?"
  "One of our whitey members came to town and hung around for a while in bars in
neighborhoods we were interested in. He finally got to talking to this fellow."
  They held silence for a while. There was a certain tenseness in waiting for what they knew w
come, the inevitable.
  Hamp said, "Oh, oh. Here it is. Road block."
  Up ahead were two State Police vehicles barring the way. There were also two police hovercy
Of the seven officers, two carried automatic Gyrojet carbines; the others, bolstered side arms. T
were red lights flashing above the cars.
  Hamp said, "Play it cool. No temper, Joe, and no wisecracks." They came to a halt some thirty
from the barricade.
  Two of the police troopers strolled toward them. About twenty feet off, one of them stopped
stood there, his legs parted, his holster unsnapped. The second trooper came up to the dri
window and looked in at them.
  Hamp said, his voice modulated, "What's the difficulty, officer?"
  The state trooper said, "I'll ask the questions, boy. Now, you three get out of there and lin
against the side of this here car. Spread your legs and lean your hands up against it."
  Hamp said, his voice still quietly even, "What's the charge, officer?"
  Joe had brought a pocket transceiver out, flicked back the cover, activated it, and said, "We
been stopped by police and ordered from our vehicle, evidently to be searched. The police offi
badge number is 358."
  The trooper looked at him coldly. He was a rawboned, lanky type, probably in his late twen
His uniform boasted all the glory of a Hungarian brigadier. He said, "Who you talking to?"
  Joe smiled. "A friend."
  Hamp repeated, "What is the charge, officer? Isn't a warrant required to search a citizen?"
  "Don't smartass me, boy," the trooper said grimly. He dropped his hand to his Gyrojet pistol.
  The black said, still mildly, "My name isn't Boy. It's Horace Greeley Hampton. And I con
myself acting under duress."
  He opened the door of the hovercar and got out, followed by Tom and Joe, but not until Joe
said into his transceiver, "The police officer called Mr. Hampton 'boy' contemptuously and ma
gesture toward his sidearm, reinforcing his demand that we be searched."
  The three lined up against the car, as ordered, and the second trooper came up to help in fris
them. They were thorough.
  The second state policeman said, as though disappointed, "They're clean, Ranee."
  Ranee said, "Go through the car." While the other was obeying, he said to Hamp, Tom, and
"Okay, you three. Let's see your ID."
  They handed over their Universal Credit Cards, which performed the functions of identity c
driver's licenses, and everything else a prole needed for identification.
  He looked at them carefully, brought forth a police transceiver, and read off names and ide
numbers into it, then asked for a police dossier check of the data banks.
  He turned his pale eyes to them. "Horace Greeley Hampton, Tom Horse, Jose Angel Mario Zav
Born in Ohio, Colorado, and Texas. All on Guaranteed Annual Stipend." He sneered at that
overly done, artificial sneer. "What're you doing in this state?"
  "We are on our way through," Hamp said, his accent still that of an educated man.
  "Where'd you just come from?"
  "New Salem."
  "Oh, you did, eh? What were you doing there?"
  "We went over to see the rally, listen to the governor's opening campaign speech."
  "Then what're you doing here?"
  "The crowd was so large that we couldn't get anywhere near the speaker's stand. Besides,
had been quite a bit of drinking. Some of the, ah, gentlemen in the crowd didn't seem to like
complexions. At any rate, we decided to return to where we're staying."
  "Where's that?"
  Joe said into his transceiver, "We're being questioned, although thus far no charge has been m
and we have not even been told whether or not we're under arrest. Our vehicle is being sear
without our permission and without a warrant."
  Ranee glared at him but forced his eyes back to Hamp, who seemed to be the spokesman of
unorthodox trio.
  Hamp said, "We're staying at the We Shall Overcome Motel, near Leesville."
  The washed out, grayish eyes of the trooper tightened infinitesimally. He looked at Joe and
"And that's who you're talking to?"
  Joe smiled his constant smile. "That's right, Mr. Policeman, sir."
  Hamp looked over at him and slightly shook his head.
  The second trooper emerged from the vehicle. He said, grudgingly, "It's clean, Ranee."
  Ranee's police transceiver buzzed and he listened to the report on the police dossiers of the t
his face less than pleased.
  Joe said, in his communication device, "We have been checked out in the police data banks
have obviously been cleared; however, we are still being held without charge, without war
and…"
  Ranee began to go red around his neck. "Take that damned thing away from him," he snappe
the other trooper, who was leaning back against the car, arms folded. He came erect gladly
started in the Mexican-American's direction.
  Joe began to retreat backward, saying quickly into his transceiver, "State Police officer Nu
358 has ordered my transceiver taken. One of us is a black; notify the nearest Nat Turner Team.
of us is an Amerind; notify the Sons of Wounded Knee. I am a Chicano; get in touch with the
of the Alamo. Notify our legal department! Notify Civil Liberties. Alert the Reunited Nations Hu
Relations…"
  The trooper was on him, grabbing the transceiver away. Joe smiled and winked at him.
  Hamp, his face very serious, turned to Ranee and said, "You're in the dill now, officer."
  The trooper's face was suddenly wan and he was breathing deeply. He looked from Hamp to
and Joe, then back again. His tongue came out and licked dry lips.
  "All right," he said. "Okay. You can go. We have nothing to hold you on. The governor was
in New Salem an hour or so ago." He took in a deep breath. "It's our job. No hard feelings, fella
  Joe smiled, "In that case, fuzzy, how about a donation for the Anti-Racist League?"
  "Get the hell out of here," Ranee snarled. He turned to the other trooper, who was looking at h
surprise. "Give them back that transceiver and their IDs."
  When the three had left, the second trooper looked at his companion. He said, "What the
Ranee. You practically kissed their asses and they were driving right from New Salem."
  The other glowered at him. "How'd you like somebody to toss a grenade into your living ro
Those bastards never quit, once you're on their list. They don't care if it takes years. Sooner or
they hit you."
  Hamp, Tom, and Joe drove along in silence for a time, letting the tension drain away, until H
turned to Joe and said, "What in the hell's a Nat Turner Team?"
  And Tom Horse added, "Or the Sons of Wounded Knee?"
  "Damned if I know," Joe said, grinning. "I made them up as I went along. Same with the Foe
the Alamo. What's the old gag? If there'd been a back door to the Alamo there would never
been a Texas."
  The We Shall Overcome Motel was well done. Extending over quite a few acres, it was compl
surrounded by a high, heavy, barbed-wire fence. A strong steel gate spanned the dressed s
entrance and, behind it, several public buildings, including a large store, a recreation hall, a
restaurant. An auto-bar clubroom stood off to one side of these, near a good-sized swimming p
which was crowded with swimmers and sunbathers, mostly of dark complexion but with a scatt
of whites.
  In the center of the compound was a sizable grove of trees, largely pines. A person could wa
into the pine grove, find a bit of a clearing, and spread out on his back, to stare up at clouds or
and feel, so temporarily, free.
  The area around the little forest was devoted to mobile homes and campers of all varietie
present, a small mobile town with an art colony theme—some forty homes in all—was tempor
parked en route to Mexico and parts south. Not all proles on GAS crammed themselves
mini-apartments in high-rise buildings in the cities.
  Hamp pulled up before the administration building, dropped the vehicle's lift lever, and swit
off the engine.
  Maximillian Finklestein issued from the office and strolled over toward them. He was a ta
sparse, stoop-shouldered man of about forty-five. As they emerged from the hovercar he cam
and said, "How was the rally, chum-pals?"
  Tom shrugged and said, "We didn't stay. Too big a crowd. We heard there was a lot of excite
after we left. Somebody took a shot at the governor."
  Finklestein clucked his tongue. "Imagine that. Was he hurt?"
  Joe said, "We got the impression he was hit. Didn't you see it on Tri-Di?"
  "I was working," Max told him. "Come on in and have a drink; we'll check the news."
  Hamp said, "Your invitation appeals to me strangely, especially the drink part, but I want to st
my legs a little first."
  "Me, too," Tom said. "A little stroll before the firewater."
  The three of them, accompanied by Max, set out leisurely for the wooded area.
  They entered the trees, for the time holding silence. After a couple of hundred feet they reach
small clearing, the ground well covered by pine needles and leaves. Then, in silent agreement, the
stretched out on their faces in a starlike arrangement, their heads close together. Their faces we
the ground, partially into the needles and leaves. Even the best shotgun mike would play hell liste
to them now.
  Max said softly, "What happened?"
  "Plumb center," Tom whispered. "The capslug shattered right on his chest and splattered red
all over his shirt. I could see his face go pale and his eyes pop. He fainted."
  The motel manager growled, "The loudmouth bastard'll know it could have been the real t
Might even rethink his racist campaigning if he's smarter than he is bigoted. How tough were
fuzzies?"
  Hamp took over the report, also whispering into the leaves. "About as expected. They hate
every minute of it, and they hated us and our uppity ways, but they weren't about to stick their n
out. They'll toss it all into the laps of the IABI. They've heard all the silly rumors about how t
we are. They had no intention of becoming martyrs for a state cop's pay."
  Finklestein said, "I've already got instructions for you. You three will be under special observa
The IABI isn't completely dull. They might not dig up proof but they'll strongly suspect you o
burlesque assassination. Your dossiers will tell them you're members of the Anti-Racist League.
were admittedly present in New Salem and Governor Teeter was an anachronism, the last o
really all-out rabid politician racists. They know it was just a matter of time before we zeroed i
him. They'll probably be surprised we didn't actually bump him off."
  "Swell," Tom said into the leaves, a note of extreme weariness in his voice. "So what do w
now?"
  "You break up as a team. None of you will continue to operate in this section." Max fished
jacket pocket. "Tom, you go to southern Illinois. You're an unknown there. Go to a town na
Zeigler and report to the section leader. Here's the address." He handed the paper over.
  Tom looked at it and said, "What do I do there?"
  Max seemed surprised at the question. "I haven't the vaguest idea," he told the Indian
understand that it's a pretty backward part of the country: fundamentalists, high illite
rate—you've seen it all before. But I don't know what they'll have you doing. You might as well
off. No need for you to know where Hamp and Joe are assigned."
  "Yeah," Tom said, scrambling to his feet and stuffing the address into his shorts pocket
looked down at the other two, hesitated for a moment, then said gruffly, "Hang loose, chum-pals
  They both looked up from the leaves and nodded. The team hadn't operated together for very
but they'd been more than unusually compatible.
  "So long, Redskin," Joe said softly.
  When the other was gone, the remaining three returned their lips to the pine needles and leaves.
  Max said, "Joe, you head south for Mexico City. Here's your contact." He handed another no
the Chicano.
  "Mexico?" Joe said. "I've never been down there. What do I do?"
  "No need for me to know. But the way I understand it, there seems to be an unlikely situa
particularly in the big centers like Mexico City and Monterrey, where all the best positions wind
the hands of whites of Spanish descent. Next in the highest job and power echelons are those w
high percentage of Spanish blood. Mestizos, they call them. And, surprise, surprise! Guess w
the low man on the totem pole?"
  "The full-blooded Indian," Hamp growled. "How do they get around the computers suppos
selecting the best citizens for whatever job comes up?"
  Max grunted at that. "Undoubtedly, the same way they do here. The rumors continue
sometimes the data banks are jimmied, rigged. But the programmers know angles. And that
probably be one of Joe's tasks."
  Joe sighed. "Same old story," he said. "Fuck the colored races. What's my cover?"
  "The obvious one, most nearly the truth. You're on GAS and can't find a job up north. So,
you're bilingual, you head south hoping to use your two languages to advantage in getting w
Max hesitated a moment before adding, "You'd better get underway, too. You never know.
IABI could show at any time to pick you three up."
  Joe came to his feet. He smiled at Hamp, warmer than his usual humorless smile. "Nice kno
you, Blood."
  Hamp said, "Feeling's mutual, companero. Luck."
  Joe left.
  The two remaining readdressed themselves to the ground.
  Hamp said, "What about me?"
  Max said, "Your request for a leave of absence has been okayed." He looked over at the b
from the side of his eyes. "How come, Hamp? There's a hell of a shortage of top men and,
what I understand, you're continually taking leaves."
  "Wizard," Hamp said in deprecation. "But we'll have fewer field men than ever if you wear us d
to the point where we lose efficiency. I've been in the trenches too often in the past coupl
months. I need a breather. I think I'll spend some time in New York. Where do I report when
unwound?"
  Max handed him a note. "To me. As usual, I haven't the vaguest idea of what your next assign
will be. However, there's one item of business on your way back east, a new contact. A Lee Ga
who lives in Greenpoint, Pennsylvania."
  "A new contact?" Hamp said, moderately indignant. "Have I sunk to the level where you're u
me for elementary propaganda?"
  "Headquarters seems to think that this one is a better prospect than usual. A whitey. Not on G
Better than usual education. Our local section isn't too top-level, so they want a good agent to m
the initial contact with Garrett." Max handed the black another note.
  "Wizard," Hamp said, coming to his feet and brushing pine needles from his shorts and jacket.
I leave now, like Tom and Joe?"
  Max stood, too. "Why don't you come over to my place and we'll talk some shop and ha
couple of quick ones. Tom and Joe never did get that drink I promised them."
  "They're dedicated," the other snorted. "Both of them hardly touch the stuff. Lead me to it.
matter of fact, I've got some good French brandy in my luggage. We can crack that."
  Max Finklestein wondered vaguely how the other could afford a bottle of imported brand
would take a month of GAS credits to buy such a potable.
  Chapter Two: Franklin Pinell
  When the two corrections officers from the prison handed Franklin Pinell over to the court ba
in the Justice Department Building, he was still handcuffed to the heavier-set, tougher-looking g
While the second officer was getting a bailiff to sign the receipt for their charge, the prisoner
freed of his cuffs. The guard dialed the appropriate number on the shackles and then pu
thumbprint on the tiny screen. The titanium alloy handcuffs came away.
   "There he is," he said, obviously bored. "Frank Pinell. Supposed to be tough. Haven't you
cuffs for him?"
   "No," the bailiff said. "We don't usually use them."
   The prison guard looked the two court officers up and down. The older one was pushing s
much overweight, and the second didn't look much more competent.
   "He's supposed to be tough," the guard repeated. "A killer. You fellas heeled?"
   "We don't usually carry guns," the other said.
   Frank Pinell stood there rubbing the wrist that had been confined. He looked at the prison gu
emptily as they turned to leave. "Be seeing you," he said.
   The one to whom he had been handcuffed snorted tack over his shoulder. "Not where y
going, chum-pal."
   When they were gone, Pinell looked at the bailiffs.
   "This way, son," the older one said, and then added gruffly, "Tough luck. I've got a son your a
   The three of them ascended marble stairs to the second floor and then proceeded to the left d
the wide corridor.
   The younger bailiff said, "Those types see too many crime Tri-Di shows. What good do they
it would do you to escape? Without a credit card you couldn't buy a stick of chewing gum, or a
on the metro, not to speak of a meal.
   You have no home and it's a felony for any friend to take you in."
   "Stop it, stop it," Pinell said without tone. "You're breaking my heart."
   He was twenty-five years of age, looked surprisingly athletic as proles went, was medium tall, c
and neat even in less than top quality garb, and his bearing would have passed muster in any u
class gathering. His dark brown hair was worn full and combed directly back. His eyes were a
green and his rather long face had a Scottish cast. In less plebeian dress he might have been type
a graduate student or a junior executive.
   "Okay, son," the older one said. "Here we are." He opened half of a heavy double door and
bailiffs led their charge through before them.
   The judge looked up from his desk. He was dressed in his traditional black robes and resem
the older and kindlier of his two court officers. That is, he was about sixty, overweight, his face
not with an immediate weariness but with one that had accumulated down through the years.
   "Franklin Pinell, Your Honor," the younger bailiff said.
   "Yes, of course, James." The judge looked at the prisoner. "Be seated, Pinell." Then back a
guards. "Please wait outside. I believe you already have your instructions."
   "Yes, Your Honor." The younger bailiff hesitated, then said, "Judge, the corrections officers
the prison said Pinell is reputed to be dangerous."
   "Indeed?" John Worthington looked at the youthful prisoner. "Are you?"
   Frank Pinell hesitated, then let air out of his lungs and said, "Under the circumstances, no.
took the chair across from the judge's desk.
   "Very well, that will be all, James, Bertram."
   The bailiffs left and the judge sighed, studying the prisoner for a moment. Pinell returned
scrutiny, his expression saying, it's your ball, start bouncing it.
   The judge sighed again and took up a report from before him. He said, "I am afraid we have
news for you, Franklin."
   "I expected it."
   The judge ignored that, looked at the report, and said,
   "The legal computers have found you guilty and recommend deportation."
  Frank Pinell's face went blank. "Deportation? But I've got only one major…"
  The other was shaking his head. "Your criminal dossier lists four felonies. As a four-time l
your sentence becomes deportation for life."
  "But Your Honor, those first two romps were kid stuff. I was only in my early teens."
  "But you served time for your offenses, no matter how short, as you did for your third, ah, ro
The fact that your first felony amounted to no more than taking an unguarded hovercar for a jo
is beside the point. You served several months in a youth detention camp. And your second off
and third…"
  "All right. Who can argue with a damned computer? Isn't there any way I can appeal?"
  "Not at this point," the judge told him. "If you can claim new evidence later and it is made avai
to the data banks, you can then appeal. Appeals are seldom successful. The computers don't m
mistakes, Franklin. Judges and juries used to, perhaps, but computers don't."
  "It's a hell of a thing to call justice," the younger man said bitterly. "Being thrown out of your
country."
  The judge looked at him in weariness and said, "What was it the old cynic asked? 'Come now
truth; who among us would be satisfied with justice?' The fact is, your fourth crime was the
really reprehensible one. But it was homicide, and under rather strange circumstances. Had that
your only felony, you would not have been deported. Our penal system allows for rehabilitation
of murderers. But with three other felonies on your record, the computers opted for deportation.
  "I don't want to live anywhere except in the States," Pinell said.
  "Unfortunately, that is now out of your hands, Franklin. You should have considered it soo
Deportation makes sense, from the viewpoint of the government. Some decades ago, when the p
laws were revamped, they found that it cost more to keep a criminal in prison than to send hi
Harvard. As it is now, the government will no longer be put to the expense of keeping you in pr
or even on GAS. Nor will you be free to commit new felonies upon serving your time or b
paroled."
  The older man put that part of it behind him and said, "You will be issued one thou
pseudo-dollars in the form of Swiss gold francs. You will be deprived of your Universal C
Card, and you are forbidden ever again to enter this country."
  "What happens when the thousand runs out?" the other said, his voice still low.
  "That is not the concern of the United States of the Americas. You make what arrangements
can in your host country."
  Frank Pinell squared his shoulders. "All right. What country are you sending me to?"
  "To a certain point, that is your decision. Obviously, the advanced nations will not accept
However, some Third-World nations will take you under certain circumstances. Their situatio
something like Australia and the American colony of Georgia when they were first colonized.
needed population desperately, so England allowed convicts to decide whether to spend
sentences in jail or to be hanged, as the case might be, or to become colonists."
  ***proffedto here***
  "What's that got to do with here and now?" Pinell said, impatient at the older man's ramblings.
  "In some nations, particularly in Africa and Indonesia, even partially educated persons are in
short supply. Some of them, upon gaining independence from the former colonial powers, ha
university graduates whatsoever. No doctors, no engineers, no lawyers—no one really compete
hold high government office. Later, with the support of the Reunited Nations and the assistanc
the more advanced countries, they were able to send students to America and Europe, in hope
alleviating this problem. Unfortunately, the majority of such students chose to remain in the adva
countries or, at least, to emigrate to nations less backward than their own. A facet of the brain d
in short."
  "So I've got to choose a country so desperate for even semi-educated manpower that they'll a
killers as immigrants."
  "I'm afraid that's it, Franklin. Mozambique, for instance, or the Seychelles, where the climate is
to be excellent, though the islands are rather small and isolated."
  "Any place where there'd be more whites? More people I could speak the language with?"
prisoner's voice had grown sullen.
  The judge took up a sheaf of papers from his desk. He perused it a few minutes before sa
"According to your dossier, your schooling was far above average for these days. And while
were never chosen for regular employment by the National Data Banks, you have on se
occasions held down minor, short-term positions. This would undoubtedly make you eligibl
residence in Morocco, or at least Tangier."
  "Tangier?"
  The judge, his tone unhappy, said, "A disreputable city immediately across from Gibraltar on
North African coast. Although nominally part of the Sherifian Empire, and subject to the Sultan
an International Zone where few laws seem to apply. There is no extradition, for instance, and
taxes. With the possible exceptions of Nassau and Malta, it is usually considered to be the, ah,
wide-open city in the world."
  "Many Americans there?"
  "The population is international. You'd find many English-speaking residents. However, an
seeking to rehabilitate himself would find Tangier an unhealthy atmosphere, I should think
reputation is rank indeed."
  Frank Pinell grunted, impatient again. "Who said anything about rehabilitation? All right, I'll
Tangier."
  Pinell was kept in a detention cell in a high-security prison in New Jersey only two nights befor
plainclothes agents came for him. They were typical of the breed, lower echelon operatives o
largest police organization in the world— unless the Soviet Complex held that honor.
Inter-American Bureau of Investigation was a product of its times, which led to amalgamation of
about all areas of the productive or governmental systems. In this case, it applied to the police.
all-embracing IABI included what had once been the FBI, the CIA, all military espionage
counterespionage services, the Secret Service, all state police, and all local police forces.
former group had a certain amount of autonomy, but ultimately they were all a part of the grea
enforcement octopus which was the IABI, presided over by Director John Warfield Moyer.
more than two decades Moyer had dominated the American police system like a colossus.
  The two were inconspicuous young men of averages, deliberately chosen to blend in
group—average of height, weight, coloring, facial characteristics, and dressed to conform. F
Pinell had come in contact with them before, particularly in the past two months since his latest
most serious fall. They could all have been clones from one source.
  When the cell door opened, one of them said, "Okay, Pinell, get your things. You're on your w
  He had two suitcases. They were packed with all of his earthly belongings, save the suit he wo
was a conservative suit, government issue, just slightly above usual prole standards. Even so, it
as good as Franklin Pinell had ever worn. They were also to issue him a thousand pseudo-dolla
the form of Swiss gold coinage, the judge had told him. He had never had, at one time, such a
There was something ironic about the fact that as a criminal deportee, the State was sending him
in better shape than he had ever enjoyed as a free citizen.
  He took up the bags and went out into the corridor saying, "You mean everything has already
cleared for me to emigrate to Morocco?"
  "Tangier," one of them said. "It's not exactly Morocco. And as far as allowing you to immig
they'd take Jack the Ripper in that town. Come on, Pinell. I'm MacDonald and this is Roskin. W
your escort. Just for the record, we're under orders to shoot if you try to escape between here
the Tangier airport."
  "My chum-pals," Frank muttered.
  "And just for the record," Roskin added, "if you crack smart you'll wind up with dentures."
  MacDonald brought forth handcuffs and joined his left wrist to Frank's right.
  Frank said, "For Christ's sake, how can I carry my bags, shackled like this?"
  "You carry one of them under your left arm and the other by its handle," Roskin told him. "
didn't expect us to act as your porters, did you? If it's too much, you can leave one of them.
probably don't contain anything worth having anyway. Whoever heard of a prole with anything w
owning? He'd flog it to buy syntho-beer."
  Frank looked at him coldly, even as he fumbled the smaller of the two suitcases up under hi
arm and took the other in his left hand. The weight of the two put him somewhat off balance
said, "I have a few family mementos. My father wasn't exactly a prole."
  MacDonald grunted disinterest. "Oh? Well, he didn't seem to pass anything great along to
What happened to him?"
  "He was shot to death," Frank said flatly. "Are we or aren't we getting out of this stinkhole?"
  "Don't press your luck, smartass," Roskin told him, leading the way down the prison cor
toward freedom.
  At the Long Island shuttleport they were lobbed over to the International Supersonic Port, w
floated some twenty miles off the coast, and from there took the next laserboost to a similar je
stationed off Lisbon. A shuttlecraft lobbed them over to Madrid. Next stop: Tangier.
  While Roskin was checking out their reservations, Mac-Donald and Frank Pinell waited in
terminal.
  The IABI man said, "Too bad you can't take time out to see Madrid, Pinell. Great town for a
Prettiest mopsies in Common Europe. You pick them up at Chicote's bar, where they've go
biggest collection of guzzle in the world. Oh, you'd love Chicote's. They've got a jog of Ch
brandy going back to the Ming Dynasty. Something like a thousand years old."
  "Maybe I'll see that guzzle museum someday."
  The other laughed nastily. "Not you, chum-pal. You'll spend the rest of your life in Tan
knocking back rotgut absinthe—when you can afford it. The asshole of creation, Tangier"
  "How big is it?"
  "A few square miles. Before you can get up a good dog trot, you're over the International
boundary, which is taboo. Then the Moroccan police throw you in the slammer. The dungeo
Morocco go back to the days of Harun-al-Rashid. Not that you've ever heard of him."
  "Calif of Baghdad in the Arabian Nights," Frank replied. "He never got to Morocco."
  Roskin came back with their reservations and hurried them up. "Royal Air Maroc," he said. "
airline you've got to see to believe."
  "Flying carpets?" Pinell muttered.
  The flying equipment of Royal Air Maroc was obviously secondhand from more prosperous l
but the old-fashioned jet got them there. They landed at the shabby airport on the outskir
Tangier in the afternoon.
  The three had been the only passengers from Madrid, save for two swarthy-looking types,
wearing red fezzes but garbed in European dress, and wearing it as though it was a penance. O
way down Frank had heard them talking in some language he had never heard before.
  He asked Roskin about it. "What do they speak in Tangier?"
  "Just about everything," the other had told him, begrudging the information. "Mostly a R
version of Arabic. But any native you're apt to have anything to do with usually speaks either Fr
or Spanish." He snorted with contempt at his prisoner. "Do you speak either?"
  "I took some French," Frank said. He didn't add that it hadn't been much. To hell with these gu
  Roskin removed the handcuffs at the foot of the aircraft's ladder and the three waited for a
minutes until the plane's crew had brought their luggage.
  Only one customs examiner stood in the administration building. Frank put his bags on the
low table and, at the other's gesture, opened them. The Moroccan official was two days unsha
had a stub of a cigarette in his mouth, and though he wore a uniform, it looked as though it had n
been laundered since leaving the factory. His shirt was unbuttoned two buttons.
  He dug roughly into Frank Pinell's things with dirty hands, making no attempt at neatness. He c
upon a sub-miniature Leica-Polaroid camera which had once belonged to Frank's father
pocketed it.
  "Hey, for Christ's sake," Frank exclaimed.
  "Take it easy," Roskin told him. "And just hope he doesn't see anything else he thinks is w
flogging."
  Seething inwardly, Frank held his peace. His cursory ex-animations completed, the customs of
took up a piece of blue chalk and marked each bag with an Arabic scribble, then ma
contemptuous gesture of dismissal. He looked at the overnight bags that Roskin and MacDo
were carrying, but the latter said something in French which Frank didn't get, and the Moro
shrugged and moved off.
  "This way," MacDonald said, gesturing with his head toward an office door.
  There was no identity screen on the office door. The IABI men didn't bother to knock, but si
pushed the door open and ushered their prisoner in. The office beyond was as filthy as the large
outside and the fat official behind the sole desk was almost as disreputable in appearance a
customs man. He had a warm bottle of some orange-colored drink sitting to his left and from tim
time took a swallow of it. The day wasn't particularly hot, but his round, lardy face was oozing
sweat.
  The three came up to the desk and MacDonald spoke in French, then brought forth several pa
and put them before the other. The Mokkadem took them up and looked expressionlessly at F
Pinell for a long moment, then down at the papers. MacDonald took from his pocket a small
coin and put it on the desk. The Moroccan swept it with a fat hand into his top desk drawer
grunted.
  "That came from you," the IABI man told his charge. "We'll settle later."
  Frank sucked in breath but said nothing. It was their top, all he could do was let them
spinning it.
  The Moroccan official took up a rubber stamp and banged it on several of the papers, handed
of them to Frank, and put the rest in his desk. He looked up at MacDonald, then over to Frank,
returned to scanning the tattered pornographic magazine he had been perusing when they entered
  Frank said, "You mean that's all? That's all that's involved in my entering this country for good
  They turned and left. As they went, Roskin said to him, "Not quite. Tomorrow morning you g
police headquarters on the Place de Mohammed Fifth and register. They'll want to see your pa
photograph and fingerprint you, find out where you're staying. Every time you move, you hav
report your new address."
  "That brings us to my money," Frank said.
  MacDonald brought forth a booklet, opened it, and took a stylo from the pocket of his shirt. "
this receipt," he said.
  Frank scanned it quickly. One thousand pseudo-dollars in gold Swiss francs.
  As he signed, he said, "What do they use as a means of exchange in Tangier?"
  "They use currency," Roskin said. "In Morocco, it's the dirham. Five dirham are approxim
one pseudo-dollar."
  MacDonald returned his receipt booklet to his pocket, brought forth some small gold coins,
counted them out into Frank's outstretched hand. "There's your severance pay," he said.
  Frank said, "I owe you one for that bribe you gave the official."
  "Never mind," the IABI man said, amused. "Let's say it's on me."
  That set Frank back. He looked down at the small number of Swiss coins in his hand and look
one to check its denomination.
  "How many francs to the pseudo-dollar?" he said, scowling.
  "Two," Roskin told him.
  Frank calculated quickly and looked up. "This comes to only two hundred pseudo-dollars.''
  MacDonald said to his fellow agent, "He's not only an intellectual but a mathematician."
  "I'm supposed to get a thousand," Frank said, his voice tight.
  MacDonald scoffed at him. "What'd you do with a thousand pseudo-dollars? Probably was
Go through it in a week. As it is, Roskin and I will lay over in Madrid on our way home, and
hoist a couple of drinks to you in Chicote's."
  Frank stared from one of them to the other. "You miserable bastards," he said, his lips going w
He took a step forward.
  The other two stepped back warily, and Roskin's hand slipped inside his jacket.
  MacDonald said, his voice low, "You know what the Moroccan police would do if we shot
here and now?
  Exactly nothing; they couldn't care less. Your type is a dime a dozen in Tangier."
  As Frank glared, Roskin smiled. "Over there's the exit to the taxi stand. The fare into town is
dirhams. Don't pay more. You can't trust these gooks."
  The two IABI men turned and left him standing there. Frank Pinell glared after them for a
moment. There was nothing he could do. Sure, once he got organized, he could write a lett
protest to Judge John Worthington. And a fat pile of crap that'd get him. He'd been silly enoug
sign the receipt for one thousand pseudo-dollars, hadn't he? Signed it before getting the funds i
hands.
  He picked up his bags, made his way to the cambio booth, and exchanged fifty Swiss francs
dirhams. The Moroccan money came in coins rather than paper currency.
  From the money exchange booth he went on through the door to the taxi stand. The driver w
small, evil-looking type with a dirty rag of an orange turban wrapped carelessly around his head.
garment he wore looked like a seamless bathrobe made of brown homespun and there were ye
backless leather slippers on his feet.
  Frank looked in the window of the ancient cab, even as he sharply slapped the hand of an u
who was trying to pick his pocket. He said, "Do you speak English?"
  The cabby's shifty eyes took him in, evidently deciding his potential fare was American, rather
British. He said, "I talk everything, Jack."
  Frank put his bags in the back of the small cab and sat up front next to the driver. The c
evidently wasn't accustomed to bathing. Frank rolled down the window and said, "Take me to
cheapest hotel in Tangier."
  The other grinned at him, displaying teeth like a broken-down picket fence. "The chea
European type hotel, eh, Jack?"
  "The cheapest hotel, period," Frank said definitely.
  "You ever slept in a caravansary, Jack? Very cheap. One dirham a night. You sleep on a pi
straw, eh? Twenty other people in the same room, eh? Donkeys and goats, sometimes maybe ev
camel. Other people are Rifs, down from the mountains to bring their things to the souk to sell
Very bad people, some of these Rifs. Stick a knife in you if they figure you got ten, maybe tw
dirhams in your pockets."
  Frank sighed. "All right, take me to the cheapest European hotel," he said in surrender.
  The cabby dropped the lift lever of the prehistoric cab and, when they were aircushion bo
tromped on the accelerator, at first without result. He kicked it viciously and they started up.
American realized that the vehicle must be battery powered, rather than using power packs or pic
up juice from the highway. Obviously, the gravel road wasn't automated. However, from what he
read, Morocco wasn't energy-poor. At least a third of the southern stretches of the country we
the Sahara and, in common with neighboring Algeria, the Sherifian Empire of Morocco had
among the first to use major solar power stations with Reunited Nations assistance. Endless sq
miles of them had been built before the satellite solar power stations began microwaving en
down from orbit.
  He had thought himself prepared for poverty of the North African variety, but he wasn't
couldn't imagine any American being so prepared. The thought came to him: could parts of
America have been like this, before joining the United States of the Americas?
  From time to time, they passed small communities consisting of single-room dwellings mad
wood scraps, cardboard, tin cans beaten flat, small boulders, and mud. There was no pretens
streets, or even alleys, obviously no running water, and garbage and refuse lay heaped in filthy p
often with naked children playing on their summits. Flies and other insects droned in such sw
that Frank rolled up the window again, despite the stench of his driver.
  The cabby grinned evilly over at him. "Not so good, eh, Jack?"
  Frank didn't answer.
  After suburbs of such appalling filth, Tangier itself came as a surprise. The part of it they en
was European in appearance, rather than Moslem. That figured. The French had once owned
town on the Straits of Hercules, even before the International Zone. And the French might
loony logic, but they didn't live in midden heaps.
  The driver assumed the role of travel guide. "This is Route de Tetouan, eh, Jack? And this her
come into is Place d'Europe."
  They proceeded to the right and merged into what street signs proclaimed to be the Avenu
Madrid. At least, that's what the French proclaimed. Frank couldn't decipher the Arabic scrawl.
  They turned left on the Boulevard Mohammed Fifth. The city continued to improve, and now
was considerably more traffic. Tangier had no restrictions on surface traffic. From time to time
were even held up by minor traffic jams. Most of the cars and trucks seemed as elderly as
hovercab.
  "Pasteur Boulevard, she the center of European town, eh? She just two streets up. You like, I t
Cheap hotel."
  They turned down Rue Moussai Ben Moussair, barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass,
two blocks later pulled up before a sadly decrepit four-story structure.
  "Hotel Rome," the driver said expansively. "Very cheap. Almost clean. Not much bugs, eh, Jac
  Frank looked out blankly. "Where?" he said.
  "She's on second floor, third floor, fourth floor. You don't pay more than ten dirhams, eh? L
he's a crook. He try to charge you more, eh? You can't trust Italianos. Okay, Jack. That'll be fi
dirhams, Jack. Cheap. All the way from the airport."
  Frank got out of his side of the cab, brought forth his Moroccan coins, and handed six dirh
through the window. "The rate's five dirhams and here's one more for a tip," he said.
  The other was furious. "Fifteen, you cheap Yankee," he yelled.
  "Five," Frank said flatly and reached for the door to the back of the hovercab to recover his ba
  Before he could get it open, the vehicle surged ahead, wrenching his hand from the doorknob
nearly knocking him sprawling.
  His eyes bulging, Frank stared aghast at the hovercab careening up the street with his luggage
searched desperately for its license plate, and could see none. His eyes darted around to
vehicles parked in the street. None of them had license plates. Evidently, there was no such thi
the International Zone of Tangier.
  He groaned audibly. He knew nothing about the layout of this town. He didn't know wher
could find the police. He didn't know the cabby's name. And the taxi looked like every other on
had seen in this—this ripoff Mecca.
  He stood there, staring after it, until the vehicle swerved around a corner and was gone from sig
  Less than two hundred pseudo-dollars to his name and his every belonging stolen.
  He finally took a deep breath and turned. Now he could make out the faded sign for the H
Rome. It was over a drab wooden stairway. The ground floor of the building was taken up by
stores which seemed almost identical. They resembled, in their window contents, the general s
in American small towns of long ago, selling everything from groceries to textiles, and toys, liq
non-prescription drugs, shaving supplies, and what not.
  The lobby of the Hotel Rome was on the second floor. Only one window overlooked the stre
was furnished with an aged reception desk, keys openly displayed on a rack behind it, and se
thoroughly defeated chairs, their upholstery looking as though wild animals had savaged it. In on
the chairs snored an obese man, as disreputable as the furniture.
  "Hey!"
  The other opened first one eye, then the other. He brushed a fly from the top of his almost
head and looked accusingly at the man who had awakened him. What do bald, fat Italians dream
Frank wondered.
  "Who do I see about getting a room here?"
  "Me," the other grunted, somehow getting his bulk erect. "I'm Luigi. This place, it's mine."
  Frank said, "I want the cheapest room you've got."
  Luigi took him in, his plump face expressionless. "You got no luggage? You pay right
Twenty dirhams."
  "Ten," Frank said wearily, fishing in his pocket for two five-dirham coins.
  "This way," Luigi said, shrugging.
  The room was on the same floor as the lobby. It had one primitive electric bulb hanging from
ceiling, one sagging bed, one straight chair, one chipped dresser with a drawer missing. No bath
running water. Not even a window. There was a toilet down the hall, but no bath there, e
Seemingly, the tenants of the Hotel Rome didn't bathe, unless they managed a sponge bath out o
filthy lavatory, crammed next to the toilet bowl.
  When Luigi was gone, Frank Pinell looked about his room.
  "Home at last," he said acidly, running a hand down over his long face.
  In another part of town, a stranger to Frank Pinell was speaking into his pocket transceiver. He
saying, "He pulled in on the three o'clock from Madrid. At the airport, those sons of bitc
MacDonald and Roskin, pulled their usual little romp. He got into Hamad's cab and Hamari took
to Luigi's and was able to take off with his luggage. He must be running scared by now. It look
though we've found our patsy."
  Chapter Three: Roy Cos
  Roy Cos looked out over the small, shabby hall in Baltimore with its pitiful group, members o
Industrial Workers of the World—"Wobblies," in their own jargon. Inwardly, he felt depressed
weary. It was the same old story: there were sixteen in the audience. At least ten of these were e
Wobblies or sympathizers who had heard or read all that he had to say a hundred times. They
there not to learn but to give him support. Another two or three, looking bored, had drifted in
the street out of mild curiosity, or because they had nothing else to do. Another trio, seated tog
at the rear with identical condescending sneers, were hecklers come to give him a bad time. Only
stranger, who sat in the last row on one of the rickety folding chairs, looked at all like prom
material. He was a small man, better dressed than the prole audience, and he had a notepad o
lap. From time to time he took notes. But for all Roy Cos knew, the man could be an IABI a
checking out just how subversive the speaker might be.
  Roy took in the tattered banners which the committee members had hung about the w
SOLIDARITY! UNITE! And, the longest of them all, PEOPLES OF THE WORLD UNITE. Y
HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE BUT YOUR CHAINS. Roy Cos knew that such signs had once
WORKERS OF THE WORLD UNITE. But there were no workers any more, for all prac
purposes. Over ninety percent of the population was on GAS. Two percent were affluent mem
of the upper class, who did not worry about employment. And five percent were actually all
were needed to produce an abundance of goods and supply the services of this autom
computerized society. And they, the professional technicians, engineers, scientists, doctors,
teachers, seldom thought of themselves as workers. Their pay was such that they identified wit
upper class, rather than the proles on GAS.
  Roy Cos, a second-generation radical, was in his early forties. He was an outwardly ave
unprepossessing man, faded brown of hair, hazel of eye, earnest of expression, but projecting a
that somehow he realized that life had passed him by and that his efforts were meaningless in the
run. He was some ten pounds overweight. Too many hours studying, too many hours sitting ar
tables, arguing dialectics, too many hours talking, talking, talking, largely to people not r
interested in blueprints of Utopia.
  He was saying: "And is this the final destiny of man? The overwhelming majority living on the v
of poverty? The history of the human race has been a hard and proud one. Since first our ance
emerged from the caves, we have fought upward. And from the beginning we have been the thin
animals, the tool users. Who first utilized fire, we cannot know. What early men first developed
hand ax, the knife, the spear, the bow and arrow is unknown to us. But each generation that c
along added its contribution to human knowledge and we slowly acquired agriculture,
domestication of animals, the wheel, the hoe, the plow. And as each generation emerged, its gen
now forgotten, our knowledge grew. The arts and the sciences began to emerge."
  "Great!" one of the three cynical listeners called out. "So what? Get to the point."
  Roy nodded and went on. "The point is that all of these developments, this accumu
knowledge down through the centuries, is the common heritage of all mankind. They are no
property of a few, but of the race as a whole. A modern, automated factory is possible only bec
these tools were handed down to us over the centuries. The products of modern society shoul
the common property of the race, not of a mere fraction of it. And if this is true, where is ju
today when a few live idle, in luxury, while the rest of us are forgotten? As John Ball, centuries
put it in a sermon to English poorer class rebels:
  " 'When Adam dalfe and Eve span Who was thanne a gentil man?' "
  The stranger made a note on his pad. He was thin, gray-faced, probably in his mid-forties, and
largely directed his talk toward the man. If you could make one convert at a typical Wobbly me
you were doing fine. One valid convert, potentially an activist, would more than pay for an other
depressing evening.
  He went on to explain the Wobbly program: organizing all presently employed workers so that
could use the only clout that really counted—the control of production, distribu
communications.
  When the question period came, the chairman took over again. No one seemed prepared to as
initial question of the speaker. As usual, in such a case, one of the Wobbly members stood up
started the ball rolling.
  He said, "Since so few people support the Wobbly program, won't it take one hell of a long
for it to ever come about?"
  Roy took over the podium again, nodded, and said, "Good question. And the answer is, no…
necessarily. What counts is the correctness of the program, the extent to which it solves
common problems. Our support can grow very quickly, given a breakdown in the current sy
and an obvious need for change. Take the American Revolution of 1776, for instance. Had
suggested to the average colonist in 1774 that he needed to throw off the rule of King George in f
of an independent union, he probably would have taken a patriotic swing at you. But the need
there and, overnight, a handful of farseeing men like Tom Paine, Sam Adams, Jefferson, pointed
the way. The revolution wasn't long in coming."
  One of the hecklers held up his hand. When Roy Cos recognized him, he came to his feet
yelled, louder than was called for, "Aren't you people just a bunch of soreheads? There's onl
many jobs around these days. The computers select the best men and women to hold them. T
that get jobs, deserve the extra money. The rest of us are lucky to get GAS. It's a pretty g
system when everybody eats regular and is taken care of, even if he's not chosen for a job. Wha
hell are you beefing about?"
  Roy nodded, and paused a moment before answering. "In the first place, let's not give t
computers more credit than
  they deserve. Science is great but it mustn't be a sacred cow. Computers can be programmed
shortcomings."
  "Like what!" one of the hecklers called out. His friends laughed, backing him. Several o
Wobblies, seated down front, turned and glared at them.
  Roy said, "Well, let's take a couple of scientists that the computers would have passed by. Tw
their big requirements are a good education and a top-notch Ability Quotient. Thomas Edison
only a couple of years of formal education—he never got through grammar school. The comp
wouldn't have picked him for a job. Steinmetz was a hunchback cripple, in spite of his I.Q.,
would never have gotten a high Ability Quotient, much of which depends on physical attributes.
  "But science isn't the only thing. Lincoln had practically no formal schooling and wouldn't
been chosen. Winston Churchill was a rotten student. Among writers, Jack London had very
schooling and was an alcoholic from his teens onward. O. Henry, poorly educated, also had a p
record. Scott Fitzgerald was a dropout at Princeton and never did learn much grammar, spellin
punctuation. Hemingway finished high school but certainly took no honors there. Let's face it:
outstanding artists, musicians, or actors would stand up to the scrutiny of the computers. No
afraid the computers are not yet programmed for judging the arts. And we Wobblies look forwa
going further into the arts as well as the sciences. Millions of citizens could be employed in the a
  There were few questions. Roy had been hoping for one or more from the note-taker in the
row. You could usually tell the extent of a newcomer's real interest by his questions.
  Following the meeting, while the balance of the small audience drifted from the hall,
membership gathered around to shake his hand and congratulate him. As a National Organize
was used to the plaudits of his fellows who were unable to express themselves in public spea
So far as he was concerned, the meeting was a flop and he could see that the chairman felt the
way. Not even the little stranger in the rear had remained.
  When the other members had gone their way, the chairman asked Roy if he'd like to come h
with him for pseudo-coffee and talk. He was the local Group Organizer, a good man, but Roy
aware of the fact that the man's wife was rabidly against the Wobblies, in fact was a militant me
of the United Church who considered all radicals slated for hell. Besides, Roy Cos was emotio
exhausted. His depression had been growing over a period of weeks.
  "No thanks, Jim," he said. "I think I'll get on to bed. I have to take the vac tube to Ne
tomorrow for another meeting. And you know Newark. The membership there is so apathetic
probably haven't gotten around to hiring a hall. I'll wind up on a soapbox in the park and dam
few people are out in the parks anymore."
  "Yeah," Jim said. "Only those who have no place else to go and screw. Well, see you on your
trip around, Comrade."
  Roy said wearily, "Jim, for God's sake: please, please, don't call me comrade. I hate the wor
you use it, ninety-nine people out of a hundred think you're a Euro communist, or some
reactionary bastard."
  They separated at the door and Roy Cos headed for his third-class hotel. His mind was empty
  The streets were deserted as usual at this time of night, especially of the few vehicles that
allowed surface traffic. He was surprised when two figures materialized to either side of him an
could hear the footsteps of a third close behind him. His first inclination was to think it was thre
the organization members who happened to be going in his direction.
  The voice of the one to his right disillusioned him on that score. It snarled, "We didn't like
you had to say, chum-pal."
  Roy's mind raced for options, but found none. He continued to stroll at the same speed. "So
he said. "It was what I believe." He had been through this sort of thing before. He expect
beating. Probably not bad enough to hospitalize him, this time, since they didn't seem particu
heated up, but probably enough of a working over to keep him from the Newark meeting.
  The other said, "We reckon you need a little lesson in Americanism."
  "Your version of…" Roy began, but was interrupted by a heavy blow from the man on his
then another in his back, even as he reeled sideways.
  Neither blow was crippling, but between them, they threw him against the wall of the dec
building, so that he banged his head against the bricks. Stars flashed before his eyes, red
bloomed in his brain, and he began to fall. The pain was such that he hardly felt the kick in his
The three were surging in, babbling incoherently about their anger, their frustrations, their hate o
nonconformist. All three were younger and in all probability in better shape than he. His chance
meaningful resistance were all but nil. He struggled to bring his arms up over his head, unab
restrain a groan of pain—though he tried.
  More kicks came. They weren't pros and the beating was less damaging than it might have b
His best bet was to wait it out, curling into a fetal crouch to guard his head and groin.
  But then came a shout and a pounding of feet. "Halt! Get away from that man! Halt or I'll fire!"
  Cursing in surprise, the three were off in as many directions.
  Panting, he staggered erect and tried to assess the damages. Except for bruises, there weren't
His three assailants hadn't had the time for a complete mauling. He brushed at his street-gr
clothing with shaking hands.
  He looked around. Down the avenue he heard another order to halt but, unless his rescuer
actually willing to shoot, he wasn't going to have much luck.
  Only a few doors down was the entrance to a prole autobar. He staggered toward it, still brus
his jacket. Just before he entered, he straightened up as best he could, but the attempt was need
The sorry little bistro was empty of customers.
  He fumbled himself into a chair at the first table he could get to and for a time sat there, catc
his breath. For all he knew, the police officer would return and pick him up on general principles
before he could make adequate explanations, he might wind up in the banger. He might even lous
his schedule and miss the Newark meeting.
  He brought forth his Universal Credit Card, put it into the table payment slot, and dial
syntho-beer. He knew that his monthly GAS credits were low and there were several days t
before next month's deposit was credited to his account, but he needed that drink. Largely, nat
organizers of the Wobblies had to be self-supporting. The membership made minor contributio
the National Fund, but since they were all on GAS themselves and needed their credits for their
survival, it couldn't be much.
  The beer had come and he had taken his initial swallow before the newcomer entered the aut
looked around, and then descended on his table.
  Roy Cos brought his gaze up. He had expected a uniform, but the other was in ordinary garb.
Roy recognized him. He was the note-taking stranger.
  The gray-faced man couldn't have weighed more than fifty kilos. He wore a wispy mustache,
day when facial hair was long out of style, and his faded eyes had a perpetual squint. He slid int
chair opposite Roy.
  Roy said, in resignation, "I thought you were an IABI man. But thanks, anyway. You came up
the Seventh cavalry rescuing the wagon train."
  "Who, me?" the other said in false innocence, dialing for a drink. He looked at Roy's beer. "
look as though you could use something stronger than that. How about a whiskey?"
  "Can't afford it. You mean you're not a cop?"
  "No, I'm a reporter. And I can afford it." He dialed for the whiskey, his own credit card in the
slot.
  Roy eyed him. "What was all that about, 'Halt, or I fire'?"
  The other grunted sour amusement and fished a package of cigarettes from a side pocket. "I
shouted, 'Halt or I'll write,' they'd be kicking my butt right now. I figured they'd hardly hang ar
demanding to see my badge."
  He stuck a smoke into his thin pale mouth and lit it with a lighter. To Roy's surprise, it w
marijuana, but tobacco. You couldn't mistake the odor of this forbidden narcotic.
  Roy said, "Well, thanks again. You think you ought to be smoking like that in a public place?"
  "There's nobody here but us. What happened?"
  "You know as much about it as I do. I suppose it was those three hecklers. Who in the hel
you?"
  The other extended a scrawny hand. "Forrest Brown. Call me Forry. I'm from the local area T
news—stuff that you don't get on the national networks."
  As they shook hands, Roy said, "You're a news commentator?"
  Brown shook his head. The smoke drifted up his face from the cigarette that drooped in his m
making him squint still more.
  "Just a leg man. Oh, I go on video occasionally, when one of the regular men is off. But I n
reached commentator level. I suppose I wasn't pretty enough. You've got to project personality
commentator level."
  The center of the table had sunk and returned with the whiskey. Roy took a glass, still shaky
said in defiance, "Here's to the revolution," and knocked it all back.
  The gray little man nodded and swallowed a third of his own booze. "You think it'll ever come
this rate?"
  Roy ignored that and focused on his job again with professional ease. "You were going to
story on the Wobbly movement?"
  The other shook his head. "No, actually I just stopped by your meeting from sheer boredom. I
nothing else to do."
  Roy was bitter. "The conspiracy of silence, eh? It's like pulling teeth to get any of our meeting
demands into the news. But what should 1 expect? The news media are owned by the enemy."
  But Forry Brown shook his head again. "You people overemphasize that. Oh, it applies to a ce
extent. Word from above is to not give too much coverage to any minority organizations. Not
your Wobblies, but the Neo-Nihilists, the Libertarians, the Luddites, the Gay Libbers, and all the
But there's no taboo, no conspiracy of total silence. The thing is, you people aren't news. Nob
cares about your programs. They want something exciting. You're not exciting. A good mu
some scandal about the latest Tri-Di sex symbol, government corruption, one of the bush wa
Africa or Asia, even a hurricane or earthquake, bring in more viewers than some yawner abo
Wobbly meeting attended by fifteen people. But that isn't the big reason I'm not filing a story on
even after you were attacked by members of your audience. If they'd killed you, maybe someb
would have a story." He took another cigarette and lit it from the butt of his last.
  Roy Cos forgot his bruises temporarily and said, "Damn it,
  I'd almost be willing. How can we present our program to the people if we can't get any m
coverage?"
  The little man's grimace was sour. "Wish I could help you, but just this morning the comp
spelled me down. I'm surprised that I was able to hang on this long, even as a second-rate legm
a backwater Tri-Di area. It's not enough being selected by the damned computers for a job.
year a new batch of journalism graduates apply for positions. As you said in your talk, over n
percent of the population is unemployed. We who have jobs try desperately to hang onto them
sometimes the experience we've accumulated helps out. But sooner or later some new kid w
higher Ability Quotient steps into your boots." He shrugged. "I've been expecting the axe for a
time."
  Roy Cos had never held a job in his life—not that he hadn't religiously applied each year. He
in compassion, "I'm sorry. What happens now? Do you get a pension or something from
Tri-Di network?"
  The other snorted and finished his drink. "Hell, no. I go back on GAS. Theoretically, I shou
saved a portion of the pseudo-dollar credits I earned while I was working and invested the
Variable Basic government stock, or one of the private corporations. The dividends w
supplement my GAS." He snorted again, took his cigarette from his mouth and looked at it.
afraid I developed some expensive habits. Lady Nicotine doesn't come cheap these days."
  The Wobbly organizer took him in. He had never met anyone before who was actually hooke
tobacco. He didn't move in the circles that could afford it. He also had the usual prejudice agains
use of the poisonous weed.
  Roy said, "Why didn't you ever take the cure?"
  Brown laughed dryly. "Because, once you take it, you're allergic to nicotine for the rest of your
I guess I didn't really want to be cured. I like to eat better than you proles can afford, like to d
better, travel better. I even took a trip around the world once and I've been in Europe a coup
times. Free rocket shuttle fare as a newsman, but the other expenses were largely on me. You o
to see some of the bordellos they have in the East." He sighed. "That's one thing they'll n
automate. Knock on wood."
  As a Wobbly, Roy Cos didn't approve of prostitution any more than he did of the deadly nico
so underneath was a certain smug satisfaction when he said, "So now you're in the same positio
all the rest of us. You should join the Wobbly movement."
  Brown ground out his cigarette and brought forth another. "Not me," he said. "What I've got t
is dream up some other manner of supporting my vices."
  Roy switched subjects, knowing the unlikelihood of the ex-newsman ever accomplishing that. "
idea how we could get more media coverage? It's a sore point with us. When those old Ame
revolutionists wrote the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, it never occurred to them that freedo
speech and of press and assembly would one day become meaningless. In those days you got
the village square, or the town meeting, and stated your beliefs. If your program had merit, it
probably accepted. Starting a newspaper was in the range of almost any individual, or certain
any small group. But today, unless you can get on Tri-Di, you simply aren't heard. Freedom o
press is fine; sure, you're perfectly free to get out a little magazine and circulate it as best you
But who reads it? A few hundred people, most of whom already have the same beliefs you
Freedom of speech is meaningless if all you can do is stand on the beach and shout your messag
the wind."
  Forrest Brown thought about it, squinting through curls of smoke. He said finally, "You've g
have enough money to buy Tri-Di time, but above all, you've got to be newsworthy. You've g
have something that makes people want to listen to you, watch you."
  "Great," Roy said sarcastically. "And how do I accomplish that?"
  The newsman, half joking, said, "Start a religion. Become a Tri-Di star. Take out a Death
Policy."
  The Wobbly organizer scowled at him. "What for?"
  "You'd have the credits to buy Tri-Di time. Deathwishers are news. Everybody'd be in a
wondering how long it'd be before you got hit. There'd be standing room only at your hall lect
You'd be out in the open and they'd come in hopes that they'd be there when the Graf's boy
whoever, got to you. Something like in the old days in Spain and Latin
  America, where they'd pony up for bullfight tickets in hopes they'd see the matador gore
death."
  "What the hell are you talking about?" Roy said. "What's a Deathwish Policy?"
  Forry grunted and dialed another two whiskeys before lighting a new smoke off the old. "Oh
said, "just a jargon term we use in the news game. You've probably never heard it. You have you
insured in return for having an international drawing account for a million pseudo-dollar cr
continually at your disposal—for as long as you live."
  "Never heard of… oh, wait a minute. I guess I did. Something in the news about six months
Somebody was blown up with a grenade or something. His life had been insured for something
five million pseudo-dollars only a few days before. I forget the details. I don't usually follow c
news."
  "It's crime, all right," Forry said, putting his thumbprint on the table's payment screen to pay fo
new drinks. His credit card was still in the slot. "The thing is, so far, the law hasn't been able to g
them. It's too complicated. Most of the insured are Americans. But you never sign the policy wi
American company. The outfit that's going to collect the benefits is usually based in the Bahama
Malta, or Tangier, or somewhere else where practically anything goes. They shop out the de
Lloyd's of London, where they'll insure anything—dancer's legs, a violinist's fingers. Hell, th
insure an outdoor entertainment against loss due to rain. So you've got four countries involved
insured is usually a citizen of the States, the beneficiary is in the Bahamas or wherever, Lloyd
London is in England, and your credits come from Switzerland. For that matter, you might say
different countries are involved, since it's said that the Graf has his headquarters in Liechtenstein
  "Now, wait a minute," Roy Cos said, taking up his new drink and swallowing part of it. Fo
first time in years, he felt the itch of intrigue. "Start at the beginning."
  Forry shrugged thin shoulders. "You sign a contract that grants you what amounts to an unlim
credit account for as long as you live. If and when you die, the beneficiary collects the benefits.
company you've signed with pays huge daily premiums. It's a gamble, as all insurance has al
been since the days when Phoenician ships set sail from Tyre to Cadiz for a cargo of tin. The in
was gambling that the ship would get back safely and the insuree was gambling that the ship w
sink. Well, in this case, the insuree is gambling that you'll die before the premiums paid mount u
more than the benefits he'll collect when you kick off. Lloyd's is gambling the other way: that y
live so long that the premiums accumulated are higher than the life insurance benefits."
  Roy looked at him blankly. "But suppose you lived for years? And you have a m
pseudo-dollar account to draw on to any extent you wish? Hell, the company that's the benefi
would go broke paying the premiums plus your expenditures."
  Forry Brown laughed shortly. "Don't be a dizzard. From the moment that policy goes into ef
you're on the run. Some of the insured don't live the first day out."
  Roy stared, then tried a tenative smile. "You're kidding, of course."
  "Yeah? The Grafs hit men are the best-trained pros in the world. He usually gets the contra
understand."
  Roy slumped down into his chair. "Jesus," he said. "Who'd be silly enough to sign up for that?
  The newsman let smoke dribble from his nostrils. "Somebody who had already decided to com
suicide but couldn't bring himself to do it and decided he might as well go out in a burst of g
living in one of the biggest hotels in one of the swankest resorts in the world, drinking champ
and gorging himself with caviar.''
  "I can see that, but nobody else would sign."
  Forry finished his second drink and said slowly, "You underestimate human desperation.
some prole who's fed up with living right at the edge of poverty on GAS. He figures he might as
live it up for a few weeks, or hopefully months. Frankly, this guy's a dreamer. His chances of la
for any length of time at all are just about nil. Most of them think they've figured out some dodg
beat the odds, some special gimmick. They haven't. They can't."
  "Now wait a minute," Roy said, increasingly intrigued by one more example of the degenerac
the present system. "What you're saying is that an assassin…"
  "More than one, I'd think," Forry put in. "… is immediately sent after the person who's signed
contract. All right, what happens if the killer's caught?"
  "He's arrested, of course, and they throw the book at him. But they can't prove anything excep
own guilt. None of the advanced countries have capital punishment any more. If he's caug
America, he's subject to deportation. If they nail him in, say, Common Europe, he's thrown int
banger for, say, twenty years. But the Graf takes care of his own. Who ever heard of one o
Grafs boys spending much time in jail? One way or the other, he's soon out, usually legally, sinc
Graf keeps the best criminal lawyers in the world. But if not legally, then illegally. His escap
greased and he drops out of sight, possibly to Tangier, where there are no extradition laws
remains on pension for the rest of his life, unless they get him some local job. One of the Graf'
centers is Tangier."
  "Who the hell's this Graf?" Roy Cos said. "It's a German title, something like a British earl.
the boss of Mercenaries, Incorporated," the little man told him. "Haven't you ever heard o
Graf?"
  "No, I told you I didn't bother with crime news. But this thing fascinates me. What are some o
tricks the victims try to pull to remain alive?"
  "Oh, I've heard of various scams. Often they'll try to hole up in some manner so that the hit
can't get at them. They'll rent the whole top floor of some luxury hotel and try to seal themselve
like Howard Hughes in the old days. Bodyguards and all. But in those cases, the assassin us
bribes one of the poor bastard's hirelings to slip a cyanide mickey into one of his drinks
whatever. Once or twice, it turned out that one of the bodyguards was a Graf man. Curtains."
  Roy Cos shook his head in amazement. "A million pseudo-dollars, always available. But sup
he spent that much in one day, and then the next day spent that much again, and so on?"
  "It'd be damned hard to do," the newsman told him. "There are clauses in the contract. He's
allowed to buy presents that cost more than two hundred pseudo-dollars. He's not allowed to do
to any cause. Once a crackpot religious fanatic decided to sign up and donate hundred
thousands to the United Church, but that wasn't allowed. On top of that, the company becomes
heir. Everything you buy reverts to them, after your death. You buy something expensive, l
luxury car, or a big house, or jewelry, and they take it over when you die."
  Roy shook his head. "I'd think the Lloyd's underwriters would get leery."
  Fony shrugged again. "Like I said, it's a gamble. To keep it that way, the daily premium is sky
If the insured lives more than a few days, Lloyd's wins. As usual, the computers of both
policyholders and the insurers have figured it out down to a hairline."
  Roy finished his drink, thought about it some more, shook his head again. Then he scowled
looked over at the other. He said, "What was that you mentioned about my taking out one of
Deathwish Policies?"
  And Fony Brown said softly, "A million pseudo-dollars. Like I said, you'd have plenty to
yourself premium Tri-Di time. Every day, until they got you. And you'd also be top n
Everybody and his cousin would listen in. You'd have your chance to put your Wobbly mes
across such as no minority organization has ever had."
  There was a prolonged blank silence until Roy Cos said finally, "Where do you come in on
Forry Brown?"
  Forry looked him straight in the eye, squinting through his cigarette smoke. "Somebody's g
run interference for you, keep you alive long enough to do your thing. And I need a job—one
doesn't have to match the computers of the National Data Banks."
  "You must think I'm drivel-happy," Roy said in disgust.
  "No, I think you're a dedicated Wobbly and as things stand now you'll spend your life trying to
over a message that no one hears. Have you ever read of Sacco and Vanzetti?"
  Roy frowned. "Vaguely. A couple of early 20th century radicals."
  "That's right. They were railroaded, charged with a payroll robbery where two men were k
Because they were philosophical anarchists, they were sentenced to death. You wouldn't believ
reaction that went up all over the world. American consulates and embassies in a dozen coun
were marched upon. There were riots and demonstrations everywhere. Tens of thousands of le
of protest, ranging from students to world-famous intellectuals; hundreds of petitions, signe
hundreds of thousands. American officials were astonished. The President, getting reports from
ambassadors, is reported to have asked, 'Who in the hell are Sacco and Vanzetti?' But in spite
all, after going through all possible appeals, they were executed." A pause. "I'll put it more stro
they were martyred."
  "I guess I have read something about it," Roy said vaguely, still scowling.
  The newsman brought forth his wallet and fished in it. "This is one of the final things Bartolo
Vanzetti wrote. He was self-educated."
  Forry Brown read softly from the tattered clipping: "If it had not been for this thing, I might
lived out my life talking at street corners to scorning men. I might have died unmarked, unkn
a failure. Now we are not a failure. This is our career and our triumph. Never in all our ful
could we hope to do such work for tolerance, for justice, for man's understanding of man, as
we do by accident.
  ' 'Our words—our lives—our pains: nothing! The taking of our lives—lives of a good shoem
and a poor fish peddler-all! That last moment belongs to us. That agony is our triumph."
  Forry Brown looked up from the clipping. "Their deaths weren't the end. Hundreds of art
about them were published for years. Best-selling books were written about the Sacco-Vanzetti
There was even a long-running play on Broadway, and a hit movie film. In becoming mar
Bartolomeo Vanzetti and Nicola Sacco at long last put over their message. Decades later, they
vindicated by the State of Massachussetts. They hadn't even been guilty." Across the table, the
of Roy Cos were shining.
  Chapter Four: Horace Hampton
  Horace Greeley Hampton looked about appreciatively at the Mini-city of Greenpoint whe
emerged from the vacuum tube metro station. He had been in similar towns before, but never
one. Located scenically in the rolling hills of Eastern Pennsylvania, it was composed of
ultra-modern high-rise apartment buildings, the condominiums of the 21st century. Each see
approximately fifty stories in height, twin-towered and sheathed in aluminum and glass. No
imposing as the hundred-floor apartment buildings of the big cities, yet large enough to contain a
amenities—an ultra-market, automated kitchens, parking areas, theatres, auditoriums, sports ar
Much of it lay in the several basement levels below ground. The restaurants throughout each o
buildings would be in wide variety, ranging from Malay and Polynesian to vegetarian, by the wa
every well-known cuisine the world offered. Greenpoint offered all of the amenities, far beyond t
available to the high-rises devoted to proles.
  In the early days of the mini-cities, there had been comparatively little class discrimination
ultra-condo would house five thousand or more families, ranging from proles on GAS in apartm
on the lower levels, to the extremely wealthy in the rarefied heights, in swank penthouses and te
apartments. The higher you ascended in the towering buildings, the larger and more expen
became the apartments. Needless to say, the more posh became the restaurants, nightclubs,
theatres.
  Around each of the four apartment towers of Greenpoint lay a square mile of gardens, lakes, s
streams, carefully tended woods. It was complete with bridle and bike paths, sports and p
grounds, playgrounds, sidewalk cafes, and skating areas. Very attractive indeed.
   Greenpoint was a new development in the progress of the mini-city. Hamp doubted that a s
prole family was in residence, not even in the lowest levels. The only proles in Green-point woul
service workers commuting from other nearby towns. Private cars and even hovercabs wer
course, prohibited on the surface; small electric buses wound slowly around the narrow roads
connected all points, all buildings. Hamp looked again at his note, checked a bus schedule
bulletin board next to the entry to the metro terminal, and waited to be taken to the William
Building.
   It was late afternoon and he hoped to be in Manhattan by evening. This line of League work
strange to him. In the years that he had been active in the organization, he had never been utilize
making initial contacts with possible recruits. He was aware of the continuing necessity of the
and the League system. Someone would attend a lecture and sign the card handed around at its
Or someone would hear a League Tri-Di broadcast and write in for more information. Or som
would read a League pamphlet or book and be moved to request a visit from a member
discussion. But Hamp had quickly risen from the ranks, had been sent to the training school for
operatives, and had participated in trouble-shooting ever since.
   But it would seem that Lee Garrett was a possible recruit worthy of special attention.
Finklestein had said the new contact was white, which was easy to believe. Hamp doubted that
were many blacks or other racial minorities residing in Greenpoint. Not that there would be
restriction, theoretically. The nation's laws wouldn't stand for that, but non-whites would be mad
feel less than welcome.
   He entered the sumptuous lobby of the William Penn Building, very well done in marble, beauti
furnished and decorated in an early Pennsylvania motif, and approached one of the small ban
reception desks. He sat across from the reception screen and said, "I wish to visit Lee Garr
believe that I am expected."
   "Your identity, please, sir," the screen said.
   Hamp brought forth his card, put it in the slot with his right thumb on the appropriate square.
   "Thank you," the mechanical voice said.
   He retrieved the credit card and relaxed in the chair.
   After only a couple of minutes, the screen said, "You are expected, sir. Apartment 1012. P
take elevator seven, eight, or nine."
   Hamp stood, looked about, and located the elevators. A few people in the lobby looked at
with mild surprise. Not only was he black, but his clothes, though a bit above the usual prole l
were hardly of the quality most often seen in Greenpoint. He had expected such interest and ign
it.
   Elevator eight was empty. He stepped in and said, "Apartment 1012, please."
   The elevator's screen said, "Your identity card, please."
   He put it in the slot, pressed his thumb on the identity square of the screen.
   "Thank you, sir." The door closed and the elevator smoothly began to rise.
   He emerged on the tenth floor and arrived shortly at Apartment 1012. Its identity screen picked
up as he stood before it and the door opened. He entered and found himself in a small entrada.
   A feminine voice called out, "In here. You'll have to forgive me, but I'm busy."
   Hamp shifted his shoulders in a shrug and walked into a living room. He blinked slightly a
opulence. The Anti-Racist League had its wealthy members, but there must have been few who
on a higher scale than this. One whole wall, facing a terrace with a superb view beyond, was g
The furnishings were a little on the ultra-modern side, and Hamp was somewhat taken aback b
feminity. It was hardly a man's room. Could this Lee Garrett be gay?
   At the far side, a young woman was busily stirring the contents of a crystal mixing glass.
concentrated as though counting the exact number of turns of the long green swizzle stick in
hand.
   She looked over at him as he entered and offered a dazzling smile. "I guessed that a martini w
be in order, right?"
   It wasn't an autobar, and sitting on its top were an Imperial quart of British gin, whose label H
recognized, and a fifth of French vermouth. Excellent guzzle!
   "It sounds wizard," he admitted. "Uh, my name is Horace Hampton. I had an appointment with
Garrett."
   "Ms. Garrett," she said, smiling again as she poured drinks into two cocktail glasses. "I'm
Garrett."
   Hamp stared. He'd had no indication from Max Finklestein that this new contact was a you
blonde, startlingly blue of eye, immaculately turned out and, frankly, implausibly beautiful. She
a gold and red afternoon frock that would have cost half a year's credit to a prole on GAS.
hairdo and her cosmetics were such that surely she had just emerged from a beauty salon,
dressing room of an advertising agency.
   She strode over gracefully, handed him one of the martinis, and smiled again, devastating
"Shall we toast the end of all conflict?"
   "I can't fight that," Hamp told her.
   They sipped, Hamp taking her in all over again, not quite believing it. In real life, they just d
come so downright pretty.
   She said, "Please be seated, Mr. Hampton. I'll have to confess that this is all new to me. I've n
joined any sort of organization before.''
   Hamp sat on a couch and took another sip of the cocktail. "About eight to one," he judged.
   "Seven," she told him. "My father's formula. He was a fanatic. A perfect martini had to be m
just so. I believe he actually dropped one friend because the man insisted on putting in an olive r
than a twist of lime rind." Hamp said, "Well, I can't fault him on this formula." Lee Garrett
seated herself on the couch with him. Now she leaned forward and put her half empty glass on
cocktail table before them.
   She said, "Tell me all about the Anti-Racist League, Mr. Hampton. I've read quite a bit o
standard literature this past month or so and I'm in complete agreement with your stated goals. B
occurred to me that there must be restrictions on what you can openly publish."
   "How do you mean, Ms. Garrett?" He put his own glass down, empty. It had been a lifesave
had put away too much brandy the night before and was now wondering if she'd offer another.
   She said, "Oh, call me Lee. After all, if we're to be comrades in arms, we shouldn't stan
formality."
   Hamp said, "Comrades in arms call me Hamp."
   "What I mean is, the League is no namby-pamby organization. But it certainly can't come righ
and advocate force and violence. That's illegal. So it doesn't say that in so many words in the p
literature. Is there other written material, meant only for members?"
   "Not that I know of. Just what did you want to know about the League that you couldn't find in
books?"
   "Well…" She frowned prettily. "Just about everything, I suppose. I mean, tell me all about it."
   "You know, I'm surprised at your interest. Why should you be concerned with racism?" He sm
to take the edge off his words. "Back in Adolf the Aryan's day, you would have been considere
Nordic ideal."
  She thought about it, finally coming up with, "Well, I suppose I'm a do-gooder, at heart. And
developing a bit of guilt over all this," she waved at the elegant furnishings, "when so m
especially among minorities—or in some countries where the colored are actually the majority—
so little and suffer so much. My father left me more than I need for the rest of my life. But… w
do nothing. I'm fed up with my friends and relatives all in the same position. I want to do some
worthwhile."
  Hamp nodded. "It's not an unknown reaction. Engels, the collaborator of Karl Marx, was a we
manufacturer. The Russian anarchist Kropotkin was a prince. Norman Thomas, the Ame
socialist, was married to a very wealthy woman." He grinned suddenly. "But they rose above it."
  "So tell me more about racism and how you… we… can go about ending it.''
  Hamp took a breath and said, "You must realize that racism is one of our oldest Ame
traditions. The United States declared its independence, utilizing some of the most noble langua
the history of the fight for man's freedom, in 1776. One hundred years later marked the last m
battle between the whites and American Indians. The Sioux won the battle but lost the war.
century. In that short span whole tribes disappeared. Many tens of thousands were killed outr
many more died of starvation. Some went down before the white man's diseases: measles, smal
and so on. At any rate, here was racism at its naked worst."
  Lee nodded, her eyes serious, then glanced at his drink. "Good heavens, I'm a terrible hos
Could I give you a refill?"
  He handed his glass to her and she went over to the ornate little bar. She brought the new on
champagne glasses, so that they were at least doubles. Hamp made no complaint.
  She told him, her voice very sincere, "I couldn't agree with you more in regard to the Indians. M
white Americans will concede the Amerind got a raw deal."
  "Now that it's too late," Hamp said.
  "Well, but we actually invited Chinese labor." Perhaps, he thought, she was testing him.
  "Sure—coolie labor, back in the 19th century, to do manual work on the railroads.
discrimination was pretty tough. Among other things, they weren't allowed to bring over their w
and families, under the Oriental Exclusion Laws. No women at all. They resorted to all sor
tricks to get around that. The smuggling of Chinese women into the United States from Mexico
very common. Even Jack London, in his yacht, The Snark, participated in that." He saw the b
look on her face and added, "Jack London was an American writer of the rough and tough sch
Quite a radical. Damn' good man."
  "Those, I like," she replied, and took more of her martini. "Goon."
  "The Chinese and later Japanese were hard workers. The whites in the Western states, espec
California, could see the handwriting on the wall. Soon Orientals, even when born American citi
were forbidden to own land. The Japs, who were wonderful farmers, got around that by leasing
for ninety-nine years. They become real competition to the United Farmers, multi-millionaire w
living as far off as New York, who were the first in the world to invent so-called factories-in-the-
These were farms of hundreds of thousands of acres, tilled by wage workers using the
agricultural machinery and fertilizer. At any rate, the Japanese, with their driving industry, had
about achieved a monopoly in truck farming, involving a great deal of hand labor. When the Se
World War came along, the whites solved this by having all Japanese on the west coast rounde
and shipped to concentration camps. Their property went for sacrifice prices. Even after the
they never really recovered."
  He took a sizable swallow of his drink and she got up to replenish his glass, bringing what rema
with her to the cocktail table.
  "In actuality," she told him, "I've become most interested in you blacks and what you're doin
fight back. I want to know what I can do to help."
  Hamp was feeling the soothing qualities of the drink now, and stretched his legs before hi
comfort. "Well," he said, "you've undoubtedly read most of it in our literature. Blacks were bro
over as slaves. At least a slave had comparative security. As valuable property, he was clothed,
sheltered, and given some medical care. After the Civil War freed him, he worked for pay and
became ill, injured, or old, he was fired and had no way of maintaining himself."
  "Weren't lots of whites treated the same way?"
  "Some," he admitted. "But blacks could take it for granted. By the 1950s they began to r
nationwide. They held parades and rallies, fought segregation in the courts, the whole bit. It he
but not enough. By the 1970s, more teenage blacks were unemployed than ever, to the point of
percent in some cities. Twice as many blacks as whites dropped out of school in their early teen
  She leaned forward. "So how do you expect to change that now?"
  Hamp nodded, took another swallow, then leaned forward and poured more from the mixing g
He said, "The trouble was, they were too polite, too easygoing about their fight for equality.
paraded and protested and petitioned and tried to vote for politicians, sometimes blacks,
supposedly supported their cause. The politicians must have had many a private laugh, includin
black ones, who were just as crooked as their white colleagues. In short, our people turned the
cheek, rather than really fighting. When such outfits as the Ku Klux Klan came into their segreg
areas to burn their homes, schools, and churches, they most often ran in terror. When some mi
blacks were killed, they did no more than protest to the police and the Civil Liberties Union, w
gave them some support."
  There was a shine in Lee Garrett's eyes. "So how have you changed your program now?"
  He moved over, slightly closer to her, and looked into her face, his own very serious. "Now
fight back—a tooth for a tooth, as the Good Book says. We no longer run in terror when the
dons its silly white sheets and begins burning crosses. Today the Klan hardly exists as an a
organization. They're the ones who are afraid now. We've combined with Chicanes, Puerto Ric
Amerinds, Jews, and so on. And we fight on every level, from the streets to the senate floor, an
never give an inch in any field. We return, blow for blow, every intrusion on our rights as Ame
citizens… and members in good standing of the human race."
  "You accept conflict," she said.
  He moved still closer to her, his face slightly slack, as though from the drink, and put an
around her shoulders. At that she stiffened slightly.
  "Yes," he said. "We fight. No longer do we bob apologetically and call all white men, 'Captain
say, 'Yes, suh.' No longer do we step down off the curb when a white comes along. We'll fight
to the death."
  "You mean, you've actually participated in… killing people who stand in the way of min
rights?"
  He moved still closer and scowled his surprise. "Oh, of course not. A few extreme cases
taken place—blacks who have returned gunfire, that sort of thing. But not League members.
don't condone violence. That would just give the enemy an opening, a wedge to get at us."
moved closer still.
  She tried to maneuver away from him, without being too obvious about it, but his arm w
restraint around her shoulders.
  She got out, "Yes… but, you just said that now you fought back."
  His dark eyes were hotly on her own blue ones now. There was a slur in his voice. "That was
figuratively speaking, not literally meant."
  She was breathing in short gasps as his left hand came forward and rested on her belly. Sudd
her eyes widened in fear and she pushed back violently. "Don't… don't!" she shrilled. "Let me lo
you nigger!"
  Hamp stood up and looked down at her, shrinking against the far end of the couch. He laug
Gone were all signs of his drinking.
  She panted, "What are you laughing at, you black bastard?"
  He rubbed the knuckles of his left hand over his mouth and, laughing still, said, "You make a h
an agent provocateur, Ms. Garrett. I'm afraid you're the victim of your own prejudiced beliefs.
see, one of the oldest wive's tales is the one about blacks lusting for the fair white bodie
Caucasians. On the face of it, it's nonsense. Didn't it ever occur to you that possibly you're
attractive to blacks? Your fine blonde hair might lack appeal. Didn't it ever occur to you that bl
might prefer brunette beauty, that perhaps your nose might be much too thin,
complexion—forgive me—washed out, perhaps all but repulsive? If I had to pick the most attra
whites, it would be the girls of southern Italy and Sicily, of Andalusian Spain, or Greece. Brun
with dark complexions. But Scandinavians? No thank you, I don't screw blondes."
  "You're disgusting," she said contemptuously. "Every word of this is being taped, of course."
  He laughed again, preparatory to leaving. "I suspected it. I always suspect it. But you see,
Garrett, I have said nothing to you that isn't to be found in our literature—our leaflets, pamph
and books."
  "You said that these days you're fighting back. An eye for an eye and so forth."
  He smiled at her. "All figurative, Ms. Garrett, as I pointed out to you. The League does
condone violence. And now, thank you for the excellent martinis, and good day."
  He turned and left.
  On his way down to the ground floor he wondered who had sent her. Possibly the IABI? Or
possibly, she might have been working on her own. He had been poorly managed, whoever had
up. Undoubtedly, they had thought that her obvious wealth and position would immediately gain
access to the higher echelons of the Anti-Racist League, where she could infiltrate and secure in
information. He shook his head again. They simply couldn't realize that the
  League, although it had a scattering of white members, wasn't particularly impressed by either
whiteness or money. The usual militant in the League was better educated than most, though
self-educated, and was dedicated, disciplined, and competent.
  He retraced his way to the transportation terminal and retrieved the suitcase he had checked ea
He took the first ' centy-seater scheduled for Manhattan's Grand Central Terminal. On his wa
brought forth his transceiver and reported to the National Activities Committee the results o
contact with Lee Garrett.
  He hailed an automated hovercab, the only vehicle allowed on the surface in the city, and dia
renowned men's store. Manhattan was still a center for those who ignored the ultra-markets
resorted to privately owned swank shops.
  There, he quickly disillusioned the clerk, who eyed his color, shabby suit, and battered suit
saying, "I'm just in from the Coast where I've been roughing it. gathering material for my latest n
I want a complete utitfit in which I can walk out of here. The very best, of course."
  "Oh, yes, sir," the other said. "I'm sure we can accommodate you."
  When Hamp left, an hour or so later, he not only wore the latest in expensive men's wear, but
had two new pieces of imported British luggage. He had paid with an International Credit
issued on a Berne, Switzerland bank.
  The boys carrying his luggage took everything out to the curb and summoned another hoverca
him. He dialed and settled back. His destination turned out to be one of the taller, more impre
office buildings the island boasted. The cab had been directed to a minor entrance on a side s
He entered alone. There was no doorman nor any other building employee nor resident to be
He brought a key ring from his pocket, selected a small silver key, and opened the door o
elevator.
  The elevator compartment, without a command as to his destination, accelerated not too qu
but for a lengthy period before reaching its ultimate speed. He was able to adjust without bendin
knees.
  He emerged finally into a large office reception room which was unoccupied and strolled acro
to a heavy door.
  Though metallic, it was attractively well done to disguise its strength. He opened it with an
key.
  Beyond was a roomy office with four desks and beyond that, a still more ample one with a s
large desk. He passed through both of the silent rooms and on into an extensive terrace apartmen
  Obviously at ease, he made his way to a master bedroom, where he put down his bags
stripped, then entered the bath, which had a connecting dressing room. In the bath, he used
another small key to open a medical cabinet, from which he brought forth a hypodermic need
small bottle, and a jar.
  Expertly, he loaded the syringe and injected himself. He then sat before the dressing-room m
and removed the contact lenses from his eyes, revealing their natural dark blue. He put the finger
of his two little fingers into his nostrils and brought forth two ring-like metal spreaders which al
the shape of his nose. He returned to the bathroom, took up the jar he had taken from the me
cabinet, and entered the shower stall. When he had adjusted the spray to his satisfaction he b
vigorously to shampoo his hair with dabs of the contents of the jar. He entered the shower with b
wiry hair and left it with darkish red hair, considerably straighten and looking like a young ath
crew cut.
  He checked in a mirror, found that the injection hadn't begun to work. In a white silk kimono
matching slippers, he shuffled back into the living room and the extensive study.
  He sat at the desk and flicked on the TV phone, activating the stud which would prevent his
face from being transmitted, punched two numbers, and waited until the screen lit up. He said t
subservient face there, "Simmons, I shall be in residence, here in Manhattan, for an indefinite pe
Please summon the staff immediately. I wish to dine here this evening. Inform Henri that I expect
to surpass himself. I have been subjected to atrocious food for longer than I care to think about.
  "Very good, sir."
  The face of Simmons faded and Horace Hampton punched two more numbers. The new face
that of an efficient businessman somewhere in his early middle years.
  Hamp said, "Barry, I'm back in the States, here in Manhattan. Have one of the office t
assembled. Include yourself and, let me see, Ted, and, ah, Lester. Among other things, we'll hav
do some immediate work on the investments in Lagrange Five and the Asteroid Islands."
  "Yes, sir," Barry said. "Sir, something has come up. I tried to contact you by every means b
well, with the usual results. It seems we have a situation fraught with…"
  "Tell me about it when you get here," Hamp said brusquely. "What's the enjoyment in bei
recluse if every senior member of your staff can get in touch with you every time he think
emergency has surfaced?"
  "Yes, sir." There was resigned disapproval in the other's face.
  Hamp faded him off, arose from his chair, and stretched his shoulder muscles. In spite of the
of day, he went over to the bar and brought forth a bottle of stone age Armagnac and a snifter g
He poured a sizable jolt, then went over to the bookshelves, searching for a moment before sele
a copy of Cheikh Anta Diop's The African Origin of Civilization in the original French, and retu
with it to his chair.
  In the next half hour he went through a good quarter of the brandy, several times checking wit
mirror. At the end of that period he was satisfied with what he saw. The face that looked back at
was that of, say, a well-tanned Frenchman.
  He went back into the study and again sat at his restricted phone screen. He punched for a fo
call and then twice again.
  The face that appeared was a twin of his own, including dark blue eyes, crew-cut reddish hair
the well-tanned face of a European playboy.
  Hamp said briskly, "Jim, I'm taking over for an indefinite time, probably a month or so. G
ground. Assume your usual identity. I'll get in touch when I need you."
  The other grinned. "Any suggestions?"
  "You might try the Malta retreat. But be on immediate call."
  "You're the boss," Jim told him. "You slave driver." The face of his stand-in faded.
  Chapter Five: Franklin Pinell
  Frank Pinell looked about the shabby, windowless room of the Hotel Rome in the Internat
Zone of Tangier. Ten dirhams a day. Two pseudo-dollars. Cheap, perhaps, for any shelter at all
with the cost of food, his bankroll would melt away in short order.
  It was late afternoon, but he'd had lunch on the jet with his two escorts and wasn't yet hungry.
thing to do was to get out and start to make contacts. If there were jobs to be had, he was goin
have to find one soonest. He had only been here for a couple of hours but he had seen what pov
was like in the old, old town of Tangier and wanted no part of it. Seemingly, there was no so
government relief whatever for the poor; certainly nothing like GAS.
  It was orientation time; he must contact his fellow English-speaking residents. He went into the
taking the key that Luigi had given him, locking the door behind. Why, he couldn't say. He had
nothing in the room. He had nothing to leave. On his way out, he hung the key on the rack behin
desk. On the face of it, anyone coming along could have taken it down, or any of the others,
stripped the place. But strip it of what? He doubted that any of the other tenants of the fleabag
much more in the way of possessions than he had.
  He walked down the rickety stairs to the ground level and looked up and down Rue Moussa
Moussair, as drab a street as he had ever seen. The cab driver who had stolen his luggage had
him that Pasteur Boulevard, the town center, was two blocks up. He headed left, reached Rue G
turned left again. He carefully checked his route, having no desire to get lost.
  Two blocks up, Rue Goya came into Pasteur Boulevard and the immediate change couldn't
been more definite. Its two or three blocks could have been directly out of a swank Florid
Southern California resort. The cars, many chauffeur driven, were the latest from Common Eur
the Americas, and the Asiatic League. The pedestrians were largely Europeans with a sprinklin
Orientals and a few North Africans. All seemed prosperous—the suits of the men had been c
London, Rome, Manhattan; the clothes of the women in Paris, Budapest, Copenhagen, or
Angeles. The women were strictly Tri-Di shows. Most of them could have passed as the lates
symbols of the entertainment world, or as fashion models. Every hair seemed to be in place. Qu
few tripped along behind poodles and Pomeranians.
  Surprised by the opulence, Frank turned left on the boulevard and walked along slowly, staring
the shop windows. Save for such centers as Manhattan in his own country, in an age when
were crumbling, Frank Pinell had seldom seen privately owned shops before. His was an er
automated ultra-markets, through which credit could purchase anything from a safety pin to a y
But these that lined the main boulevard of European Tangier were the purveyors of ulti
luxury—clothing and shoe stores, art galleries, jewelry stores, gourmet food shops, liquor st
Mingled among them were small, intimate restaurants, offering the outstanding cuisines of the w
and even more intimate cocktail lounges. On the face of it, not all of Tangier was poverty-stricke
  He stood to one side for a moment and watched the pass-ersby. An Indian woman, a red
mark on her forehead, went past in a golden sari. He had never witnessed a more graceful fema
his life. A Parisian—by the looks of her—went by, complete with arrogant champagne poodle. W
had MacDonald said about the Madrid mopsies being the most beautiful in the world? F
doubted it. Perhaps this girl wasn't a prostitute, or even a mistress, but if she was he wond
vaguely what she charged for a night's entertainment. Two men passed briskly, attache cases in h
in business suits that looked as though they'd come from the tailor's less than half an
previously. They had the healthy, tanned, barbered, massaged look of the ultimately successful.
an Oriental girl tripped along in an off-white silken
  cheongsam, the slits at the outer thighs mesmerizing him. He had thought the Indian in her sar
epitome of grace, but this lovely little creature looked like a Chinese doll.
  He looked up and down the boulevard, wondering where to go and what to do. All his imp
were to enter one of the bars and have the drink he needed. His present finances didn't allow
alcoholic beverages, certainly not at the prices that would prevail here.
  A voice from behind him said, "Cooee, mate. You look like a flashing lost soul. Dinkum you
Could a bloke give you a steer?"
  Frank turned sharply. Grinning down at him from a height of at least six foot four was a
cheerfully rugged type, a spanking new Australian bush hat pushed back on his head, but other
as nattily dressed as the other males on the street. Somehow, he looked slightly uncomfortable i
tailored afternoon suit. Indeed, he was on the gawky side, and obviously meant for the ranch, r
than a city's sidewalks.
  Frank said, "What?"
  "You look like a Yank, strewth, a Yank or maybe a Canuck, new in this barstid town. Don't wa
be cheeky, but you don't look like you know your way around, what-o?"
  Frank said, "Oh. Thanks. Fact is, I just pulled in and don't know the ropes. Is there some pla
neighborhood, where Americans hang out? Not just Americans, but anybody who speaks Eng
He hesitated, then stuck out his hand and said, "Frank Pinell. And, yeah, American. Y
Australian?"
  "Too right. Nat Fraser. Bonzer to meet you, Frank." His hand was huge, dry as the outback,
strong. "Not as many Yanks, Aussies, or even Limeys in town as you'd bloody well wish. Yo
crazy as a kookaburra for a fresh face or two."
  "You're permanent here?" Frank said, regaining his well-squeezed and -pumped hand.
  "Too true, oh my word. And don't think I wouldn't do a bunk if I could. Crikey, I haven't h
contract for donkey's years. Now, let's see. A bar where the English speaking coves hang out. W
mate, actually there's three. There's the Parade, where the toffs take on their plonk." He too
Frank's suit. "Probably too rich for your blood, what-o?"
  Frank said, after letting air out of his lungs ruefully, "Sounds like it. I'm on a limited budget a
need a job."
  The Australian cocked his head at him. "Going to be in this googly town for a spell, eh?"
  Frank could think of no reason for disguising his status. "I'm a deportee," he said, watching
other's face to get his reaction.
  There wasn't any. Nat Fraser was going on as though he hadn't heard the confession. "Then th
the Carousel, over on Rue Rubens. Not your cup of tea, cobber. What do you Yanks call th
Gays. I doubt you get your lollies that way."
  "No," Frank said. "What's this third one?"
  "Paul Rund's, down on the Grand Socco. That's the biggest souk in town. And Paul sells
cheapest plonk in Tangier. Drink it and you wake up with the jumping Joe Blakes in the moring
dinkum. As a matter of fact, cobber, I was off in that direction meself when I bagged you loo
lost."
  "If you don't mind, I'll tag along," Frank said. "Bloody well told. Let's go." They started up
boulevard.
  Frank looked up at his elongated companion and said, "Do you think I might make a contact a
Paul's bar?"
  Nat Fraser considered it. "With the two thousand Swiss francs I suppose you've got in your
from your flashing government, I'd think you could wait it out until you're able to cobbe
somebody who could give you a steer."
  Frank inwardly winced but said nothing about the fact that his thousand pseudo-dollars had m
down to less than two hundred.
  At the end of Pasteur Boulevard they entered an attractive square, largely lined with sidewalk c
"Place de France," the Aussie told Frank. The sidewalk tables were well patronized, largel
prosperous European types, most of whom were reading newspapers. Moroccan waiters, in
fezzes and baggy black pants like bloomers, scurried around taking and delivering orders. There
a superfluity of shoeshine boys.
  They turned right, down a winding street considerably narrower than Pasteur Boulevard had b
The composition of the pedestrians began to change radically. As they progressed, they saw f
people in European clothing and more in the dress of Africa, the Near East, and the Orient.
  "The Rue de la Liberte," Nat Fraser told him. "Where the bloody twain meets. You know, Ea
East and West is West." He gave running comment on races and costume.
  There were growing numbers of Rifs, Arabs, Berbers— even an occasional Blue Man down
the mountains. The name of the latter, Nat explained, sprang from the indigo dye of their r
which, when they sweated, came off on their skins, giving them an eerie look. At least half o
women still wore the djellaba or haik with veil; half the men wore the brown camel's-hair burno
Africa, evidently, changed slowly even in the 21st Century.
  "And this is the Grand Socco, mate. Cooee, a fair cow, eh? Ever see so many wogs in your lif
  It was a large square, packed with humanity and with a hundred different varieties of stalls—fl
booths, food stands, and herb stands, hashish being among the other so-called herbs. There
displays of vegetables, fruits, hand-woven textiles, yellow or white babouche slippers, a
multitude of other commodities, some seemingly desirable in the eyes of Moroccans and s
aimed deliberately to attract tourists. There were still more of the Arabs and Rifs, plus sailor
from the port and European riffraff from a score of countries. Donkeys seemed to be the mean
transport; no car could have gotten through the press of bodies. Odors of mint, saffron, and ki
North African cannabis, mingled in the air.
  Rather than press into the souk, the teeming native market, they turned left and did their best t
through the crowded way, the Australian in front, running interference. It seemed one hell
strange location for an English-speaking bar.
  Nat was explaining over his shoulder, "Paul's been here for donkey's years," he said. "He
warm in half a dozen countries, he'll never be able to leave. Owes something like a hundred
fifteen years in Italy alone for smuggling, and with his TB he wouldn't last six months in one of t
cold, damp, wop nicks. No extradition from Tangier. He'll never leave, oh my word. Interpol w
grab him in ten minutes if he put a toe down in Gibraltar."
  They arrived at Paul's Bar—there was a small faded sign hanging out in front.
  Inside, it was dark and cool but hardly prepossessing. There were six or seven stools at the
three tables with chairs. On the walls were pasted aged clippings about the proprietor's exploits i
old days when he was allegedly a ranking lockpicker, screwsman, grifter, and smuggler. They
alternated with pinups from aged pornographic magazines. From the ceiling hung a fisherman'
and a ship's wheel which doubled as a chandelier, a vain attempt to give Paul's Bar a nautical dec
  There were only three people present—one slumped at a table, head on arms, one seated dejec
on a stool at the bar with a bottle of beer before him, and the bartender himself. Automated
seemed to be unknown in Tangier, at least in this part of town—the medina, as Nat had named i
  The bartender had once been a larger man. Now he was emaciated. His sallow face had a sard
quality and he wore a moth-eaten Vandyke beard tinged with gray. He looked up when
newcomers entered and wiped the well-worn bar with a dirty bar rag, uselessly.
  He said, "Cheers, Nat," then looked at Frank. It seemed that in Paul's Bar one was introd
before being served.
  Nat and Frank crawled onto stools and the Austalian said, "Paul, meet Frank Pinell, a new co
in town from the States. He's looking for a contact." Paul put a thin hand over the bar and sh
hands. However, his eyes were narrow. "What kind of a contact?" he said. It was the tone
bothered Frank. He said, "Well, I don't know. Just about anything, I guess."
  "You warm?" Paul Rund said. Frank thought he understood what the other meant. "Only in
States," he said. And then, not particularly liking this, added, "Why?"
  Paul leaned on the bar and said, "Because this is a poxy town, Frank. There's no extradition
there's practically no laws at all, but what there are get pretty well obeyed, get it? This is the en
the line for a lot of grifters. There's no place else to go if they kick you out. So we're poxy ca
not to foul our own nest, get it? We lay doggo, that's the word, lay doggo. We don't take no sc
here in Tangier.
  Absolutely. And the boys take a dim view if anybody tries it. We don't want the present easyg
laws to be no way changed."
  "That's the dinkum oil," Nat said, nodding. "But you've got it wrong, Paul. Gawd strewth.
your head in. Frank didn't come here to do a romp. Deported from the States, he was. The
cove's got to cobber up with somebody and get an angle."
  Paul evidently took the tall Australian's word for it. He said, "Good show. Just wanted to tell
the drill here, Frank. You look like the type of sod who'd pinch something here in Tangier and p
our bloody arses in a sling. What'll it be, lads? First drink's on the bloody house, Frank."
  Nat said, "Make it a couple of Storks, Paul." He looked at Frank as the bartender turned to s
them. "Not up to Aussie brew, strike me blind. But, from what I hear, better than you Yank
turning out these days."
  "It wouldn't have to be very good," Frank told him. "They make syntho-beer from sawdu
something."
  The two took their bottles of beer and glasses and went to the remotest of the three tables an
down. The beer glass wasn't clean but Frank didn't give a damn. He poured appreciatively. It wa
first drink he'd had for several months and a lot of guff had been thrown at him in the past coup
days in particular.
  "Not bad suds considering it's made by ragheads," his companion said, downing his whole gla
one vast draught. "The cheeky barstids don't suppose to ever enjoy a shivoo in their whole n
lives. Oh my word, no. Against Allah's buggering rules."
  Frank didn't take much longer to finish his. The Aussie was right. It wasn't bad beer at all. Prob
still made from malt and hops, he assumed, instead of the crap being turned out at home these
for the prole palate.
  Nat said, "How about another, cobber?" He came to his feet. Frank said, "All right, but I oug
pay for this."
  "Don't be a zany. You can't afford to play the toff until you get yourself settled in. Been dow
the bone meself in me time. Settle down, cobber." The Aussie went over to the bar and sec
another couple of bottles from the thin-faced bartender. Frank looked after him thoughtfully.
  When he had returned and they had refilled their glasses, Frank held his up and said, "Thanks,
Mud in your eye." Nat said, holding up his glass in toast, "Fuck Ireland." They both drank and
Frank said, "What did you say?"
  "Oh. Fuck Ireland."
  Frank looked at him. "Why?"
  The Australian's easygoing face took an expression of being put upon. "Cooee, cobber, I
know. That's what we say in Melbourne, strewth."
  Frank said, "Look here, Nat. Do you always talk this way? I miss about half of what you mean
  Nat Fraser grinned, a ruefulness there. "A bit thick, eh? Always sets you Yanks back. I w
trying to cozen you."
  Frank chuckled, the first occasion he could remember having done so for some time. He said,
right, no harm done, but let's keep it on a level where we communicate."
  "Fair dinkum."
  The American looked about the room, then brought his eyes back to his newfound friend. "N
he said. "This doesn't exactly look like an employment agency. In fact, it's obviously a low-clas
where the town's less prosperous, uh, grifters, I believe is the term Paul used, hang out."
  Nat looked around too, taking in the other customers, both on the seedy side. "Too right
admitted. "Shall we do a bunk?"
  "You mean get out? No," Frank told him. "Why'd you bring me here, Nat? "
  The over-lengthy Aussie let his sun-faded eyebrows go up. "What-o, cobber? You think I
trying to cozen you?"
  "Look," Frank said patiently, "I'm game, but not everybody's. I was walking along the s
minding my own business. Suddenly you're there, winsome as a pimp, but you sure as hell don
like one. Fifteen minutes later, we're in this dump. Why?"
  The Australian went over and got two more bottles of Stork beer and returned with them. He
grinning. "You said you were a deportee," he told Frank as he put the bottles down.
  "So?"
  "I'm the local recruiting sergeant, cobber."
  ***
  Frank stared at him, even while upending the bottle over his glass. "What is that suppose
mean?"
  "Had any military training at all?"
  "No."
  Nat Fraser looked disappointed. "Don't twig anything about a shooter, eh? What did they nail
for, cobber?"
  "I didn't say that. My old man was a gun crank. Had quite a collection. I didn't see much of
but he used to get a kick out of showing me the workings of everything from cap-and-ball revo
to new Gyrojets. What was I nailed for? Homicide."
  The easygoing Aussie took him in for a long moment.
  Frank said, "Recruiting sergeant for what?"
  "Mercenaries, Incorporated."
  Frank scowled. "Never heard of it."
  "The Graf's outfit."
  "Never heard of him, either. You mean professional soldiers of fortune?"
  "That's the dinkum oil. This is one of the big staging areas for many a contract. The Graf g
contract and we put the operation together here in Tangier."
  "I thought Paul said you pulled nothing off here. That Tangier was sort of neutral ground.
boys, as he called them, didn't want to foul their own nest."
  "Fair dinkum. We don't do anything here in Tangier. Just recruit blokes who want to earn a
money, and put the operation together. The Graf's sometimes got other operations going. We
some of them, too. Aren't as many bloody contracts these days as there used to be, but some.
wars down south between all the dictators, presidents for life, and that whole mucking lot. Som
the Far East, too. But we don't handle those operations. They're based in Singapore and Pen
The Graf's got his representatives there as well."
  Frank said, "Soldiers of fortune, eh? Hiring yourself out to kill for money." There was disgu
his voice.
  The ordinarily amiable Aussie looked at him coldly. "What other reason is mere to fight, cobbe
soldier's job is to win wars. If you pick that pro-bloody-fession, you wind up killing people, us
other soldiers who've picked the same trade."
  Some of his exaggerated Aussie slang seemed to have dropped away.
  Frank said, "The theory is that the usual soldier is fighting for his country. He's doing his
defending it."
  "Too right. That's the theory, but it's not the reality. I'm not talking about blokes drafted du
wartime. They can't get out of it, even if they want to. But your professional soldiers are a bunc
hypocrites. At least a mercenary can choose what side he fights on. But your career soldier r
whoever the politicians tell him to. Look at the Germans in the Nazi war. Were they fighting for
country? Fucking well not. They were fighting for that dingo barstid Hitler and his gang."
  Frank was irritated by the other's strong opinions. He said, "Even granting that doesn't excu
mercenary, fighting for whoever will pay him."
  "Half a mo, cobber. I've never taken a contract for some rucking barstid like Hitler or any
politician I thought was buggering up his country. Sometimes I've been offered contracts wh
wouldn't fight on either side."
  Frank stood and said, "I'll get another, ah, buggering beer."
  Nat said, reaching into a pocket, "You ought to let me shout the suds."
  "Why?" Frank said. "I'm not a potential recruit. No reason I should be freeloading on you."
  At the bar, while Paul Rund was getting the fresh bottles of Stork, the wizened bartender
"Signing up with the Graf, Frank?"
  Frank eyed him. "I don't think so. Do you know of any other jobs kicking around?"
  The other popped off the two beer caps, then ran his thin fingers through his bedraggled Vand
"You might get a berth on one of the boats. Not as many of them as there used to be, but I h
Sam McQueen needed a couple of men."
  "What kind of boats?"
  Paul Rund looked at him as though he had hardly expected that question. "Smugglers."
  Frank said, "For Christ's sake, I thought you said there was nothing illegal pulled off in Tangier
  The bartender said patiently, "Smuggling ain't illegal. You buy a cargo of hashish or tobacco
perfectly legit, and run it to one of the countries where it's taboo, get it? And you sell it there, so
haven't broken any law in Tangier. Smugglers are reputable citizens here, get it?"
  The American shook his head and took up the two beers. To his relief, they cost only two dirh
apiece in Paul's. Back at the table, after they had both poured, Nat Eraser said, "So you're
interested?"
  "I suppose not. Look, I'm not holier than thou. In fact, I suspect my father was some so
mercenary; possibly in espionage, I don't know. He and my mother were separated when I was a
I didn't see him much. He was usually out of the country, I think. At any rate, he was finally sho
one of his trips. I haven't any desire to end the same way."
  The other shurgged broad shoulders. "The Grafs got other operations, like I said. Maybe he c
find a place in the organization for a nice presentable cove like yourself."
  "From what you've said so far about his operations, I doubt it," Frank said, finishing his beer
stood. Somewhat to his surprise, he could feel the drink. Possibly, Stork was stronger than the g
anemic American brew he was used to.
  He said, "Thanks anyway, Nat. I'll see you around."
  "Too right, cobber. If you change your mind, I'm usually here this time of night."
  Frank sent his glance out of one of the dirty windows. It was dark out on the Grand Socco
hadn't realized they'd been talking for so long.
  He left after waving to Paul Rund and stood for a moment before the door. Not a fraction o
teeming Moroccans were still on the streets or in the souk. Evidently, everything folded in the me
with the coming of night. He made his way past shuttered stalls, past steel-barred store fr
retracing his route as best he could.
  He shook his head over the experiences of the past few hours. No crime in Tangier, eh? Uh
Aside from the IABI men ripping off eight hundred of his thousand pseudo-dollars, the cus
officer had lifted his camera, his cab driver had stolen his luggage, he had been offered a job
mercenary despite his lack of experience, and had been told he might land a berth on a
smuggling narcotics.
  He came to a street that might be Rue de la Liberte and headed up it. It was too dark to make
the signs. He thought the street should have had more pedestrian traffic and more lights than
The blow that struck him on the back of the neck took him completely unawares. He felt his m
sag open even as he crumbled.
  At first, he wasn't completely out but agonizingly paralyzed. He could feel hands hastily g
through his pockets, turning them inside out. Two more shadowy figures came hurriedly to his
He tried to last but could feel no power in his limbs. One of his assailants thoughtfully kicked h
the side of the head and then the fog rolled over him.
  Chapter Six: Roy Cos
  From Greater Miami they were lobbed over to the island of New Providence by laser boo
approximately ten minutes.
  Roy Cos, strapped into his enveloping seat, took a deep breath as acceleration loads mounted
said, "Never been in one of these things before."
  "I wish I could say the same," Forry Brown told him, in his usual sour voice. "I hate the d
things."
  Roy looked out the small, thick glass porthole at the unbelievable blue sea with its occas
frothed ripples of waves. "That's the Gulf Stream, eh?"
  "Yeah," Forry told him. "It keeps the Bahamas at a constant year-round temperature of betw
seventy and eighty in the shade. George Washington was one of the first tourists here. He c
them 'The Isles of Perpetual June.' "
  Below, the Wobbly organizer could already see small islands. He said, "How many of them
there?"
  They had reached the peak of their arc now, and for a few seconds were in free fall before
shuttle began the deceleration.
  The little ex-newsman said, "Most people think of the Bahamas as only the town of Nassau
actually, there are about 700 islands and nearly 2,000 cays and rocks." His tone took on a cy
singsong parody of a tour guide. "Scattered like a fistful of pearls in turquoise waters extending
an area of 70,000 square miles."
  Roy looked over at him. "You've been here before, eh?"
  "That's right. Actually, it's one of the most beautiful resort areas in the world. Ah, we're co
in."
  The shuttle landed at the Windsor International Airport and Forry Brown had a cigarette i
mouth before they started down the gangway, jostling along with their fellow passengers.
  Roy Cos hadn't experienced much in the way of nature's charms in his forty-some years. It
money to seek nature out on the mainland and he'd never had more than GAS. Now, his
impression as they walked in bright sunlight toward customs was one of flower-scented bre
Even here at the shuttleport, there were gaudy Bahamian flowers—purple and red bougainv
yellow and red hibiscus, pink, white, and red oleander, royal purple passionflowers. Their min
perfumes gave a subtle fragrance to the southeast trade winds. Not that Roy Cos knew their na
Beyond roses, daisies, and tulips he was lost in the world of flowers, as his parents before him
was a prole born, and proles seldom had gardens.
  Customs was the merest of formalities. Forry Brown's attache case and Roy Cos's bat
briefcase weren't even opened. However, Roy's credit card, which doubled as his passport, bro
up the eyes of the black man in the Bahama immigrations uniform.
  He said politely, "Suh, GAS credits are not valid in the islands."
  Forry said, "Mr. Cos is my guest." He handed over his own Universal Card.
  "Jolly well, suh," the other told him, returning the ex-newsman's credit card and then touching
brim of his cap in an easygoing salute.
  They passed on toward the metro station, where everyone seemed to be heading.
  Roy looked over at the other from the side of his eyes and said, "I didn't know that immigra
men could tell what type of pseudo-dollar credits were accredited to a Universal Credit Card by
looking at it. And what was that about GAS credits not being valid?''
  "You can't spend your GAS outside the limits of the United States of the Americas," Forry
him. "The government wants you to spend it at home. Why subsidize foreign countries by spen
unearned credits in them? The Bahamas, along with Cuba, are the only Caribbean islands that
belong to the United States. The Bahamas won't join because it's more profitable to stand on
sidelines and offer gambling and offbeat banking practices, such as numbered accounts,
multinational commercial deals like
  Deathwish Policies. Anything goes in the Bahamas; they haven't got the restrictive laws we re
in at home. They figure any adult should be allowed to go to hell in his own way, just so that do
interfere with anyone else."
   "I'll be damned. You mean you can even buy heroin here, openly—and things like tobacco?"
   "Yes," the other told him ironically, flicking his cigarette butt into a waste receptacle.
   The metro system had probably been imported from the United States, Roy realized. The vac
cars had them into downtown Nassau within minutes.
   They emerged from the central metro station onto an avenue teeming with pedestrians and bicy
but even more devoid of cars than an American city would have been. This was the downtown
the harbor immediately before them. Roy's first impression was that the whole place was a mus
Only in historical films had he seen buildings which seemed to go back to at least Victorian days
   Forry looked around too, a warmth in his squinting eyes. He obviously liked the town. He
continuing his tour guide lecturing, "This is Bay Street, the main tourist shopping center. It's a
port, no taxes, so the tourists go hog wild. Over there is Rawson Square, with the govern
administration buildings. Over there's the post office, and that statue's Queen Victoria. The ga
behind contains the Public Library and museum, which dates back to 1799 and was originally bu
a jail."
   They turned left on Bay Street, walking along as rapidly as Ae shopping traffic would allow.
buildings seemed completely devoted to tourist stores, bars, and restaurants.
   Roy said, "I wouldn't think they'd have much need for jails in a place like this."
   His small gray companion laughed. "In its earliest days, this island was a pirate center. Blackb
himself built a lookout tower down the beach a ways. After the pirates were kicked out, the Bah
went into a depression until the American revolution, when they became prosperous smug
military supplies to the colonists. Then they went into the doldrums again until our Civil War, w
they became the clearinghouse for sneaking cotton out to England and France and smuggling gu
to the Confederates. Then another depression until Prohibition, when they all got rich running
Eventually they hit on becoming an all-out, any thing-goes resort area. Now they've parlayed tha
to include international banking—and other criminal activities. Oh, never fear, they've always
able to use a good jail here in Nassau.''
   They turned down Parliament Street, and shortly the shops gave way to small business build
and private homes. Even business was housed in ancient structures. The private homes were la
built of island limestone with upper porches that hung over the streets. To protect them from the
wide verandas had been built in graceful wooden construction with louvers to admit cooling bree
   The Wobbly organizer stared at something coming down the street. He said, "I don't think I've
seen a horse-drawn carriage before."
   "That's a surrey," the other told him. "They hate cars out here. You seldom see one, except t
used by government." The newsman looked at a card he drew from his jacket pocket. "This se
to be the address."
   It was a prosperous-looking business establishment, in the Victorian tradition. There was a s
bronze plaque which Roy couldn't make out above the entry, and a uniformed black standing be
it. The man touched his cap at their approach and held open the door. They seemed to use
manpower here than in the automated States.
   The interior continued the Victorian motif, with a few concessions to the tropics. There w
pervasive Britishness about it all. Roy had expected the company would be American, with s
affiliation to a sinister background such as the Mafia.
   Forry Brown seemed to sense what his companion was thinking and said, "This outfit
subsidiary of one of the big insurance companies in Hartford. It's multinational, of co
specializing in Deathwish Policies, though it has some other far-out bits of business going.''
  There was a sterile reception office presided over by a live receptionist, plain of face, her dul
done up in an unfashionable bun. She wore a washed out, shapeless light dress.
  Forry said, "Good morning. Mr. Roy Cos on appointment to see Mr. Oliver Brett-James."
  "Very good, sir," she clipped, checking a notepad. "You are expected. Mr. Brett-James wil
you immediately." She did the things receptionists do, speaking into a comm set, saying, "Yes,
a couple of times, and then pressing a button.
  She came to her feet saying, "This way, please," and led them down a short hallway.
  She held open a door and bestowed on them what she probably thought was a smile.
  Roy and Forry entered a moderately large office, once again with a Londonish feel—st
spotless, cold. Mr. Oliver Brett-James was standing behind an old-fashioned wooden desk. He
tubby, almost naked of scalp, red rather than tanned, his complexion more from bottles man
Bahamian sun. His smile was conservatively polite, though he seemed surprised to see two of t
"Mr. Cos?" he said.
  "That's right," Roy told him. Neither of them made a motion toward shaking hands. Unde
circumstances, it didn't seem exactly called for.
  "And you, sir?" the Englishman said to Forry.
  "Forrest Brown," Forry said. "I'm Mr. Cos's business agent."
  "Business agent? Well, no reason why not, I daresay. Be seated, gentlemen. Shall we
immediately to business? Here is the contract. It goes into effect tomorrow. And here is
International Credit Card, drawn on our Swiss bank in Beme. Each day, as you undoubtedly k
you will have one million pseudo-dollars at your disposal. It doesn't accumulate, of course, but
day you have that amount available."
  Roy and Forry had taken chairs in front of the desk. Forry said sourly, scratching a thumbnail
his meager mustache, "Suppose we read the contract before signing."
  "Certainly, old chap," the Briton said. "I merely thought that you were already cognizant o
contents, in which case there'd be no point in mucking around." He handed a three-page she
paper to each of them and then leaned back patiently in his swivel chair.
  His two callers read what he had given them carefully.
  Forry had already dug up copies of the standard Deathwish Policy and this didn't deviate from
  After a few minutes, while they were still reading, Brett-James cleared his throat and said, "P
take note of Clause Three. You must understand that we will not tolerate frivolous expenditures.
is, suppose you decide to purchase a diamond or a painting. If the price is over 10
pseudo-dollars, we will have an expert evaluate the item. We do not expect to have you spen
say, 50,000 pseudo-dollars on something which is really worth but 15,000. We expect our specia
to check out the true value, within reason. Of course the gem or painting, as the case migh
reverts to us upon your, ah, unfortunate demise."
  Forry looked up finally and said, "Just how much does the policy pay off in benefits to you w
Mr. Cos, ah, passes on?"
  Oliver Brett-James stiffened. "I say, that isn't really a concern of yours now, is it?"
  Forry took him in. "Yes," he said. "The details of this transaction will help me in supervisin
interests."
  The other didn't like it, but he said finally, "Our corporation will receive ten million pseudo-do
in the way of benefits."
  Forry said gently, "And how much are the daily premiums that you must pay?"
  "See here, Mr., uh, Brown. This is of no interest to…"
   "We think it is," the ex-newsman said. He brought a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and sh
forth a smoke. "We either find out, or Mr. Cos doesn't sign." He put the cigarette in his colo
lips and brought forth his lighter.
   Brett-James stared at him for a long moment, but finally said, "The daily premiums are one m
pseudo-dollars."
   The gray-faced Forry nodded as he lit up, blowing smoke through his pinched nostrils. "C
enough. You have to do Roy in within ten days or you start losing money."
   The signing of the contract was witnessed by the receptionist and another nonentity she brough
a young man who avoided Roy's eyes as he signed.
   When the two witnesses were gone, Brett-James rubbed his hands together and said, "Jolly w
daresay you'll be returning immediately to the mainland. Where will you be staying?"
   Forry looked at him flatly. "Get serious," he said. "Do you think we'd give you that much of a
start?" He put Roy's copy of the contract into his attache case.
   When they had left, the other pressed a button on his desk and four men entered, one of them
young witness. Brett-James said, "You've got the photos, the tapes and all?"
   The oldest of the four nodded. "Yes, sir."
   "Very well, get to work on both of them. Check out this Forrest Brown chap. We'll want to k
just where he fits in." Brett-James made a motion with his hand. "All right, Maurice, tail them. Fo
the instructions I gave you earlier."
   As they walked back toward Bay Street, Forry looked at his wrist chronometer. "We've got
an hour before the next shuttle to Miami. We might as well eat. Blackbeard's Tavern is a g
place."
   "Right," Roy said, immersed deeply in bleak thoughts.
   They reached the shopping center and turned left.
   The little ex-newsman stopped at a shop and said, "Just a minute. I might as well stock up here
   The sign said, 'Solomon's Mines,' and they entered to find the store devoted almost exclusive
tobacco products. Roy muttered, "Jesus Christ. In the States this shop would've been raided be
it opened."
   His companion ordered a dozen packs of Russian Imperial Gold Tip Blacks and began stu
them into his pockets. "A fraction of what they cost on the black market at home," he said. "H
stick these away." He handed Roy six packs.
   "Wait a minute," Roy Cos said indignantly. "Suppose they nail me with them at American cust
It's a bad policy for a member of the Wobblies. A radical can't afford to be anything else offbe
gives them a handle to get at you."
   Forry said impatiently, "They never search your person at customs unless you're a known smu
or have a criminal record when they check you out in the data banks."
   Roy shrugged in resignation and distributed the six packages of cigarettes about his pockets.
   As they left the shop, the little newsman was tearing one pack open. He shook out a gold-tip
black-papered cigarettee and said, "Like to try one?"
   "For God's sake, do I look stupid? You think I want to wind up with my lungs eaten away and
heart pounding overtime?"
   Forry grinned. "They've been denouncing alcohol for centuries, but I notice you're not particu
opposed to taking a drink."
   "It's only excessive use of alcohol that's condemned," Roy told him, his tone righteous. "Mod
use of alcohol has been a blessing to man since prehistory."
   "By Christ, you radicals are the most conservative cloddies going. You're worse than the U
Church. Excess of anything will do you in. Drink enough water and you'll drown."
  They argued companionably, deliberately avoiding the subject uppermost in both their minds.
  Blackbeard's Tavern turned out to be a cozy bar and restaurant, with a small calypso band pla
in the background, surprisingly softly. They took a table and a white-jacketed, barefooted black
there immediately to take their order.
  Forry said, with obvious anticipation, "Native Bahamians have their own food specialties tha
hard to get elsewhere. Conch, for instance—a kind of shellfish. We'll have conch chowder, g
turtle pie, and baked Andros crabs. And black beer to go with it."
  Roy put down his menu and let the other do all of the ordering. When the waiter was gone, he
"I think we were followed."
  "Yeah, I noticed that," Forry said. "Forget about it. The contract doesn't go into effect
tomorrow. But don't forget that tomorrow starts at midnight. Meanwhile, they most certainly
want anything to happen to you before then. That bastard tailing us is more like a bodyguard
anything else, at this stage. It'll be something else if we see him tomorrow."
  The waiter brought large mugs of very dark beer and, shortly afterward, the conch chowder.
ate without joy, stolidly going through the motions while lost in their thoughts. It had been one t
planning this coup, but getting down to the nitty-gritty in Brett-James's office had brought h
reality. The contract was signed now and there was no going back; as of midnight, Roy would
a price on his pelt.
  Again they avoided saying what was uppermost in both of their minds. Forry skated near it
"Funny how societies always seem to provide for the future by accident. Ever consider that m
this bland food is preparing us for a dull future?"
  Roy frowned at his plate. "It is kind of tasteless. You mean we're getting ourselves ready for a
of the blahs?"
  The little newsman said, "A slow dissolution, maybe." He nodded agreement with him
"Without necessarily deliberate planning, society provides for the future. In this case, a futu
which over ninety percent of the population became proles. The big difference between proles
slaves is that the slaves had to work to maintain the upper classes. But now machinery
practically all of the work and proles are real drones, absolutely worthless."
  Roy said, scowling, "How do you mean society provided for my future? I didn't ask to beco
complete drone. It was foisted on me."
  The newsman nodded again and put down his fork, giving up the food for which neither of
had found enthusiasm. "You're an exception. But over a century ago society was already prep
for the day of the prole. Most kids at that time were already spending more time watching TV
they were spending in school. Oh, there were good schools in the United States, such as MIT, J
Hopkins, Berkeley, Caltech, and so on. And the good schools turned out possibly five perce
the college graduates of the time. But the rest of the school system was a shambles. Kids got o
grammar school unable to read and write. Hell, many of them graduated from high school unab
function as adults—couldn't make out an application, couldn't keep up a checkbook. Their rea
was confined to comic books or strips in the newspapers, or painfully wading through the sp
pages. They got their news, to the extent they were interested at all, from TV commentators."
  "I still don't see how that leads to society preparing for the future," Roy said, scowling still.
wasn't gospel as laid down by the Wobbly movement.
  "Our people were being prepared for becoming proles, unemployables. In modern society yo
got to have a good education to hold down a job. Fine, the five percent needed today got a g
education. It's not necessary that the ninety percent have one. In fact, it's a disadvantage
educated man, unemployed, is a potentially dangerous man. He can think, and question, and ac
the answers he comes up with. Our educational system was weaning our youth away from
aggressive approach to life, taking the guts out of them, preparing them for their future as proles.
  Roy said softly, still in rejection, "So what's our future? What lies ahead for us!"
  "Probably more of the same. And the upper class will continue to get richer and smaller,
eliminates the lower levels of its own class, who are thrown down into the ranks of the proles if
fortunes are lost by whatever means— including being pissed away."
  The Wobbly looked at him, thoughtfully. He said, his voice slow, "You're more interested in
things than you've admitted, aren't you, Forry? How come you picked a Wobbly on this proje
yours? Why not a Luddite, or Neo-Nihilist, or possibly a Libertarian? And why meT'
  Forry Brown tossed his napkin to the table and looked at his wrist chronometer. "We have to
going," he said, bringing his card from his pocket. "You weren't my first choice, Roy. I approa
another National Organizer of the Wobblies before you. He evidently wasn't cut out to be a ma
He turned me down."
  Chapter Seven: Lee Garrett
  Gary McBride entered the Nuits St. Georges restaurant, his eyes on his wrist chronometer
looked around hurriedly, frowned, and then went into the bar lounge.
  Lee Garrett sat at a small table, a glass before her. She seemed not at all impatient.
  He came up to her, his smile just slightly drawn. "Ms. Garrett, of course?" he said. He took i
glass with its light golden contents. "By George," he said. "Not a drink before eating the specia
of Burgundy?" He took the table's second chair. "I'm Gary McBride."
  She smiled brightly at him, her almost unbelievably blue eyes taking in his male fashion m
appearance. Not only was Gary McBride handsome, in the best upper class tradition, but he
dressed for the part. His suit, shirt, and shoes were exactly what the youthful senior executiv
Manhattan was wearing, not just this year, but probably this week.
  She said, after shaking hands, "Only a sherry."
  "Tio Pepe, I should hope," he said. "Anything stronger or less dry would play havoc with o
palate."
  She did a little laugh, as though he were joking. "Tio Pepe is so dry it gives me heartburn."
  "Then not another sip of that," he told her severely. "Andre would be desolate. Shall we go to
table?"
  He took her arm and led her to the dining room. Lee was dressed in green Irish tweeds w
would have denigrated any figure less superb than her own. She looked very businesslike, her si
white blouse and low heels very sincere.
  The maitre d' greeted them unctuously and led them to a table tucked intimately away in a s
nook. The decor was early French bistro: reproductions of Toulouse Lautrec's posters,
advertisements of Ricard, Pernod, and a Rheims champagne. The room was moderately fu
prosperous diners.
  Andre put menus before them, brought forth a pad and stylo, and looked inquiringly, politely
most earnestly at Gary McBride.
  Gary McBride said to Lee, "The menu is in French. Shall I order?"
  "Please do," she said, putting down her own carte.
  Consulting with the headwaiter as he went, very seriously indeed, Gary McBride ordered as
first course Oeufs en Cocotte Bourguignonne, with a Meursault '48 to accompany it. When the
arrived, Andre again presided pouring a small amount into McBride's tulip-shaped glass. He sipp
carefully, after he tested the bouquet, and thoughtfully pursed his lips.
  Andre murmured, "Le vin est a votre gout?"
  "Excellent," Gary McBride nodded, and the headwaiter filled both glasses two-thirds full.
  Eggs a la Bourguignonne turned out to be poached in red burgundy, and for a moment, both
silent as they sampled. Gary McBride said, "A pity to discuss business while eating, my dear,
understand that you were contacted, as planned, by a member of the Anti-Racist League."
nodded. "Yes," she said. "I'm afraid I muffed it."
  "Not to worry, my dear. What went wrong?"
  "I underestimated him. He was a black; well-educated. What tipped him off, I have no idea, b
saw through me. I suppose it was rather humorous. He pretended to get somewhat tipsy and
pretended to make a rather crude play for me."
  His eyebrows went up.
  t rape, and revealed that I wasn't truly material for the Anti-Racists. He told me off very efficie
greatly amused."
  "I see. Then your cover is blown, so far as the Anti-Racist League is concerned."
  "I'm afraid so."
  "Not to worry," he said again. "Ah, the duck." The Canard a L'Orange arrived with
Richebourg '65
  he had ordered, and again went through the wine-tasting ceremony.
  When the waiter had retired he said, "You were not alone. The Foundation has several, ah, ag
making the same attempt to penetrate the Anti-Racist League. You were but one. Others, it is t
assured, will be more successful."
  She said, "I wasn't told a great deal about the purpose of my mission. Actually, in spite of my
scene with Horace Hampton, I am not particularly prejudiced so far as minorities are concern
was rather surprised that the Race Research Foundation was interested in infiltrating his organiza
I thought its research would be along other lines."
  "It is but one ramification of a much broader project. You see, Lee, the Anti-Racist League
racist organization itself."
  "I don't understand."
  "In much the same way that the Zionists were."
  She frowned slightly at him. "I'm not anti-Semitic, either."
  "Nor am I, nor is the Foundation. We're far above such ridiculous postures. But there are
pertinent matters involved. The Anti-Racist League was not of particular import to us so long
was active in the original fifty states alone. The minorities they represent numbered but some six
percent of the population; no great danger to our status quo. However, they are now, ah, begin
to spread into Latin America and other areas of the new United States of the Americas."
  She scowled down at her plate. "I don't believe I follow you."
  "These new citizens have the vote, Lee. There are enough blacks in Haiti, Jamaica, and even
Guianas to assure that their senators and representatives will be represented in Congres
blacks—if steps are not taken. It's equally true for Mexico, Central America, and the parts of S
America which are chiefly Indian."
  "So the purpose of the Race Research Foundation is…"
  "Ultimately, to maintain the status quo. To see that our people, yours and mine, do not vanish
the positions of power they now assume. Ah, but here is the cheese. I have ordered a selectio
Roquefort, Brie, and Chevre."
  The cheese was accompanied by a bottle of Rose d'Anjou, following which the waiter bro
Crepes de Chapitre.
  Lee, who had been silent and thoughtful through these culinary wonders, said at one point,
since my cover has been blown, as you put it, I am no longer of value to the Foundation."
  He smiled at her condescendingly. "We'll discuss it later in my office, my dear."
  When they finished the meal, Andre returned, bowing unctuously again.
  He said to Gary McBride, "Ca vous a plu, le repas, Monsieur McBride?"
  "II etait superb, Andre," the other told him grandly.
  Andre looked at Lee. "Et Madam?"
  Lee said, ' 'Mes felicitations au chef pour ses crepes. Us etaient commes des diners de Ge
Garin au Chateau du Clos de Veuheot. IIy avaient des autres nobles efforts."
  "Merci, Madam." Andre bowed deeply and was gone.
  Gary McBride gaped at her. "Parisian French," he said accusingly.
  "My father was in the diplomatic corps. In Paris, I attended the Lycee Janson de Sailly. I also
Spanish, Portugese, and Italian, and can get along in German. My Russian is atrocious."
  "All Russian is atrocious," he smirked, then saw irritation in her face. "Or did I make a mistake
  She said, evenly, "Several. Never order such a wine as Richebourg with such a dish as Cana
L'Orange. Nor any other wine, for that matter. The acid of the orange sauce destroys the enjoy
of any great wine. The sole exception is Bouzy, from the Champagne district. If you must o
Richebourg it is worthy of a much greater dish, such as Venison Grand Veneur or Lievre
Royale."
  "I see," he said coldly. "And what else?"
  "None of the cheeses were from Burgundy. A Brillat Savarin or ripe Epoisse would have
preferable. And Rose d'Anjou, a suspect wine at best, is anathema to both Burgundy food and
cheese and most certainly should never do for the crepes, which were excellent, as I told the m
d'. By the way, his French has a horrible Brooklyn accent."
  "I see," he said. "Shall we go?" He stood, tossing his napkin to the table.
  She looked up at him. "Why? My one assignment for the Race Research Foundation cam
cropper. I should have looked further into the whole thing before undertaking it. If I had, possi
would have refused the job. I was too thrilled at the prospect of actually being employed when
computer selected me to work for you, Mr. McBride. Now, even if you did have some posit
could hold down, I'm not sure I would choose to be associated with such a pompous superior.'
  He grinned suddenly, which completely altered his face. He said, "Good. We've got some thin
discuss."
  She shrugged in resignation, dropped her own napkin to the table, and stood. "I can't im
what," she murmured.
  At the desk, he brought forth his card and placed it in the payment slot, saying, "Please a
twenty percent tip."
  "Thank you, sir," the screen said.
  As he was returning his credit card to an inner pocket, he turned his eyes to Lee and smiled a
"How's my French?"
  Her face was expressionless. "Only fair," she said. "You seldom acquire a proper French ac
outside France or Switzerland. I suspect that most of your instructors were Americans. The Fr
are fanatical about accent."
  "I surrender," he said, taking her arm.
  The Manhattan office of the Race Research Foundation was within easy walking distance and
it was located in the vicinity of New Columbia University, it made for a pleasant stroll.
maintained silence during the walk and Lee Garrett was surprised at the fact that he was still amu
This was a different Gary McBride. Gone was the affected front. What in the world was th
about? The fluffing of the job wasn't particularly important. But what she had told Horace Ham
had been partly correct. She was tired of the frivolous life and would have liked some
worthwhile to do.
  The Manhattan offices of the Race Research Foundation were modest. In the outer office
three desks, two women and a young man at them, equipped with the standard vocotypers, p
screens, and library boosters for consultation with the National Data Banks. All greeted
McBride by his first name, which surprised Lee. She had expected a stuffy atmosphere, at best.
  He didn't bother to introduce her. His private office turned out to be a room of warmth
informality. He seated her in a comfortable chair before rounding the desk and taking his own pla
  She still didn't know why she had come. Now that she had fluffed the Hampton contact,
couldn't see how she could possibly infiltrate the Anti-Racist League.
  Gary McBride, smiling again, picked up a sheaf of papers from the desk and said, "This is
Dossier Complete. It reports that you attended the Lycee Janson de Sailly, one of the oldest pr
secondary schools in Paris. You were there for several years, invariably top in your class."
  She glared indignantly at him. "What the devil are you doing with that? The Dossier Comple
any citizen can be consulted only by proper authorities for adequate cause. You need the hig
priority in the National Data Banks to…" He held up a hand and grinned his boyish grin at
"Exactly." He watched suspicions chase across her face and then nodded. "We enjoy su
priority."
  She was staring at him in sudden realization. "You knew all the time, there in the restaurant, t
spoke French."
  "Guilty as charged."
  "But… then why did you pretend to make such a fool of yourself before that… that Broo
Frenchman?"
  He grinned once more. "Lee, the organization of which we are but one subsidiary makes e
effort to recruit the best personnel. Practically every employment position filled in the United S
goes through the National Data Banks computers. The computers select the most suitable pe
available for each job." He paused, then winked. "But we get to the data banks before
government computers even begin their selections. We skim the cream of the crop." He could
her confusion. He tapped the sheaf of papers before him.
  "Lee, the Dossier Complete is possibly the most comprehensive tally of a citizen's life
assembled. It begins before your birth, references going beyond your grandparents. And, from
birth, every aspect of your life is checked: health, upbringing, education, sports accomplishm
criminal record, employment record, travels, and on and on. Among other things checked is
ability quotient. Your dossier builds profiles of your verbal and numerical abilities, spatial ab
memory, speed of reflexes, dexterity, mechanical aptitude, emotional maturity, veracity, sen
limits, natural charm, persistence, neurosis, powers of observation, health, and a few others."
  She smiled. "Depressing idea. We're all confronted with these confounded tests every few y
That is, if we have any interest in work or running for office. Maybe I should've refused to take t
But what's all this got to do with…"
  He held up a hand. "There are a few things, my dear, that can't be tested. Luck, for instance."
  "Luck! There is no such thing."
  "I'm afraid there is, just as there is accident-proneness, which also defies computer analysis.
though you were given unbelievably high marks, suppose that when I entered the Nuits St. Geo
found you wearing two left shoes, or you were hunched up in posture, or you were dressed in k
shorts and a man's shirt like a prole. Suppose further that when subjected to a 'pom
superior'—I believe that was your term—you were willing to accept him as your boss."
  She laughed. "That was all put on! You were testing me."
  He grinned back and nodded. "If you hadn't the other qualifications we were looking for, you m
still have been employed—somehow. But we also wished to check your poise, grooming, phy
attractiveness, and sensibilities. You passed with flying colors."
  She looked at him levelly. "So, if I passed your exam that goes beyond the Ability Quotient t
just what is this position you have in mind? I've already bombed out as an infiltrator of
Anti-Racist League."
  The other leaned back in his swivel chair and was silent for a few seconds. "What do you k
about the World Club?"
  "Why, I suppose what everybody else knows: it's the think tank to end all think tank
multinational philanthropic organization which digs into socioeconomic problems confronting
world. Lagrange Five and Asteroid Belt Islands, too, for that matter."
  He nodded but said, "It's a great deal more than that. It also keeps track of the popul
explosion, resources, pollution, religion, the tendencies toward the police state, terrorism, a
racism. For your ears only, the Race Research
  Foundation is a subsidiary of the World Club. That would be a shocker even to the most dil
news media expose' experts."
  She was wide-eyed now. "But what has this got to do with me?"
  "You've been selected to work directly under the Central Committee, which likes a low profile
the media, it doesn't exist."
  She was too flabbergasted to speak. He took up a stylo and readied it over a paper pad. "Be
we go further into that, suppose we get the details of this interview you had with the black from
Anti-Racist League. His name?"
  "Horace Hampton. Known as Hamp." Gary McBride flicked on a desk screen and said in
"Liz, check out a Horace Hampton, a.k.a. Hamp, of the Anti-Racist League, a black." Lee sai
don't know his I.D. number." Gary smiled at her. He was a damned sight more likeable than he
been in the restaurant. He said, "He's black; a member of the Anti-Racist League. He'll be on
their better men if he was your contact. We'll have some record of him."
  They did. Shortly, his dossier began flashing on the screen. From time to time, he read out s
extract to her. "Seems to have some independent source of income, since seldom uses all o
GAS. No criminal record, though he is suspected of being one of the top trouble-shooters o
Anti-Racist League. Suspected in the slapstick fake assassination of Governor Teeter, though
far there is no evidence."
  Lee was taken aback by that. "He said that they were against violence."
  Gary chuckled as he looked mockingly at her. "That's what he said. From what you've reporte
knew that you were a plant. What else could he say?"
  "But he seemed sincere."
  "Oh, he's sincere, all right. He sincerely believes that extreme racists, such as Teeter, shoul
dealt with." Gary McBride, still scanning the black's dossier as he spoke to her, grunted his surp
  He glanced up at Lee. "This is strange," he said. "That's possibly the thinnest dossier I've
seen—especially when it comes to the criminal record."
  She wrinkled her forehead. "How do you mean?"
  "He has none whatsoever. Not even a traffic violation. And, as a result, he has no finger
record." He thought about it. "I think I'll just forward the name of Horace Hampton to R
Perhaps they'll wish to look further into this."
  "Rome?"
  "That's where the World Club is based. And that's where you're going, my dear." His smile
disarming. "That is, if I can talk you into it."
  Chapter Eight: Frank Pinell
  A voice from a far distance was saying, "Cooee, wot in the flashing hell happened?"
  Frank came alive to find, groggily, that he was sitting on the sidewalk, supported by an anxious
Fraser, who was hunkered down on one knee.
  Frank got out, "Mugged. Two of them, I think."
  "Barstids," the Australian growled. "Damned buggering ragheads. A bloke's not safe to walk u
street. Come on, cobber. We best get you to a sawbones. Never know, might have some br
ribs. They give you the bloody boot?" He got a long, sinewy arm around the fallen American's b
and up under his armpits.
  "I… I think so," Frank got out, trying to help himself erect.
  "My car's over here. Just luck I came along. Don't usually use this street, Rue d'Angleterre,
was heading up to Panikkar's place on Cape Spartel."
  Frank half staggered, was half manhandled by his rescuer, to the small sports model hov
which was parked, door open, at the curb.
  As he was wedged into the bucket seat he got out, "I…1 can't afford a doctor."
  "Don't be a bloody fool, cobber. Let me worry about that."
  The Aussie slammed the door shut and went around the front of the vehicle to the driver's side
got in, not by opening the door, but by winging a long leg over the side, slipping down into place
said, as they took off up the wandering street, "It's bonzer I did a bunk from Paul's right after
left, cobber. A bit of luck, eh?"
  "In English?" Frank said. The rash of the cool night air was bringing him around.
  The Australian laughed and pushed his bush hat down more firmly on his head. "We'll be the
no time flat, cobber, and then the fur'll fly. Did you see them?"
  "No, not well. Couple of Moroccans, I think. Native clothes." Frank hadn't the vaguest idea
the other was talking about. What fur would fly?
  The streets weren't well lighted but they seemed to have left the medina completely and were no
the European part of town. The road climbed.
  "Up here's the Marshand," Nat called over to him. "The more money a bloke's got in this bl
town, the higher up on the mountain he lives."
  Frank felt the back of his head gingerly. He had no doubts he'd have a beautiful knot there i
morning. He felt his ribs. Nothing seemed broken, but you never knew. He understood you coul
around with a broken rib for weeks and sometimes not know it. He searched for a handkerchief
came up with one, about the only thing that his assailants hadn't taken. He coughed and spat in
There was no blood.
  They emerged from the town proper. The houses were more widely spaced and reminiscent o
Spanish Colonial architecture of Southern California and the older towns of Mexico. Most o
villas were surrounded by pine and gum trees and now the road ran along a cliff with incompa
views of the sea and the Spanish coast beyond.
  Frank said, "Where'd you say we were going?" He was feeling better by the minute.
  "My boss's digs. He'll have a sawbones there." Shortly afterward, Nat said, "Cape Spartel. Far
west a bloke can get in Africa."
  Frank blinked at the group of buildings they were approaching, by far the most extensive e
they had passed. They were surrounded by a wall of dressed fieldstone, possibly six feet
Wrought-iron uprights were planted at the top, and the spaces between were entwined with vic
barbed wire.
   They came to a halt outside a small fortress of a gatehouse, also of fieldstone. Frank noticed
they had passed over a trigger plate in the road.
   A guard came out. He was wearing a beret, what looked like a paratrooper's combat uniform
heavy leather boots. He carried a small submachine gun which he handled with the ease
professional. A bright light came on from the guardhouse and zeroed in on their faces. There w
series of audible clicks and Frank got the feeling that a TV lens was on them. Okay, it was
needle, they could thread it as they liked.
   Nat Fraser said, "What—o, Hercule?" The guard nodded at him but said nothing. The light
out, and in a moment the clicking sounds came again. The automated steel gate swung open an
little vehicle slithered through. The winding road that lay beyond must have been a full quarter
kilometer in length.
   They pulled up before an ornate entry and a young man dressed like the gate guard, but bearin
visible weapon, issued forth.
   He approached, smiled at the Australian, and said, "Willkom-men, Herr Fraser." He looke
Frank questioningly.
   Nat said, "A new Yank recruit. I vouch for him, Karl. Is the colonel in?"
   "He is expecting you, Herr Fraser." Evidently, the Australian had called ahead on his transceive
the way up. Frank hadn't noticed, but he had been in no shape to be noticing things.
   Nat got out of the little hovercar the same way he had entered it—over the side—pushed his
hat back on his head, and went around to help Frank out.
   Karl assisted, seeming to find nothing strange about the appearance of the soiled and bat
newcomer.
   They got Frank up the four stone steps and to the door. Nat took over completely there.
   Karl said, "Colonel Panikkar is in the study, Herr Fraser."
   "Too right," the Aussie said, and helped Frank down the short hall that stretched ahead.
   There was an identity screen on the heavy carved wooden door. Almost immediately, it clicked
opened. Beyond was the most impressive study Frank Pinell had ever seen. By the looks of it, it
a combination of library study and office. Bookshelves lined the walls, floor to ceiling, filled
leatherbound books of the old style. Tasteful paintings of both East and West were represente
the walls, none of them modern. But there were also steel files and on both of the two desks wer
usual office equipment, including a voco-typer on the smaller one. The furniture was heavy
functional, but in excellent taste. Only the battleship gray of the carpeting detracted from
otherwise impressive decor. It gave a military effect.
   Behind the larger of the desks, looking up at their entry, was a man of possibly sixty. Squa
face, gray of hair and heavy mustache, he was dark complexioned. He wore traditional In
clothing, including a black, frock-length coat and jodhpurs. He had a dignified military posture.
   Nat said, "This is the young Yank I called you about, Colonel. Strike me blind but he's got the
of the Irish. Been in this buggering town no more than hours but a couple of the flashing raghead
on him and leave him on the street with a broken block."
   Then he became more formal. "Colonel Ram Panikkar, Frank Pinell."
   The colonel came around his desk to shake hands, western style. His face was indignant as he
in Frank's dirt-fouled clothing and bruises.
   He said to Nat, "Make your man comfortable, Nat. I'll be with you in just a moment."
  The Australian got his still-shaky companion into a chair.
  The colonel said into a TV screen, "Doctor, could you bring your bag and join us at once in
study?" He then flicked a switch and commanded, "Get me Foud, immediately."
  He looked up at Nat. "Where did this take place?"
  "On the Rue D'Angleterre, just up from the bloody Grand Socco."
  The Indian looked at Frank. "Just what did the hooligans get away with?"
  Frank took a deep breath and said, "Most important, about two hundred pseudo-dollars wor
Swiss gold francs and dirhams. Also my Moroccan police papers which I got at the airport
pocket transceiver, and the usual odds and ends."
  A face had appeared on the phone screen—a dark, evil face crowned by an orange turban
owner would have had no difficulty whatsoever landing a part as a stereotype fanatic assassi
Stateside Tri-Di.
  The colonel said, his voice dangerously crisp, "As-salaam alaykum, Foud."
  The other answered, his own voice careful, "Alaykum as-salaam. Ram Panikkar."
  The Indian spoke rapidly in what Frank assumed was Arabic. Perhaps the colonel was Pakis
rather than Indian.
  In short order, Ram Panikkar turned back to Frank and his Australian rescuer.
  "Your possessions will be at your hotel in the morning, Mr. Pinell." And then to Nat, "It
Mustapha and Jabir. The dogs become bolder each month that passes." He added with satisfac
"I let Foud know that your friend was under the protection of the Graf."
  A roly-poly little man entered from a side door, the traditional black bag of the physician in his
hand. He was a fussbudget, pink of rounded face and wearing old-fashioned pince-nez glasses
bulbous little nose.
  The colonel made introductions. "Dr. Fuchs, Mr. Pinell. Mr. Pinell has been the victim of s
desperadoes. We thought it best that he be checked. Do you wish to take him to the clinic?"
  The doctor bobbed his head and said in accented English, "Vevillzee."
  The examination was comparatively brief. The doctor hummed importantly as he worked
wound up very pleased with both himself and his patient. AH was well. He gave Frank four pills
instructions for taking them, assured all that Frank was in good repair, then shook hands all aro
said goodnight, and left.
  While this had been going on, the colonel had gone to a bar along one wall and, when the do
had gone, returned with three tall glasses containing the most excellent Scotch Frank had ever tas
  As he handed the glasses around, the colonel said, "I prescribe this as even more effective, u
the circumstances, than the good doctor's pills. Cheers, gentlemen."
  "Fuck Ireland," Nat murmured.
  But in spite of his light words, the Indian was frowning.
  He took a small sip of his neat whiskey and said to Frank, "Two hundred pseudo-dolla
understood from what our good Nat said that you had but landed this afternoon. Surely you hav
already gone through eight hundred pseudo-dollars. Doesn't your, ah, former government issue
deportee a full thousand?"
  Frank said bitterly, "My IABI escorts decided that such a sum would be wasted on me.
handed over two hundred. It seems that on their way back to the States they intended to lay ov
Madrid and blow the rest of it at, uh, I think a bar named Chicote's where the whores congregate
  Nat blurted indignantly, "And wot'd you do, mate?"
  Frank looked over at him in disgust. "What could I do? They were armed and I was completely
of my element and in a strange country."
  "I see," the colonel said ominously. "And what other adventures did you have today?''
  Frank told him about the cab driver and his stolen luggage.
  The colonel's dark complexion became even blacker with fury. He said ominously again, "
what else?"
  Frank shrugged it off. "The customs officer took a rather valuable camera that had been left m
my father."
  "I'm not sure that even I can do anything about that," the colonel muttered.
  He turned back to his elaborate TV phone, dialed, and said, after a moment, "Rafa? Ram Pani
in Tangier. Tonight there should be two IABI agents in Chicote's. They've shaken down one o
boys for eight hundred pseudo-dollars." He looked up from the screen and over at Frank. "W
were their names?"
  Frank said, "MacDonald and Roskin. I don't know their first names. Look here…"
  But the colonel was back at his screen, where he repeated the names. He said, "I want the
hundred back here by morning. I also want them taught a small lesson. Not to be overdone,
understand, but I want them left in no condition to travel tomorrow. You understand."
  He listened for a moment, then said, "Yes, two IABI men, probably armed, but this has been g
too far. I do not wish Tangier to get the reputation of being wide open for extortion. If you wi
check this out with Peter Windsor at the
  Wolfschloss, go right ahead. I am sure he will agree with me."
  He flicked off the screen, thought a moment, then dialed again. A face must have appeared,
he said, "Samir? I am speaking in my capacity as Tangier representative of the Graf. One of
drivers this afternoon stole two suitcases from a passenger from the airport. I make this perf
clear, Samir. I want those two bags here, with all contents, before the night is out. No, I do not k
the name of the driver. That is all, Samir."
  He flicked off the screen again and turned back to Frank and Nat, grim satisfaction on his face.
  Frank stammered, "I… I don't know how to thank you, Colonel Panikkar."
  The Indian waved a hand in dismissal. "You simply presented us with an opportunity, F
Tangier is possibly the most extensive center of the Grafs operations. We have no intentio
putting up with small-time local hoodlums bothering our people, disrupting our activities."
  Frank said unhappily, "But that's the point, Colonel. I'm not one of your people. I told Nat I d
think that I could come in with you."
  The other looked from Frank to Nat and then back again. "Ah, I didn't know that. However,
your own choice, of course. We have no intention of coercing you. Nat, would you see to refill
our glasses?"
  "Too right," Nat said, heading for the bar. The colonel said wryly, "And Nat, dear boy, whe
the world do you get those hats?"
  The Aussie grinned back at him over his shoulder and touched the bush hat, which it seeme
never removed, even indoors. "Me titfer?" he said. "Had it shipped from Sydney. A bloke's g
keep up appearances, that's wot I say." He returned to the others with an imperial quart of wh
and poured for all.
  The colonel snorted but turned back to Frank. "I am rather surprised. It would seem, unde
circumstances, that you would welcome employment."
  Frank said unhappily, "It's not that I don't appreciate your kindness, Colonel. But I heard Na
and I don't believe I'd make a good mercenary."
  The colonel shrugged and sipped lightly at his new drink. He said, "The Graf's activities are
limited to mercenary matters, Frank. Let me give you some background. In the very old days,
as when Xenophon led his 10,000 Greek mercenaries to fight for Cyrus of Persia, such matters
handled on a large and efficient scale. But of recent centuries wars have largely been conducte
national governments with citizen armies, along with such related matters as weapons procure
and so forth. Mercenary activities have been hit and miss. Professional soldiers of fortune w
apply singly or in small groups for employment. Seldom were more than a few hundred invo
Often, those that were found themselves, ah, holding the bag when the war was over and their
had lost. They could only whistle for their hard-earned pay. We are changing that. For one t
modern weapons are not easily mastered by uneducated peasants. A Congo bushman does not
rocket fighter plane."
  Frank nodded at that.
  "So today, in the occasional wars that develop, it is necessary for large numbers of professio
to be at hand in the underdeveloped countries. Would it surprise you to know that the Graf
handle a complete action without going outside his own organization? He can field a full discip
division within a month, and arm them completely, including air cover. From espionage precedin
actual conflict, to getting money out for the officials of collapsing governments, washin
depositing it in Nassau or Swiss banks, and then spiriting absconding officials to safety to e
their, ah, loot. Or, another service might be the—removal?—of other politicians. All of this i
contract, so arranged that the Grafs organization is always guaranteed its pay, bonuses,
insurance in case of death or disability. The Graf takes care of his own." He grimaced in amuse
and looked about the luxurious study. "As you see, I do not live in poverty."
  Frank was frowning. "It's hard to believe that this Graf can field a completely armed division
has ten or twenty thousand men on his payroll?"
  Nat chuckled and poured still more of the priceless Scotch.
  The Indian smiled and shook his head. "No, of course not. He supports a permanent staff spo
about the world, such as my operation here in Tangier. Senior executives such as myself, o
workers, and so on. He also has on retainer, between actual contracts, a cadre of officers who
spring to duty within hours; all experienced veterans. He then has, on call, thousands of avai
infantrymen, pilots, tank men, logistics specialists, and so on, ready to enlist at any time for
duration. They are not on the permanent crew. They usually exist on GAS, or its equivalent i
advanced countries, between employments."
  Frank said, "You've suggested that you took on other contracts besides wars and revolutions."
  Panikkar nodded. "Yes, many. Last month we conducted a commando action which involved
twenty men. One of our best officers, a Major Shannon, and nineteen veteran non-coms.It seems
there was a half-mad dictator on one of the smaller Caribbean islands. His people overwhelm
wished to join the United States but he, understandably, refused. He and his family were vam
upon that island's population. However, funds were raised, and the commando detachment was
to take him out."
  "Then you actually do individual assassinations." The Aussie chuckled again but stuck to his d
rather than joining into the conversation.
  The colonel shrugged. "On occasion. We see little difference, morally speaking, between ent
into a full-fledged war or killing an individual. But see here, you are an educated young man.
must have read of Genghis Khan, one of the great military men of all time. He rose from bei
simple chieftain of a small nomadic tribe in Central Asia to conquer the largest empire the world
ever seen. He destroyed whole civilizations. He slaughtered millions of sedentary peoples so
lands could be devoted to his flocks. Only one thing stopped his hordes from engulfing Europ
died. Now, tell me, my good Frank, what would the world have been saved had our Genghis K
been assassinated when he was a young man?" Frank was nonplussed.
  The Indian went on. "It goes both ways. Suppose your Abraham Lincoln had been sui
guarded against assassination. What would have been the difference if this good man had lived o
preside over the reconstruction of your South?
  It took a hundred years for the South to fully recover from your Civil War."
  Frank said hesitantly, "Your Graf provides bodyguards, I take it."
  "Naturally. He has the most efficient bodyguards in the world."
  "I hope so. Assassination is—well, hell, it isn't civilized!"
  "But it can improve civilization." Panikkar finished his second large whiskey. "Take Mahem
who recently proclaimed himself the Mahdi in Central Africa."
  ' 'Never heard of him.''
  "The Mahdi is a figure of Moslem mythology," Panikkar explained. "Something like a messiah
is to return as the world is about to end, unite all believers, and destroy those who are evil. It
most primitive aspect of Islam. The last major leader who proclaimed himself the Mahdi
Mohammed Ahmed in the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan in the 19th Century. He called for a holy war a
a few years his followers overwhelmed an area half the size of Europe, slaughtering hundred
thousands. They beat the British army and killed General Gordon."
  "But this new one?" Frank said.
  "Mahem Dhu. He's trying the same thing in Central and Northern Africa. He refuses to join
United Church, while many Islamic sects are joining. If he continues, millions of uneducated bl
and Arabs will die. If he should be, ah, removed, their lives will be spared and, with the hel
United Church missionaries, their countries will be rapidly upgraded."
  "I see your point," Frank admitted. He pulled at his drink unhappily. "Still…"
  Nat Fraser scoffed. "Mate," he said. "You bloody well told me that the Yanks deported you
homicide. What's the buggering difference? You knock off some cove on your own, or you do
the Graf for mucking good pay. And you don't have to take a contract if you don't like it. Stre
I've turned down more than one."
  Frank looked back at the colonel. "I don't see what use I'd be to you. I'm no soldier."
  Ram Panikkar shrugged it off. "It's not important, Frank. Sleep on it. We might find you a pos
appropriate to your abilities, seeing that you're a most personable and a reasonably educated y
man." He looked at his wrist chronometer. "But you must be tired after all your troubles today.
you must be hungry." He looked at the Australian. "Nat, I suggest that you see that Frank g
good meal and then put him up for the night in one of the dormitories. I'd suggest the non-
quarters. Tomorrow morning he can return to his hotel."
  "Too right, Colonel," Nat said, coming to his feet.
  Frank stood too and began his thanks but the colonel waved' them aside, smiling, and returne
the papers on his desk without further words.
  Next morning, driven to his hotel by Nat Fraser, Frank found not only his suitcases and
personal things that had been stolen from him by the muggers, but a pile of Swiss francs
Moroccan dirhams atop the rickety dresser. They totalled a full equivalent of a thou
pseudo-dollars, slightly more than he had been robbed of. After all, he had owed the cab driver
dirhams and had paid Luigi ten dirhams for room rent, and had bought a round of drinks at P
Bar. Even his camera was in one of the suitcases. The colonel had clout.
  A vague thought came to him. How had Panikkar known he was staying at the Hotel Rome? He
told neither the Indian nor Nat Fraser.
  Chapter Nine: Roy Cos
   The shuttle from Nassau to Greater Miami was brief and uneventful. Both men were so dee
their thoughts that Roy Cos didn't even bother to stare out the heavy glass ports at the sea and
below. Obviously, he was having second thoughts about this whole project. How had he
allowed the damned newsman to talk him into it?
   Forry Brown squinted over at him and tried to rise to the occasion. He knew very well what w
Roy's mind; he even had a twinge of guilt about it. But, the whole thing was now irreversible
said, "You know the trouble with you Utopians?"
   Roy sighed and said, "No."
   "You won't like Utopia."
   Roy sighed again and said, "There is no such thing as Utopia. As soon as you get to your
there's a better one beckoning. No science is more in a condition of continual change
socioeconomics. Utopian? Our revolutionary forefathers in 1776 thought they were creati
Utopia. They didn't."
   "Fine," Forry said. "But whatever you call it, most of you won't like it."
   "Why?"
   "Because you all have a different picture of it. Vegetarians will picture the future society as o
which no meat will be eaten. Prohibitionists expect the end of booze but a good Italian radical w
be aghast at the idea that wine and good food, including meat, would be taboo. Nudists ex
nudism, puritans expect purity—in petticoats, at that. Serious straight-laced Wobblies expec
world of the future to be very serious and very efficient, but the easygoing ones look forward
frivolous, bang-up time for everybody. And the differences on the sex question are going to be
I'll bet the march toward complete promiscuity will continue but I've noted that most of
Wobblies I've met are on the conservative side."
   Roy sighed once again and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Wobblies don't believe
establishing our social system will solve all problems. We only contend that it will solve a good m
of the most pressing problems."
   Forry grunted and rubbed along his wisp of a mustache with a thumbnail. "I wish I could smo
this flying sardine can," he said. "What the hell ever happened to socialism? I don't believe I've
heard the word for years."
   "Scientific socialism stopped being scientific about a century and a half ago," Roy told him. "I
to the point where everybody was called socialist, from Roosevelt to Hitler. Sweden was soci
So was Russia, not to speak of England, which still had a royal family left over from feudalis
stopped making sense. The only group in the States that would have been called socialists ar
Libertarians."
   "What do they want, as compared to you Wobblies?"
   "To reform People's Capitalism, or Meritocracy. We want to end it and establish a new sys
They want more GAS for everybody, better education, better everything. They're reformers
revolutionaries." He looked out the small porthole. "Hey, we're coming in." Then, in a lower v
"Did you notice that the man who was following us is on our shuttle?"
   "I noticed."
   They walked down the shuttle's ladder, their small luggage in hand, and headed for the cus
hall. Customs was the merest of formalities; the twelve packs of illegal cigarettes went thr
unseen.
   Passed by customs, they headed for the exit and were immediately accosted by two young
one in prole garments, the other in a fairly presentable sportsman's garb. The prole was big
square and on the rugged side, the other was trimmer. Both were in their early twenties and
wore grim expressions.
  Forry looked at them warily but Roy said, smiling and extending his hand, "Hi, Ron. Hi, L
knew you'd make it." As usual, a smile worked wonders on the face of the
  Wobbly organizer. "Forry, these are the Wobblies I told you about. Ronald Ellison, Lester B
meet Forrest Brown."
  Forry nodded as he shook. "Glad to see you fellas. We're being followed."
  "I spotted him," the husky youth, Ron, said. "I thought this contract thing didn't start
tomorrow morning."
  Forry said, "It starts at midnight. But meanwhile they'll be wanting to know where Roy is g
where he'll be when the contract does go into effect. Did you get a car?"
  Les, the better dressed one, nodded. "Right."
  They left the administrative building and started out into the large parking area.
  "Where's the car?" Forry said.
  "Not in the parking lot," Ron" told him. "We thought there might be somebody waiting for yo
land. Just follow me."
  Mystified, Roy and Forry let the other two lead the way. They walked to the far end o
shuttleport's administration building, then entered a narrow alley between it and a huge hangar.
drab narrowness gave the passage a sinister quality.
  The little ex-newsman said in protest, "What the hell?" He looked at their two guides suspicio
and then at Roy.
  Roy said, "It's all right. If they say it's okay, then it is. Lead on, Les."
  They hadn't gone fifty feet down the deserted alley before two others entered it. One of them
the unknown who had tailed them from the time they had left the c^ices of Oliver Brett-Jam
Nassau. The other was a stranger. They were pretending to be in deep discussion, as if unawa
the four ahead of them in the narrow alleyway.
  Les, Ron, Roy, and Forry continued on their course, the newsman nervous about their followe
  And then two more huskies entered the alley behind those followers.
  Ron said, with grim satisfaction, "Here we go." He and Les turned and watched expectantl
though ready to return.
  The need didn't materialize. The action that took place was brutal and brief. One of the new arr
had a short truncheon in his right hand; the other seemed to have something metallic ove
knuckles of his right fist. With no prelimi-naries whatever, they attacked. In fifteen seconds, the
who had been following Roy Cos were down on the alley floor, arms over their heads in a
attempt to protect themselves. The newcomers lashed into them with heavy shoes, kicking at
stomachs, and kidneys.
  "Jesus," Ron said in admiration. "If Billy doesn't look out he's going to kill those funkers."
  "Couldn't happen to nicer guys," Les growled.
  Forry looked over at Roy Cos. "You are an organizer," he said in awe.
  Roy said, "I have my moments."
  Leaving their unconscious victims behind, the two additional guards came up, grinning as th
embarrassed.
  The first one said, "If either of those bastards are out of the hospital in less than two weeks, I'll
in my merit badge in mugging."
  Roy said, "Forrest Brown, meet Richard Samuelson and Billy Tucker."
  Forry said, even as he shooF, "You gentlemen take your work seriously, don't you?"
  Dick Samuelson and Billy Tucker were in the same age group as Ron and Les, both six-foo
both around two hundred pounds. They greeted Roy Cos warmly after they shook hands with
little newsman.
   "Holy smog," Forry muttered. "If all you Wobblies are like this, why didn't you put over
damned revolution years ago? Let's get out of here before somebody else shows up."
   The six of them hurried on up the alley.
   "Glad I made it in time," Billy said. "I had to come all the way from Denver. Had a meet there."
   Forry looked at him. "What kind of a meet?"
   "Wrestling."
   The alley debouched on a small parking area. For all but a few, private cars were a luxury.
   They came up to the limousine Ron indicated, and Forry began to get into the driver's seat, sa
"I'm the only one who knows where we're going to ground."
   But Roy shook his head. "Les is a racing driver," he said simply.
   The ex-newsman looked at Les Bates thoughtfully and then nodded. "Fine," he said, getting
the back seat instead. "Get out on the highway and turn right, Les." He said to Billy, "I saw you
those two characters in the alley a quick frisk after they passed out. Did you get anything?"
   "A shooter," Billy said, satisfaction in his voice.
   "Well, as soon as we get out into the countryside, you ought to ditch it. We can't afford t
found by the police with an unlicensed gun. If they coop Roy up in some banger, the Graf's men
figure out how to get to him within hours. If any of the rest of your boys are heeled, think a
that."
   They looked at him respectfully even as Les, obviously expert at the wheel, took them out ont
highway. Dick Samuelson said, "Yes, sir," meek as a mouse, and brought out a compact b
automatic, holding it in a gloved hand to be tossed out a window.
   Billy dipped his hand into the side pocket of his prole denim jacket reluctantly and came out w
Gyrojet pistol. "It's a beauty," he said with regret. "Whoever those cloddies were, they didn't s
on equipment."
   "They're probably employees of the Graf," Forry said sourly.
   Dick Samuelson hissed between his teeth. "Then Roy wasn't just whistlin' Dixie when he said
most likely we'd be in thick soup, eh? I've heard about the Graf."
   Ron said, "There's a car behind. I think it's a tail."
   Les grinned gently and snicked his gear selector. "I picked out this pile of iron myself," he
"Belt up, boys."
   Billy said to Forry, "You still think we ought to toss these shooters out?"
   "Absolutely," the newsman said. "The first time we turn a comer, so they can't see you do it
all we know, they're police. We don't want to take on a carload of fuzzies."
   "Okay," Billy said. "Get our asses out of here, Les. Graf's men or fuzzies, they're sure t
heeled."
   Shaking their pursuers was child's play for Lester Bates. He was not only a racing driver but a
smooth one, powering through the apex of every turn, using every inch of the road.
   It was only after there could be no doubt that they had lost their pursuers that Les turned to F
"Where do you want to go?"
   Forry gave directions and then, after a time, said, "That tavern, there. Pull in behind it."
   Roy looked at him. "You don't mean we're hiding out in a roadside bar?"
   The little man grunted amusement. "Hardly. That's just where we drop this car. You know w
happened by this time? Whoever was following us has noted our license number and relayed
either the police or some of their own organization. So we switch. I have a car stashed here
owner's an old drinking buddy who can keep his mouth shut."
   Dick Samuelson looked over at him as they pulled into the parking area. "Even if the Graf's hit
are working him over?"
   "No, not then," Forry admitted, drawing deeply on his cigarette. "But Ted doesn't know enoug
tell them anything. His instructions are to give them the truth. We left a hovercar here and later pi
it up, leaving this one in its place."
   They pulled up beside the vehicle he indicated. Les looked at it questioningly. He said, "It ha
license plates. That'll make it conspicuous."
   Forry nodded. "On purpose. Ted couldn't tell anybody what the numbers were, even if he wa
to. We'll put the plates on shortly, down the road a bit."
   Continually checking to see whether they had picked up new pursuers, they finally made it to
destination. It was an old house on the beach to the south of Miami, fairly well isol
Undoubtedly, it had once been the winter home of a wealthy northerner. Forry had Les Bates
the car into the garage, so that it would be hidden from view but poised for escape.
   The six of them went into the rambling one-story villa. Forry led the way to the living room.
looked about him. "How'd you manage this?"
   Forry said, "I rented it for a week, using my international credit card. I've got a few thousand s
up. We won't use your million a day until after we've made our initial play. We don't want the
zero in on us at this stage."
   They all found seats in comfort chairs or on couches. Ron said, on edge, "What happens now
   Forry said, "In a minute, one of you go up to the sundeck on the roof as a sentry. But I wa
talk to you first, before the others get here."
   "What others?" Roy said.
   "You'll see," Forry told him. He looked around at Ron, Les, Dick, and Billy, ran his to
thoughtfully over his gray lower lip, and said, "The question becomes, how do Roy and I know
can trust you? I think his idea of getting Wobbly members to act as his bodyguard, rather
professionals, was a good one. In the past, Deathwish Policyholders have hired professionals. O
they wound up getting hit by their own guards, who were either bribed by the Graf's men, or
already on his payroll. No offense intended, but how can we know that one of you can't be gotte
if the bribe's big enough?"
   Silence. When Roy spoke, his voice carried rock-solid confidence. "Forry," he said, "it's a
you wouldn't know about. All of these boys are at least third-generation Wobblies. They got
ethics at grandpa's knee."
   "Two of my great-grandparents, as well," Les said quietly.
   Roy continued, "I've know Les, Ron, Billy, and Dick all of their lives. Their parents are pers
friends. When I was Billy's age, I lived next door to his folks. I've changed his diapers. You
Forry, being a radical becomes a way of life. Practically all of your family's friends are Wobb
You play with the children of other Wobbly families. Your fun is mostly picnics or dances or
entertainments thrown to raise funds for the movement. You attend meetings with your pa
before you're old enough to understand what the hell that sweaty, sincere guy with the micropho
talking about. When you're old enough to notice girls, the ones you can approach easies
Wobblies themselves, probably one of the girls you grew up with. If you have children, they're r
in the same tradition, a sort of political ghetto. The radical movement in the United States start
1877 with the socialistic Labor Party. The Wobbly movement got going in 1905, mostly
socialists. Do you know how many generations ago that was?
   "Think of it! Eight generations of us. Oh, new recruits do come in; not many, I admit.
sometimes Wobblies drop out and stay out. But largely our membership consists of people rais
the radical tradition. Forry," he chuckled, "I'm beginning to suspect we're starting to breed
Young fellows like these four are born Wobblies."
  "There goes your credibility," Forry growled. "Just kidding, of course. But I selected these
because they're third-or-more-generation revolutionists and all personal friends of mine, like
parents before them. If I can't trust them, I don't give a damn how soon they kill me."
  "Okay, okay." Forry Brown looked around at the four, one by one. They all wore expression
faint embarrassment, with pride shining through.
  Roy said, "Now I've got a question. Back in Nassau, you asked Oliver Brett-James how big
benefits to his company were when I die, and how much the daily premiums he had to pay w
Why did you want to know?"
  Forry brought a pack of his smuggled cigarettes from a pocket and took his time lighting up
said finally, "I wanted to know how much time we had before his company started hurting. A
midnight tonight, I start earning my way. Your publicity starts tomorrow. I've already gotten in t
with my contacts in Tri-Di news. They're all going to broadcast the story of the Wobbly who
out a Deathwish Policy so that he'd acquire the credit needed to spread his message. Oh
tomorrow I start earning my ten thousand pseudo-dollars a day. The longer I keep you alive
longer I keep my job. It stops the moment you do." Les blurted, "Ten thousand a day!" F
spread his hands. "Why not? There's a personal risk. Suppose I get into the line of fire w
somebody takes a shot at Roy? Or suppose somebody heaves a bomb that gets all of us? Bes
what is ten thousand to Roy? He has a million on tap every day. He can afford to keep his hired
happy. By the way, you four bodyguards will each get ten thousand daily."
  Dick Samuelson growled, "You're one thing, but we didn't get into this for money. We don't
any pay."
  Roy Cos shook his head at that. He said, "No. Forry's right, Dick. There's nothing in that con
that says I can't have a bodyguard and pay him as much as he's worth. I'm not allowed to m
donations to organizations—political, religious, or whatever. But you can squirrel your wages a
When I've finally had it, you boys can contribute as much to the movement as you like. If I last
enough, you'll be rich. I don't believe I've ever known a rich Wobbly. You'll be in a position to m
the biggest donations to the organization ever.''
  An identity screen bell rang from somewhere and all stiffened.
  "That's probably Mary Ann," Forry said, getting up. "But we should have posted a sentry be
this. How about one of you fellows going up onto the roof? Make your own arrangements
suggest a two-hour shift."
  "Okay. I'll take the first shift," Billy said, standing too.
  With Ron going along, just for caution, Forry went to the front door of the villa and checked
screen. He seemed to be satisfied.
  The woman who came through looked every inch the office worker. A little on the plain
though with a comfortably nice figure, she was neatly efficient in appearance, conservatively dres
and wore no makeup whatever. She was in her late thirties and carried an attache case.
  "Good evening, Forrest," she said.
  "Forry," he told her. "We're going to be seeing a good deal of each other under rather h
circumstances in the days to come. No need, nor time for formality. Did you bring your things?''
  "They're out in the car I rented," she said. "It's automated, so we can return it to the ag
without any difficulty."
  "This is Ron Ellison," he told her. "One of the team. He'll get your bags and you can pick o
room for yourself. Meanwhile, come on back and meet the rest."
  While Ron went for her luggage, Forry and the newcomer went to the living room. The men s
to be introduced and Forry did the honors.
  Roy said, "Isn't there a drink around here?"
  Forry had stocked a fairly good bar. While Les was making the drinks, Forry told the Wo
organizer, "I've known Mary Ann Elwyn for years. She's a damn good secretary. Her pay will b
same as everybody else's—ten thousand a day." He smiled a small smile as she gasped. "Enoug
keep her honest, we'll hope. If we last the week out, she'll have enough to retire. Seventy thou
pseudo-dollars, on top of her GAS, could equal a nice standard of living. If you last for more th
week, each day adds another ten thousand to her nest egg."
  Roy Cos was frowning. He said in complaint, "Forry, what the hell do I need with a secretary?
sent his eyes over to the young woman. "Not that I have anything against you."
  "Are you kidding?" Forry said to him. "When this thing starts, you won't even be able to ha
your mail. If you last the first week out, she'll be needing stenographers to help her."
  "I'm highly experienced, Mr. Cos," Mary Ann said briskly. "Forry has explained the situation t
and my duties. I'm not too keen on the physical danger, but—well, ten thousand pseudo-doll
day…"she hesitated for a moment, then, "… buys me a lot of courage."
  Roy made a gesture of acceptance. "It's all right with me. Forry's the organizer of this schem
suppose he knows what he's doing."
  Billy Tucker came hurrying into the room. His eyes swept quickly over the new secretary but
went on to Roy Cos. He said, "Roy, there's a car coming down the road. At least two men in it."
  "Probably Ferd and Jet," Forry said, putting down his glass and grinding out his cigarette.
don't really have to start worrying until after midnight, Billy. Then this guard duty becomes serio
He stood and headed for the door.
  The younger man said after him, "Yeah. And I wish to hell you hadn't made us throw away t
guns."
  "We'll see about that soonest," the ex-newsman said over his shoulder. "As soon as the pub
starts, we'll put in a demand for gun permits through our law firm. We've got a law firm on reta
too, Roy. If they refuse to issue gun permits for the bodyguard of the Deathwish Wobbly, a
will go up that'll mean just that much more publicity."
  He left the room to go for the front door. Billy went over to the bar, poured himself a ginger
and carried it with him to his post.
  Roy Cos said to his brand new secretary, "Do you know anything at all about the Wobblies,
Elwyn?"
  "Mary Ann," she said. "I knew practically nothing, until
  Forry brought up the matter of a temporary job…" She flushed, then quickly added "… or m
not so temporary, with you. I looked your organization up in the National Data Banks but I'm a
that it's not my cup of tea. I've never been interested in political economy."
  Forry re-entered, followed by two newcomers. Both carried portable typewriters—one a late-m
voco-typer and, by the looks of the case, the other an old electric.
  Roy and his three bodyguards stood for introductions, and again, Forry did the honors.
  Roy looked at the two blankly, not having the vaguest idea why either of them were present
Forry took over, first sending Les for drinks for the newcomers and then for refills for the re
them.
  When all were seated again, he said, "Jet Peters is your publicity man, Roy. He used to work
one of the big cosmocorps, a multinational corporation specializing in uranium. But he was sp
down, the same as I was, by the computers. A younger guy got his position."
  Roy could see that possibility. The other was somewhere in his early fifties and looked both
and cynical. He was sloppily dressed, a bit bleary of eye, a tremor in his hands. A drinker
Wobbly decided.
  Roy said, "Publicity? I thought you were handling publicity, Forry."
  "I am," the ex-newsman said, getting out his cigarettes again. "But I won't be able to handle
Jet's an old pro. He'll come up with dozens of ideas that wouldn't occur to me. He's got a l
contacts, too. He'll earn his ten thousand."
  All eyes went to the second of the two newcomers, who had been introduced as Ferd Feldm
He was not just overweight, but almost obscenely fat. Like many fat men, he bought his clothes
small so that he bulged in them. He was pale of face, thin of dirt-blond hair, and his small m
seemed to pout. Ferd Feldmeyer was less than handsome.
  Forry said, "Ferd is your speechwriter."
  "Speechwriter! Holy smog, Forry, I don't need a speech-writer. I do my own speeches, usuall
the cuff. Why, this guy isn't even a Wobbly, so far as I know. How could he write my speec
even if I wanted him to?"
  Ferd Feldmeyer might not have been much for looks but his voice was deep and had a rin
sincerity. He said, "Since Forry approached me on this, I've been reading up on your movement
and night—including your own publications, not just the material in the National Data Banks. I'
you something about political organizations and religions, or philosophies, for that matter.
should be able to sum yours up in two hundred words. If you can't, something's wrong with
movement. Right now, I could sit down and tear off a speech for you that would give the Wo
position— maybe better than you've ever presented it. On top of that, I'd drop in a little hu
some good quotations, and wind it up with a blockbuster of a gimmick ending that'd have
anxious to tune in to your next broadcast."
  Forry said reasonably, "You're not going to be able to give your standard talks off the cuf
Tri-Di, Roy. They've got to be written out, and you're going to have too many to write you
You're not only going to speak often on Tri-Di, TV, and even radio, but we're going to line yo
for personal appearances, lectures, and so forth. Ferd and Jet are also going to double for yo
your ghosts."
  Roy stared at him. "My what? That's one thing that nobody else can do for me… die."
  The former newsman said, "Sorry, Roy; poor choice of words. I meant ghost writers. If
publicity hits the way I think it will, there'll be calls for articles from all sorts of periodicals fro
over the world. Maybe we'll even do a book." He squinted his eyes and said thoughtfully, "
reminds me of something. Do you speak Spanish?"
  "No."
  The little man turned his eyes to Mary Ann Elwyn, who had been sitting quietly, primly, her h
in her lap. She had refused the drink Les offered. Forry said, "Make a note, Mary Ann. We
computer translators to put Roy's speeches into Spanish, French, and Italian."
  The secretary quickly opened her attache case, brought forth a stylo and notepad, and scrib
away.
  Jet said, "How about Russian and Mandarin?"
  Forry thought about that but then shook his head. "Not yet. For the time being, the Wo
movement is aimed at the West. Maybe later, if I understand the program correctly, it might sp
to the Soviet Complex and China. Okay, Roy?"
  "I suppose so," the Wobbly said. This whole thing seemed to be getting more and more out o
hands. The ineffective-looking little Forrest Brown was taking over with a vengeance. Thus far,
Cos had precious little to do—except to stay alive as long as possible.
  Forry spoke through the smoke that dribbled from his mouth. "We'd better get down to de
plans. Like I said, we start the publicity tomorrow. We also wrap up the arrangements for the
Tri-Di talk, nationwide, beamed worldwide from satellites. When Roy's made that first speech
publicity will really hit. He'll be big news. Everybody in the country will be on the edge of their c
waiting for the Deathwish Wobbly…" He broke off and looked at Jet Peters. "I think we oug
use that bit of business in our publicity. The Deathwish Wobbly. The revolutionist so sincere
he's willing to die for the chance of spreading it." He looked back to Roy and the others. "They
sitting on the edges of their chairs, waiting to see how long it'll take for the Grafs men to get to y
  He ground out his current cigarette and took up the drink sitting on the cocktail table before
"Until the first Tri-Di broadcast, we won't show. We'll not leave this house. Nobody here wil
their credit cards, on the off chance that the enemy might have connected one of us with Roy
pay all expenses, as I did for renting this place, with my card. It's an unnumbered account and
won't be able to trace me with it. The moment we make that broadcast, Roy will begin to us
million pseudo-dollars a day available to him on his Swiss International Credit Card. And from
on we're on the defensive. But the more this pyramids, the more publicity Roy gets, the bette
chances are of avoiding the Graf's hit men. There'll be mobs wherever he goes, making it difficu
assassins to get through to him. I hope. A good many of those people are going to be on Roy's
He's the underdog, and fighting against terrible odds. They'll be out to get any assassins who
up. And these men of the Graf's are pros, not fanatics. They're not interested in making martyr
of themselves. That'll be one of the biggest advantages
  WC 113 VC.
  Les Bates looked at his wrist chronometer. He announced Four hours to go until midnight."
  Chapter Ten: Lee Garrett
  Of all the major cities of the world, only Rome, the City of the Seven Hills, had not banned su
vehicles. It wouldn't, at least not in the older areas of town, originally settled by Romulus an
tribesmen, glorified by Augustus, later made the center of the world's most powerful religio
couldn't because old Rome was a museum of three thousand years' standing. It would have
impossible to dig metros and underground highways. The archeological world would have bee
in arms. Excavations would have destroyed a multitude of buried ancient temples, tombs, ar
and fortifications going back as far as the Etruscans. These all lay ten to fifty feet below the sur
someday to be dug out with loving care. Even the pressures of modern transport could not thre
to destroy the remnants of a tiny synagogue where once, perhaps, Paul had given sermon
governmental building where Caesar had issued his edicts; an aqueduct which once supplied
water for the baths of Diocletian.
  However, private vehicles were discouraged to the point where only the most powerful, thr
wealth or governmental position, were allowed their personal conveyances. Otherwise, traffic
limited to emergency vehicles and to public cabs and buses. It still amounted to considerably
traffic than was to be seen elsewhere.
  Thus it was that Lee Garrett found herself riding from the shuttleport to the city's center in a s
taxi. It had been some years since she had been in this wondrous city, and she recognized a sco
landmarks with a thrill.
  "Destinatio, Signorina?" the admiring cabby had asked her, his eyes indicating appreciation o
fine blond hair, piled high on her head, of her very un-Italian blue eyes, not to speak of her s
figure.
  The Roman way of the male toward any girl with the least pretensions of pulchritude returne
her and she smiled, remembering. "Number 17, Via della Pilotta," she told him in impeccable Ital
  He looked over his shoulder again. "But Signorina, the Palazzo Colonna is no longer open to
public, not even on Saturday mornings."
  "So I understand," she told him.
  They were passing through the Piazza di Spagna, for centuries the center of the Bohemian
element, with its medieval Fontana dil Barcaccia by Bernini still watered by a Roman aqueduct.
with its famed Scala di Spagna, known as the Spanish Steps by many tourists. Lee Garrett smile
  A church here, a palace there, a monument to some long-dead emperor farther on. They
through the Piazza di Trevi, with its baroque fountain where visitors threw coins to guarantee tha
day they would return. And shortly they pulled up before the huge complex that was the Pal
Colonna, once the most sumptuous of the patrician houses of Rome. Lee brought her Internat
Credit Card from her handbag and put it in the payment slot of the cab.
  There were two uniformed young men at the entry, looking in their red medieval garb something
the Swiss guards at the Vatican and bearing, of all things, halberds, shafted weapons of the
century with axlike cutting blades, beaks, and terrible spikes. Lee, amused, remembered rea
somewhere that the unlikely looking devices had been designed as can openers against arm
horsemen. She wondered if there was presently a horse in all Rome, not to speak of a man in arm
  One of them approached, bowed, and politely opened the cab door for her.
  Lee got out, flashed him a smile, and said, "I have an appointment with Signorina Duff-Rob
Meanwhile, I am not sure where I'll be staying tonight. Could you get my bags and hold them fo
somewhere?"
  He bowed again. "Signorina Garrett?"
  "Why, yes."
  "Your things will be taken up to your suite, Signorina."
  "Thank you." Lee's eyebrows went up slightly but her poise was built in. So: she had a suite i
Palazzo Colonna!
  Without doubt there would be a small plaque on the door reading Lucretia Borgia Slept Her
some such.
  Inside the entrance were four more young men, in outfits of pages, complete to satin berets
tassels atop. They had been lounging, idly talking among themselves, but now one advanced
sweeping bow, very much in character. "The Palazzo is not open to the public, Signorina."
  "I'm Lee Garrett," she told him. "I have an appointment…"
  "Of course, Signorina," he blurted. "If you will come this way. Signorina Duff-Roberts aw
you."
  She followed him up the impressive stone stairway to the vestibule. Years ago, her father
brought her here to see the famed home of what had once been the most powerful family in R
Popes had been born here, and cardinals without number, and kings, queens, dukes, duchesse
the vestibule were paintings of several schools, including Van Dyke, Murillo, and Lotto.
  The way led them through the Hall of the Colonna Bellica, past the steps leading down to the G
Hall, and then up another stairway almost as magnificent as that at the entrance to the palace.
priceless treasures of the palace might have been expressed in tonnage. Then followed a serie
coldly superb chambers, each a museum of murals, marbles, and tapestries. Why would an
choose to live in such a place? But then they arrived at the spacious salon of Sheila Duff-Robert
  There was no identity screen set into the magnificent carved door; that would have be
desecration. Her guide knocked softly and then, without waiting for a response, opened the door
closed it behind her.
  On her visit as a youngster, Lee hadn't been in this part of the rambling building. In those da
had still been occupied by descendants of the Colonna family and visitors had been excluded
the private quarters. This room had obviously once been one of the minor salons, now conv
into a baroque office. The furniture was of the fifteenth or sixteenth century, with all the s
uncomfortable appearance of that era.
  Sheila Duff-Roberts arose from her chair behind the desk. She was a large woman physically
was built in handsome proportion. She enjoyed the long limbs and proud carriage of an Oly
champion. Her face was classical and she knew how to bring out her best features. Her ha
cosmetics, and jewelry were the products of experts. Basically, hers was a severe face, bri
intelligent rather than friendly, and her smile was cool. A cigarette dangled from the side of
mouth, man-style. She was dressed in a slack suit which Lee recognized as the latest sty
Common Europe. She approached Lee briskly, hand outstretched. It proved to be a warm,
hand, somehow projecting a caressing quality.
  Sheila Duff-Roberts said throatily, "Well, my dear, in spite of your photographs, I didn't ex
you to look quite so darling."
  Lee didn't quite know how to respond to that. To cover the fact, she looked at the desk and
"Marvelous."
  It was done in sandalwood and was adorned with lapis lazuli, amethysts, and other semi-prec
stones. In the front it had twelve small amethyst columns, and at the top, gilt statuettes represe
the Muses and Apollo seated under a laurel tree.
  The other chuckled and said, "Isn't it beautiful—in a repulsive sort of way? I couldn't resist; h
moved in from the Room of the Desks. One of the others there is possibly even worse. It's do
ebony with twenty-eight ivory bas reliefs, and the central relief is a copy of Michelangelo's
Judgment. A real monstrosity. We'll get it for your office, if you'd like. But do sit down, dar
You're Lee Garrett, of course. I'm Sheila Duff-Roberts."
  Feeling a little overwhelmed, Lee took the sixteenth century chair the other indicated. She
"Yes, Ms. Duff-Roberts. I was given instructions by Gary McBride to…"
  "Yes, of course." Sheila Duff-Roberts strode briskly around her ornate desk, resumed her c
and touched a sheaf of papers before her. "I've been going over your qualifications.
impressive, my dear."
  Lee said, "What qualifications? I haven't the slightest idea what my duties are. Mr. McBride
told me I was to work for the Central Committee of the World Club."
  The other smiled her sparse smile and dispatched her cigarette in an elaborate ceramic work n
meant, by the artist who had conceived it half a millennium ago, as an ashtray.
  She said, "You were selected by our computers as my secretary, darling."
  Lee let out her breath, trying to disguise exasperation. "But what is your position? What do
do? What are these qualifications I'm supposed to have?"
  "Relax, dear. I'm the secretary." She took another cigarette from a medieval gold and ivory
and lit it with a modern gold desk lighter. "One of your qualifications is that you don't need the
Or any other job, for that matter. You're filthy rich, dear."
  Lee looked at her blankly.
  The Junoesque woman said, "So are all our other upper-echelon personnel. If they were not
with such resources, we make them available. In short, none of us is motivated by desire for mo
We already have money. We are motivated by the dream."
  "What dream?" Lee said, still far out of her depth.
   The other let heavy smoke flow from her nostrils. "The dream is to create a stable world, Lee
been dreamed before, throughout history. For limited periods it has even been achieved, here
there—in Egypt for centuries; in Mexico by the Mayans; in China, at least to a certain degree, be
the coming of the Europeans."
   Lee said, "What do you mean by stability?"
   "For the first time, darling, the human race finds itself in a position to achieve a stable, unchan
society on a worldwide basis. No national disorders, wars, or extreme poverty."
   "It sounds like quite a dream," Lee said skeptically. "I knew the World Club was a nonp
think-factory seeking solutions to current problems, but I had no idea its scope was
all-embracing. Frankly, I'm having second thoughts. It sounds—well, impossible. It's true that I
it to be something rational. Not a… forgive me… pipe dream."
   The secretary of the World Club chuckled throatily again. "Lee, darling, do you approve of GA
the United States of the Americas?"
   "I think so. I can't think of any other manner of dealing with mass unemployment brought o
automation."
   "And do you approve of the United States taking in any North or South American country
wished statehood?"
   "I think it was one of the most intelligent acts my country has ever performed."
   "Both were subtly engineered by the World Club."
   "But that's ridiculous. I've never even heard a rumor of such a thing."
   Sheila smiled. "I said 'subtly,' did I not? First steps, darling. You see, our basic desire
maintain the status quo in society, based on what now prevails in America and Common Eur
However, we are not really a conservative organization, certainly not a reactionary one. The W
Club is quite revolutionary, in the broadest sense of the word. It aims at a stable, desirable worl
the overwhelming majority. It cannot be all things to all people, but it can aim at making a s
society for the average person. To do this we must align ourselves against subversive elem
nihilist terrorists, the Wobblies in the States, Eurocommunists in Common Europe, even
Anti-Racist League. But we are not reactionary."
   "I see," Lee said, somewhat less doubtfully. "What are some of the other ills that the World
thinks it can solve?"
   The handsome Amazon shrugged. "Bringing all religions together under the leadership of the U
Church, perhaps. A universal language based on Esperanto. We already have a committee wo
on this. Meanwhile, English is the nearest to a universal language that we now have. Eliminatio
differences in religion and language will help guarantee a world society which will last indefinitely
   "English, a universal language?" Lee said. "I thought there were a billion Chinese who s
Mandarin."
   Sheila chuckled in her humorless manner. "Touche," she said. "But most all of them are in C
The problem of assimilating China into our world society will have to be held in abeyance fo
time. By the way, are you a women's rights advocate?"
   "In most ways," Lee nodded. "However, I don't claim that women are equal to men i
respects."
   The other looked at her sharply. "Why not? Certainly women are equal to men in all respects."
   "For one thing," Lee said wryly, "they don't have as long a penis. We can carry this chip on
shoulder to ridiculous extremes. It's like the contention that blacks are the same as whites i
respects. Nonsense. One has a darker complexion than the other. So far as women
concerned—well, there has never been a female heavyweight champion of the world. A second
male pro would flatten the best female fighter who ever lived; they simply have more upper-b
strength! On the other hand, I've always thought the first astronauts should have been women. W
generally smaller and take up less space, use less food and oxygen, and on an average, we're
deft with our hands. We seem to have more endurance under stress. I wonder how the average
would hold up under a difficult childbirth."
  The tall Sheila eyed her. "You have one quality that doesn't come out in the computer reports—
strength to state strong opinions, darling. Do you have any other questions?"
  "Yes," Lee said definitely. "I'm surprised that both you and Mr. McBride have revealed so muc
me, even before I've consented to take the position. You've told me that most workers for the W
Club don't even know it exists. But you've bared everything to me."
  The other lit still another cigarette. "Not quite everything, dear," she said dryly. "You must re
that our computers selected you above all others. The computers seldom make mistakes in
things. We are assured that you are the best person for the position and the computers are o
opinion that you will take it. Obviously, it was required that you know what you are stepping into
  Lee took a deep breath and said in resignation, "What would my duties be?"
  "This first week, to give members the chance to become acquainted with you, since in this pos
you will be privy to many of their innermost decisions. The committee is now in session and w
for the rest of this month. Most of them are now in residence. These regular sessions are held tw
year. They're informal, and consist largely of their sitting around, two by two or in larger groups,
discussing developments of the program. Not all are present at this session. Grace Cabot-Hud
who is rather old and infirm, remained at her residence in North America." Sheila Duff-Ro
looked at her timepiece. "But now, my dear, you must be tired, and will wish to see your suite
freshen up. And I have duties, of course." Her eyes shifted slightly. "By the way, there is t
apanous tonight. Would you be interested?" Lee shook her head. She wasn't shocked, not in
age, but she was somewhat surprised. She said, "No, I'm not interested in group sex."
Amazon's brows went up. "Lesbian?"
  "No."
  "Pity," Sheila said. "However, perhaps in time you'll change your mind. Which reminds me
have a staff of half a dozen office girls." She took her lower lip in her perfect teeth. "Some of
are quite darling."
  There was a knock at the door and a man with the look of a well-tanned European, somewhe
his mid-thirties sauntered through. He wore his red hair in a young athlete's crew cut and his
blue eyes seemed out of place in his dark complexion. There was an easygoing sardonic quali
his smile. "Sheila," he said, "you are looking particularly Brunhildic today. Have you been butch
male chauvinists with your broadsword again?"
  The secretary of the Central Committee snorted at that and said, "Where the hell have you b
Jerry? I've been trying to get in touch with you for weeks."
  "Reclusing," he told her easily. "Haven't you heard? I am currently labeled the world's wealt
recluse and also its most eligible bachelor. Want to get married? Oops, no, of course not."
  Sheila snorted again and said, "This is Lee Garrett. She's to be my new secretary. Lee,
Jeremiah Auburn. Mr. Auburn is a member of the Central Committee; its youngest, by the way.
he ever got into its membership is a mystery to me."
  "Mind how you speak to your superiors, Ms. Duff-Roberts," he said amiably. And then, a
shook hands with Lee, "Wizard, we meet again."
  Lee wrinkled her forehead. "I… I've heard about you, Mr. Auburn, but where did we ever m
I'm sure that I would recall."
  A glint of laughter came into his eyes. "It's an old ploy of mine. I'm terrible at remembering pe
and women become so distressed when I don't recall their faces, particularly if I
  once spent a long weekend with them in the Bahamas, or Hawaii, or wherever, that I say, 'Wi
we meet again,' just to be sure." He headed for an elaborate Florentine cabinet, which turned o
be a disguised bar.
  "How good of you, Jerry," Sheila said sarcastically. "It must be distressing to be such a ladyki
  "A distress you'd love to share," he said over his shoulder. And then, "Hmmm, perhaps you d
  "I hope you worry about that a lot," Sheila said, obviously well used to his banter.
  He called, "Anybody else up to a bit of guzzle? I just checked. It's twelve, so you won
considered a morning lush."
  Sheila asked for Scotch but Lee shook her head, still uneasy. Somehow, this man seemed fam
possibly it was his voice, but she knew that she'd never seen him. There wasn't a woman in the w
who could meet Jerry Auburn and forget about it. The leading light of the rocket set for a decad
had suddenly reversed his engines and disappeared from sight, in the tradition of Howard Hug
From time to time he would pop up in the news but largely he was, as he had said, a recluse.
couldn't imagine him being a member of the World Club, much less of its Central Committee.
  He brought Sheila's drink back to her, held up his own darkish brandy and water, and
"Cheers, Sheila, old chum-pal. A new secretary, eh? What happened to the ultra-efficient Pamela
  "I'm sure you'll leam all about it," she said, and sipped. "Lee just came in today."
  "Wizard," Jerry Auburn said, looking Lee over again. He made with a mock leer. "You cert
pick them, Sheila."
  Sheila didn't disguise her impatience at that. "Attractiveness and poise are requirement
employees who must meet the public, the news media, and so forth, Mr. Auburn. As you very
know."
  He finished the drink in one fell swoop and looked at his chronometer. "This is as goo
opportunity as any for me to become acquainted with our beauteous Ms. Garrett. Are you avai
for lunch, ah, Lee?"
  "Why," she said, "I haven't even seen my rooms yet, but
  I'm not really tired and we didn't eat on the shuttle from Paris."
  "Wizard," he said. "Then with Sheila's permission, I'll whisk you off."
  "I'll see you later this afternoon, dear," Sheila told her. "Don't forget about the, uh, party
evening, if you change your mind."
  Out in the hall, as they walked toward the staircase, Jerry Auburn grinned and said, "Has S
already invited you to one of her versions of the partousT'
  She looked up at him from the side of her eyes. "Yes."
  "I went to one once. They're rather in the far-out line—in the Roman tradition of Nero. Not my
of tea. I love ladies one at a time and I don't like boys at all. And I'll leave the building of horiz
pyramids to the pharaohs. Must've been unhealthy; they're all dead, I notice."
  She laughed. "We seem to share similar ideas," she told him, before realizing that he m
misinterpret that.
  He chuckled and took her arm as they began to descend the stairs without saying anything fu
on the subject of sex.
  The pages at the door came hurriedly to attention as Jeremiah Auburn approached, as did
guards with their halberds.
  There was a beautiful sportster at the curb, one of the extreme models from Bucharest. Lee
moderately surprised when he ushered her to it and saw her seated on the passenger side. "You
permission to drive your own car in Rome?" she said.
  "Ranking members of the World Club have their prerogatives, Lee. Having our central headqua
here is a feather in the caps of the city fathers. They turned over the Palazzo Colonna to us abou
years ago. Do you know Rome? Any preferences on where to eat?"
  "I haven't been here for years. I'll leave it to you."
  "Wizard, let's say the Hostaria dell'Orso. I believe it's supposed to be the oldest restaura
town. Dante used to live in the building."
  He turned the corner and sped down the Via Battisti in the direction of the looming monstrosity
was the monument to Vittorio Emanuele.
  As they passed it, Lee shook her head. "Imagine leveling several acres of the Roman forum to
that thing."
  "My sentiments exactly," he said. "So, you're to be Sheila's new secretary. Did she give you
song and dance about the dream?"
  Lee looked over at him in some surprise. "She made rather a moving appeal for the goals o
World Club, a stable society in which most of history's problems would be solved."
  Jerry laughed softly. "Did she discuss her final solution to the women's rights problem?"
  "Why, no. She asked how I stood on the question but we didn't go very far into it."
  He said, "I suspect her goal is the reestablishment of a matrilineal society. Get Sheila a bit into
cups and she begins to point out that women predominate numerically in the world but fo
practical purposes are ignored in its governing. For instance, we've never had a female preside
the United States. I suspect that Sheila wouldn't object to taking the job." He grinned again. "I
just see a whole cabinet of lesbians."
  Lee said, confused, "But what does motivate the Central Committee, if not what Sheila call
dream?"
  He shot a look over at her, even as he maneuvered through the narrow streets. "Did our g
Sheila tell you anything about the composition of the Central Comitttee?"
  "No, not yet. Aside from you, she mentioned Grace Cabot-Hudson."
  "And what do you know about Grace?"
  "Not much, really. Isn't she supposed to be the richest woman in the world?"
  "Uh huh. And what do you know about me?"
  "Well, aside from the news media nonsense, not much. Oh, yes, I've heard that you were pos
the richest man in the world."
  Jerry laughed outright. "Harrington Chase would hate you for that."
  "You mean that anti-semitic Texan who supports those ultra-right wing organizations. G
heavens, what has he got to do with it?"
  "Harrington's a member of the Central Committee, my dear. So is Mendel Amschel, for that m
which sometimes drives poor Harrington up the wall."
  "The Viennese banker? He's another one that's sometimes called the richest man. Why should
Chase object to him?"
  "If you count his whole family, Mendel may control more wealth than anyone else. The irony is
while he's a Jew, I doubt if he's religious at all. Ah, here we are."
  The Hostaria dell'Orso was located in a medieval palace, elegant and very expensive. Jerry Au
asked the maitre d' for a private dining room and they were immediately escorted to the second f
  "Sorry," Jerry said to Lee. "There are still some who remember my face, especially wo
Unfortunately, I'm seldom mentioned without that 'most eligible bachelor' label being hung ar
my neck, as though anybody bothered to get married anymore. But even in a place like this, it ca
a hazard. Especially when radicals sometimes send a nut case to nice joints on the off chance
they can take a shot at some bloated aristocrat like me."
  "No wonder you're a recluse," she told him in a low voice, as they were shown into a luxu
private room.
  The maitre d' turned them over to a captain and bowed himself out. The captain gave them m
and stood back, his face stolid.
  "Are you a bloated aristocrat too?" Jerry said as they scanned their cartes.
  "I suppose so," she sighed. "But not as bloated as you are. I'm sure I'm not bloated enough
Nihilist to take a crack at me, as you put it."
  He looked over at her appreciatively and said, "Bloat is not the word. Zaftig, guapa, sleek—t
are the words."
  "Oh, hush," she said, laughing.
  When the captain was gone, Lee looked at him accusingly. She said, "Very well, then. If you
have the dream, why are you a member of the Central Committee?"
  He thought about that a moment. "Probably to protect my own interests."
  "And all of the other members?"
  "To protect theirs. That's what motivates almost everyone, you know—their own interests."
  She looked at him in disbelief. ' 'Sheila said that it was the World Club which pushed through
assimilating of the United States of the Americas. In my opinion that is the
  outstanding political development of this century. How did that protect your interests,
Auburn?"
  He smiled mockingly at her and said with deliberate pomposity, "Ms. Garrett, the greater pa
my investments are in multinational corporations. Almost all corporations of any size
multinationals these days, staffed by the most competent people the computers can locate. Bu
still have our Cubas to deal with. Americans owned practically everything in basic Cuban ind
until Castro took it over. No buy-out, nothing; lady, the investors took some lumps. Why d'you
the CIA financed the Bay of Pigs invasion? To let us get 'our' Cuba back! We feared Allend
Chile, might take the Castro route, so Allende was murdered and a military junta took
demolishing what was left of democracy in Chile. However, we could never be sure that
properties were safe. Now, Ms. Garrett, with the establishment of the United States of the Amer
they are safe. And so are all the raw materials of Latin America, in return for a comparatively s
amount of GAS to keep the peons pacified."
  She was inwardly upset. "I still say it was a wonderful step of progress."
  "Wizard," he said. "I didn't say that the Central Committee worked against the interests o
majority of people. It was to the personal interest of Washington, Jefferson, John Hancock,
Franklin to win independence from England. They were all rich men. But it was also a good thin
the poorer colonists as well."
  She looked confused, doubtful.
  He grinned wryly and said, "Believe me, Lee, in taking all of Latin America into the United St
the multinationals didn't exactly lose money. Oh, in some of the poorer countries and islands
drew blanks temporarily. But how do we know what riches might lie under the jungles of,
Paraguay? Just imagine taking over such nations as Brazil, potentially almost as rich as the ori
United States. Not to speak of Mexico, Venezuela, and Bolivia, with all their unexploited
materials. We get contracts for high-rise apartments for all the new recipients of GAS.
somebody has to get richer building roads, public transportation, communications systems, p
distribution systems. Believe me, Lee, the multi-nationals did not lose money when the States in
Latin America to join our union."
  She said, still arguing, "But the expense of putting all of those millions on GAS. Your taxes
skyrocketed. It surely must have counterbalanced…"
  He was smiling still. "No. You'd be amazed how cheaply a prole can be maintained from the c
to the grave. Planned obsolescence has disappeared, so far as the prole is concerned. Everythin
consumes has been produced by the most advanced automated equipment. He wears textiles
last damn near forever. He lives in prefab buildings that can be erected overnight. He
mass-produced foods manufactured largely in factories: His entertainment is canned. His me
care is computerized and automated, as is the pitiful education he wants. I repeat: it costs practi
nothing to send a prole from the cradle to the grave."
  The waiter entered with Jerry Auburn's cognac, put it on the table, and stepped back.
  Lee felt puzzlement but did not know why. Perhaps it was something subtle in the wa
movements.
  Suddenly, Jerry Auburn knocked back his chair and spun. His foot lashed out and upward wit
grace of a ballet dancer and kicked the small automatic in the hand of the slim, now snarling, It
waiter. The weapon struck the ceiling before falling to the side.
  The waiter cursed in some dialect that neither of the two diners understood and snatched
something in his clothing.
  Jerry reversed himself, his back to the other, and lashed out with his foot again, high. The
connected with the chin and mouth of the attacker, who was slammed back viciously against the
behind him. In a daze, he slid down to the floor. Jerry did not see the automatic.
  Lee got out in a gasp, "Where did you ever learn Savate?"
  "From the first guy who used it on me," he said. "We bloated aristocrats learn fast, don't we?"
  "Yes, we do," she said, and displayed the automatic in her hand.
  Chapter Eleven: The Graf
  On the Eastern side of the Rhine, between the Orisons and Lake Constance, lies a tiny baroque
of a country, Liechtenstein, the last remnant of the Holy Roman Empire and, save for Switzer
the only nation in western Europe still aloof from the loose confederation called Common Europ
boasts a population of some 22,000 and an area of 62 square miles, supposedly still a mona
under His Highness Prince Johann Alois Heinrich Benediktus Gerhardus von und zu Liechten
und Duke von Troppau und Jaegerndorf. The prince had gone bankrupt a quarter of a century e
and these days lived a rocket-set existence on the proceeds of the outright sale of his country.
buyer was Graf Lothar von Brandenburg, who now resided in the Wolfschloss. The schloss, on
robber-baron stronghold, had been built in the 13th century, burned in the Swabian Wars of 1
then last overhauled in the late 20th century. The Wolfschloss was a forty-minute climb by
northeast of Vaduz, the tiny capital of Liechtenstein, or a few minutes by modern road ending
cablecar terminal which provided access to the castle. The climb was forbidden to such touris
still came to the country, and the road was private—unbelievably well patrolled. There were va
roadblocks along it.
  Liechtenstein had once owed its prosperity to tourism, the winter sport industry, and its m
editions of colorful stamps. Since its acquisition by Graf Lothar von Brandenburg it was no lo
prosperous, save for Vaduz, whose working population was largely employed by the Graf him
Tourism was barely tolerated, certainly not encouraged, and the ski resorts were either closed d
or sparsely patronized. The once-famous art collection of the Vaduz Museum was now largely t
found in the Wolfschloss.
  The office of the Graf contained no desk, and had precious little else to resemble a business of
One whole wall was of glass and looked out on an unsurpassed view of the Rhine Valley over pa
the castle's ward. There was but one article of decoration, a Franz Hals, which dominated an
wall. The office presented an air of Spartan luxury, as it were: austere but very, very expensive.
  This morning it was occupied by three people.
  Lothar von Brandenburg, at sixty-five, was still hale and in season skied each morning, or hu
his extensive game preserves. He also made a point of swimming thirty laps of the large swim
pool he'd had installed in the courtyard of a schloss so extensive that a regiment of cavalry c
have paraded there. He was only five feet four but had a lean, athletic build. His short hair,
blond, was now a platinum white. It was his eyes that were most remarkable. The irises wer
flecked smoky grey and they had no expression. Whatever went on behind the smokescreen, no
came through. With few exceptions, people newly introduced to Lothar von Brandenburg
uncomfortable about his eyes. He dressed during the day in formal business wear, complete
dark cravat, although ties had seldom been worn for half a century. His suits were invar
faultless; though it was untrue that he never wore one twice, still they gave that impression.
  Peter Windsor was of a very different sort. Possibly twenty years younger than the man he se
as second in command, he was fresh of face, lime green of eye, handsome in the English arist
manner. Over six feet tall, his lank body gave an impression of indolence if not downright lazi
he being inclined to sprawl rather than sit. From this graceful indolence, one could easily rea
wrong impression. Peter Windsor, which was not the name with which he had been christened
come to the attention of the Graf some twenty-five years in the past when the pink-cheeked
gained a field promotion to brigade commander in a desperately close-fought action in East A
Most of the senior mercenary officers were casualties. The Graf had immediately drawn Win
under his wing, knowing a good thing when he saw one.
  The third person was Margit Krebs, long-time secretary, stenographer, girl Friday, and brain
of the Graf. Her hair was black, unlikely for a Dane, and her face was not Scandinavian, but b
with a wide chin and Magyar cheekbones— the kind of face that aged slowly. Indeed, she c
have passed for anywhere between thirty and fifty. She invariably dressed in British tweeds du
the business day, which understated her marvelous legs and figure.
  The Graf lowered himself precisely into his favorite heavy leather chair and nodded to his
underlings. "Margit, Peter," he said, even as he pressed a button set into the side of the chair's ar
  "Good morning, chief," Peter Windsor said.
  And, "Good morning, Herr Graf," Margit told him.
  A side door opened and a servant entered. He was garbed in the medieval livery of a Germ
court and bore a tray with coffee things. All were of gold save the Dresden cups. The ser
granite of expression, put the tray on the small table about which the three sat.
  "Thank you, Sepp," the Graf said and reached for the pot.
  "Bitte," Sepp murmured, then bowed and backed from the room.
  Peter, as he watched the other pour, said, "Lothar, if the organization ever goes broke we can
this service of yours and retire in comfort, I shouldn't wonder."
  His superior didn't smile but said, "It was ever my boyhood ambition, Peter, to start the day
having one's breakfast and morning beverage served on gold."
  When all had their coffee in hand, the Graf turned his enigmatic gaze on his second. "Und
Peter: the day's crises?"
  The tall Englishman, dressed with all-out informality in sweatshirt, slacks, and tennis shoes, h
clipboard beside him. He took it up saying, "No real crises this morning, Chief." He looked a
top sheet on the clipboard. "A contract has come through to have Senator Miles Deillon hit. On
his business competitors."
  "Ah, the American agricultural tycoon? Why bring it to my attention? Couldn't you have han
such a routine matter? A senator, eh, and a major landowner at that. It would be a double-A cont
very lucrative."
  Peter nodded. "But there may be complications."
  The older man nodded, waiting.
  Peter said, "The senator has had his wind up for some time. Afraid of being kidnapped or w
by the American Nihilists, you know. We supply his bodyguard. Three men per shift
round-the-clock basis—nine men in all."
  "Yes? And the complication?" The Graf sipped his coffee, holding the cup in a small woma
hand.
  His British subordinate blinked. "I say, we can't be hired both to assassinate a man and guard
from assassination.''
  "Why not?"
  Peter put down his own cup of coffee and closed his eyes for a moment. "Well…"he said.
  The Graf waved a hand negatively. "I assume that Luca Cellini in New York is supplying
guards. If he fails in protecting the senator, it will be a mark against his reputation in the organiza
I assume your hit men will come from the ranks of Jacques's Corsicans. They're the best. Very
if they are unsuccessful in their attempt, Jacques will be shamed. Luca and Jacques are g
organization men but we cannot put up with incompetence. Too many contracts inefficiently ca
out would lead to a bad image and our competitors would take advantage. I would dislike se
either of these men go, but business is business. There are many young men with us who are anx
for promotion, willing and ready to step into the shoes of either Luca or Jacques."
  Peter shook his head and made a mark with his stylo on the sheet of paper, then folded it bac
scan the next one. "I've still got much to learn in this field."
  The Graf said, "Speaking of competitors, it has come to my attention that our Colonel Boris R
in Paris, is again taking measures to undersell us and provide a mercenary group for some chi
Mali who wishes to overthrow a neighbor. Approach the colonel once more with a suggestion th
join with us."
  Peter said, after making his note, "There's one small item that might be of interest. One of
so-called Deathwish Policies. We get several a day, of course, but this is an exception."
  "Yes?" the older man said politely.
  "A chap named Roy Cos. He took a standard contract with Brett-James in Nassau. It see
simply routine."
  "Really, Peter, this is a minor matter."
  "It has its element. You see, the clod's disappeared—dropped out of sight. Hasn't used
International Credit Card Brett-James issued him nor, for that matter, his own American card.
lads assigned to hit Cos can't put the bloody crosshairs on him."
  The Graf frowned. "It seems to me that we had a similar case some years ago which event
cost us quite a bit." He looked over at Margit, who sat quietly, hands in her lap. "Refresh me on
position in this regard, my dear Fraulein."
  Margit said, "If the subject is liquidated within the first week of the contract, we receive h
million pseudo-dollars. However, this amount is lowered to a quarter million if he is not liquid
within the following week. If three weeks elapse before he is eliminated, instead of b
recompensed at all, we pay a penalty of half a million pseudo-dollars for each day he survives."
  "Indeed? Yes, now it comes back to me." He looked at Peter Windsor. "I assume that you
investigated. Have you come to any conclusion?"
  "I checked this Roy Cos's Dossier Complete. He is a national organizer of the Wobblies."
  The Graf turned his empty eyes to Margit.
  She closed her eyes and began to recite in an inflectionless voice. "A revolutionary group fou
in 1903 by American unionists, anarchists, and socialists, under the name Industrial Workers o
World, or I.W.W. Their program involved organizing workers into one Big Union which would
charge of the world's economy by legal means. For a time they grew rapidly but their anarc
began to advocate sabotage and violence around 1908, and the government was able to legally c
them. By the 1930s, they had all but disappeared.
  "But not quite completely. Their goals and methods have changed until now they have
similarities to the old I.W.W. They contend that the means of production, distribution, and so f
should be democratically owned and operated by the people as a whole rather than being pr
property or in the hands of the State. They believe that this would give rise to full employment a
new surge of progress."
  Peter snorted. "Full employment? With all the automation available? They're heading for the b
if they're not already around it.''
  Margit opened her eyes. "They seem to believe that the present-day proles, now on GAS, sh
be put to work in the arts, cleaning up ecology problems, that sort of thing."
  Von Brandenburg sighed. "Very well, the man is a revolutionist. Does this have any conne
with his taking out a Deathwish Policy? It doesn't seem consistent."
  The tall Englishman looked back at his notes. "He's beginning to get a bit of publicity, don't
know? The news media are making quite a story of it. Before, these Wobblies were seldom h
of."
  His superior snapped to Margit, "Get through to Luca Cellini in New York and have him pu
best people on this. Cos is to be hit absolutely soonest."
  "Ja, Herr Graf."
  They spoke alternately in English, German, and French. One might ask a question in any of
languages and be answered in another—even occasionally in Spanish, Italian, or Russian.
  Von Brandenburg looked back at Peter Windsor. "How is that fracas in Somalia progressing?"
  "Dormant. However, the Sheik has put in an order for two hundred infantrymen and
hover-tanks, the British Vickers model."
  The Graf looked at his secretary. "Do we have them available?"
  "At the Gao depot," Margit said. "They can be available for shipping within twenty-four h
with crews."
  Peter shook his head. "Where does the beggar get the funds for a contract of this size? One w
think there would be Sweet Fanny Adams in his treasury."
  "From the Arab Union," his chief told him. And then, "Speaking of Africa, what is the lates
Mahem Dhu? I had an indignant call from the Prophet's man last night. This fanatic's moveme
spreading like wildfire. He wants the man to be taken care of immediately."
  Peter nodded. "It's had its complications, you know. I put Spyros Kakia on it. He's our
cover-builder and analyzer. Spyros concluded that hitting the so-called Mahdi wouldn't be o
difficult; he's out in public constantly, for all practical purposes without guards, as befits a holy
But Spyros sees no possibility of a successful hit. I fancied that our only possibility was to loc
gull—a patsy, as the Yanks call it. One's turned up from the States. Chap named Franklin Pin
deportee. Guilty of a homicide romp. He was duped into selecting Tangier for his refuge and
Aussie Nat Fraser took over. Pinell was stripped of everything and then convincingly taken unde
wing of Ram Panikkar, with his usual efficiency. A bit of a swine, Ram, but unbeatable at this so
thing. Pinell is grateful to Ram and agreed to take the Mahdi assignment. His cover will be as a m
man, which will guarantee his access to Mahem Dhu. He'll perform the hit." Peter sig
"Unfortunately, the fast chopper which is supposedly posted for his escape will never materialize
  The Graf nodded acceptance. "Those fanatical followers will tear him to pieces." He frow
"What did you say his name was?"
  Peter looked down at his clipboard. "Franklin Pinell."
  Von Brandenburg thought about it, his smoky eyes nan-owing. He said finally, "What was the n
of Buck Pinell's son? Remember? Buck was always proudly bringing forth his wallet and insistin
look at his snapshots."
  His right-hand man thought back. "Frankie," he said.
  "The name isn't that common." The Graf looked at Margit. "Buck Pinell was before your
Fraulein, but get me his dossier and that of this Franklin Pinell." He looked back at Peter Win
"What was Buck's real first name?"
  "Willard, wasn't it? He never used it. I didn't know him as well as you did, Lothar. What was
news chaps used to call him? The Lee Christmas of the 21st century."
  "Yes," the Graf murmured. "We were young men together in the early days of the organization
best friend, I suppose you would say. Who was Lee Christmas, Fraulein?"
  Margit Krebs had already activated the communications screen which sat next to her chair, to o
the required dossiers. Now her eyes seemed to film and she recited, "Lee Christmas, most notab
the pre-World War One American mercenaries, operated in South and Central America. Al
singlehanded he was successful in several revolutions and military revolts, especially in Honduras
would attain high rank in the new administration but inevitably step on the wrong toes an
dismissed, often to flee for his life. Later he might return and participate in the overthrow o
government he had brought to power. A lone soldier of fortune who owned a Maxim or Vic
machine gun, could gather a handful of followers and defeat a Central American army. He
considered unique among the other mercenaries because he refused to fight on the side he thoug
the wrong.''
  The Graf laughed softly, which brought Peter Windsor's eyebrows up. The other wasn't pron
displaying humor. "That sounds like Buck," he said. "It was his one shortcoming."
  He came to his feet absently and went over to the huge window to stare out over the Fursten
path along the high ridge dividing the Rhine and Samina valleys. The peaks reached six to s
thousand feet, the highest in the Leichtenstein Alps.
  The dossiers, in printout, dropped from the slot in front of the secretary. Margit took them up
quickly scanned them. She said, "You were correct, Herr Graf. Franklin Pinell is the son of W
Pinell. Their photos are even remarkably similar."
  Lothar von Brandenburg said musingly, "And why was young Franklin deported?"
  "He had four felonies on his record. The final one was decisive. He shot a man to death."
  "Why?"
  "He refused to reveal that. His victim was evidently unarmed, shot down in cold blood."
revelation didn't faze Margit Krebs.
  The Graf turned and faced Peter Windsor, who was already eyeing his superior in concern
said, "Find an alternative gobemouche to liquidate the Mahdi."
  Peter stood, one hand out in protest. "Oh, look here, Lothar, this is a million-dollar contract!
can't afford to flub it, don't you know? The Prophet would be incensed. This Pinell chap seem
be a natural, and I daresay it might take donkey's years to find another dupe."
  The older man's expressionless, smoky eyes took him in. "I will not condone the sacrifice o
son of Buck Pinell, Peter."
  "I didn't expect sentiment from you, Chief."
  "Neither did I. However, I suggest that instead of the Mahdi contract, you send young Pine
Paris. Have him remonstrate with Colonel Rivas, who seems to be getting too big for his britche
Buck would have put it. Let him accompany Nat Fraser on the assignment. The Australian is an
hand; he can report how Franklin Pinell reacts to being blooded. I'll want a full report from him
then, possibly, we'll have Buck's son here to the Wolfschloss to gather our own impressions."
  His second in command shrugged it off, clearly dissatisfied, and turned back to his clipbo
"Now: this Dave Carlton chap in New Jersey has been poaching on our military surplus enterpr
Last week he sold one hundred Skoda assault rifles to Chavez, that guerrilla in Colombia wh
attempting to arouse the Colombians to throw off their affiliations with the United States o
Americas."
  Chapter Twelve: The Nihilists
  Rick Flavelle looked over at his sole surviving companion, who leaned against the steel wall
one of the gunports.
  Rick said, "It's damn quiet."
  "Yeah," Alfredo said. "Ever since they yelled for us to surrender and you told them to get fuc
You know what they're doing? They're bringing up something to open up this tin can."
  "Hell," Rick said, checking the clip in his Gyrojet automatic. "They'd need a laser rifle. How's
arm?"
  "I immobilized it with a syrette. But it's sure as hell useless. How's your side?"
  "Okay," Rick lied. He carefully slid back the slide of his gunport and peered out. There
nothing to be seen.
  The steel pillbox in which they were making their ultimate stand was beautifully camouflage
almost the exact center of the Dunninger Mountain resort home, in a beautiful patio garden. Beau
but on the shot-up and bombed-out side right now. From the exterior, as they well knew, the pi
looked like an innocent rock garden. One had to scramble about it quite carefully to find
well-disguised door, not to speak of the gunports.
  Rick said, "How's your ammo?"
  "Down to the last clip. I'm too fucked up with this dead arm to throw the clip and count them."
  "You better click the stud over to single fire," Rick said.
  The other made a face in pain and growled, "You think I'm a dizzard? I long since did that."
  Rick brought his gun up and carefully brought the barrel to the gunport. He squinted and ge
gently, squeezed the trigger.
  "What the hell you shooting at?" Alfredo growled. "Did you get him?"
  "I don't know. Just keeping them honest. I thought I saw something move. You think the bas
might be gone?"
  The other laughed bitterly. "You think the fucking sun will rise in the west tomorrow? Why sh
they be gone? We've had it. Whatever they want, it's sitting in their laps now. I haven't heard any
from the other boys for ten minutes. They've had it."
  "What they want is Dunninger," Rick said emptily. "He was the only one here when they cam
All the family just left for Mexico. Have you called him?"
  "Hell, no. He's down there in the bomb shelter, probably shitting his pants. Damn this arm.
know, maybe Cliff had some shells left."
  Rick looked over at the body lying still where it had fallen. "He had an assault rifle," he said.
ammo wouldn't fit either of our gyros."
  Alfredo snarled, ' 'Use your goddamned head. Get his rifle, and when you've used up your ro
shells, use his gun, I'd get it myself but you can move easier."
  Rick nodded, leaned his automatic against the metal wall, and painfully made his way over to
fallen body. There was little chance of enemy fire penetrating the two small gunports but he mov
a crouch, instinctively. The wound in his side wasn't helping any. He could have taken a syret
localize it but he wasn't sure of the effect. He couldn't afford to have his whole right side paralyz
  The inert Cliff had no spare clips. That stupid bastard Dunninger had insisted that their uniform
neat and presentable. He didn't want them distracting the family and visitors with bandolier
ammunition and grenades dangling from their belts. So, aside from the clips they'd had in
weapons, the bodyguards had at most two spares. They had largely used them up in the
moments of the assault on the Dunninger home. And from then on, they'd had insufficient firep
to keep the attackers at bay. It had been a balls-up from the start. Nobody had time to make his
to the little armory for more ammo.
  Rick worked his way back to his gunport, trailing the assault rifle behind him. His side was fe
worse by the minute.
  He peered through the small port again. He said, trying to keep down their mutual fear
apprehension by talk, "What the hell happened, anyway? Who are they?"
  "The Holy Mother only knows. If that stupid bastard Luca Cellini hadn't pulled the other four
off, we would've had a chance. But eight of us weren't enough, especially with one shift sacked
when the sons of bitches hit."
  Rick said, "Cellini was rotating them. Another four guards were supposed to show up
replacements."
  "Yeah?" the other sneered. "Bullshit. It's too much of a coincidence. Old man Dunninger's fa
leaves him alone here, four of his bodyguards are relieved, and next thing we know, we're all i
dill. There must be twenty of the bastards out there. They knocked off the dogs and three o
boys before we got wise. We're lucky we made it to this overgrown tin can with me covering for
fat cat Dunninger. Listen, there's not enough money in the country to pay for holding down a job
this."
  Rick said wanly, "You should have thought of that during the two years we've been on this c
assignment."
  "Yeah, great, but I wish Luca Cellini was here with us right now. Or, better still, the Graf him
You know what we oughta do, Rick? Call out and tell 'em we're willing to surrender if they won
us. Hell, they don't want us, they want old man Dunninger.''
  His companion, his side cramping up now, looked over sarcastically. "Sure, Al. And then s
the rest of our lives on the run from the Graf. He doesn't like his boys to surrender. And
happens if we do? Not only are we on the run but that's the end of any compensation, any pen
any further credits from him at all. We'd be back on GAS and, so far as I'm concerned, I've got
kids I want to get through a good school, two kids I want to leave a few shares of U.S. Var
Basic Stock so they won't wind up living on nothing but GAS the rest of their lives."
  "Oh, great," the other sneered. "Two kids, eh? A regular one-man population explosion. Well
not that far around the bend, Rick. I don't have any kids. I'm on my own. Those guys out there
us go. They want the big shot hiding down in the bomb shelter, not us. Screw the Graf. We'll w
about him when the time comes. We've both copped one, haven't we? What does he expect?"
  Rick shrugged it off and peered through his gunport. He thought he could hear something goin
in the house. What a sonofabitch of a pickled situation. If the attackers were smart enough to
wait it out another hour, he and Alfredo would have stiffened up to the point that they couldn't r
anyway.
  There came a heavy explosion up against the door that threw him to the steel floor of the s
pillbox. He landed, agonizingly, on his wounded side. He lay there, breathing deeply, not sur
could move. A thin piercing tone began a steady whistle in his ear.
  He called out finally, "You all right, Al? They've got some kind of heavy weapon out there.
was an explosive shell, not just a bomb."
  "Shit! Whad'da'ya mean, am I all right? I keep telling you, we've had it! Yell to them. Toss i
towel."
  Another ear-blasting explosion whumped against the steel door. It sagged inward.
  "Oh, Jesus," Rick panted. "Why can't those four new guards show up? Take 'em from the r
He struggled to work his Gyrojet automatic around.
  "You stupid dreamer, you," Alfredo got out. "They're not coming. We've been set up. Left ho
the fucking sack."
  The next explosion blew the heavy door off its hinges, sent it crashing to the floor, barely mi
the fallen Rick Flavelle.
  "Here they come," Alfredo snarled.
  Two prole-garbed fighters popped through the blasted en-tryway and jumped immediately to
side, crouching. They carried automatic shotguns, on the ready.
  Alfredo swore, brought up his gun with his one arm, pulled the trigger, widened his eyes a
weapon's failure to fire, pulled desperately again. A shotgun blast tore his stomach away.
  Rick threw his weapon aside, screaming, "I'm out of it. Don't shoot! Give me a break!"
  The first of the two approached him gingerly, covered by the second. Grimed by dirt, eyes
with excitement and exertion, he was a good-looking young fellow in his late teens, looking more
a student than a gunman. He kicked Rick's weapon even farther to one side and shot a quick lo
the bodies of Alfredo and Cliff.
  He stared down at Rick and said, "Why didn't you dizzards give up? We weren't after you
want that plutocrat, Dunninger. You're just a couple of working men, doing the best you can to m
some kind of decent living."
  "Yeah, yeah," Rick panted. "That's it. Don't shoot."
  The young gunman looked around at his companion. "Call for the medic, and Ostrander."
  The second one nodded and went back to the door and shouted, "It's secure. There's only on
and he's wounded. Where's the doc?"
  A newcomer entered the breached pillbox and looked about, making a face at the carnage. He
middle-aged, and toted an old-fashioned assault rifle under one arm.
  He looked down at Rick and said, "Where's Dunninger? Don't make us force you to tell."
  Rick was losing most of his sudden panic but was still breathing deeply. He got out, "Down i
bomb shelter. Over there; the trap door."
  "He armed?"
  A doctor entered, carrying a medical bag. He was older, gray of hair, and obviously tired. R
undoubtedly, wasn't the only combat victim he had treated in the past hour of action. He sho
eyes around, dismissed the obviously dead pair, and came over to Rick.
  Rick said, "Yeah, he's armed," to the one in command.
  "That trap door locked from inside?"
  "I don't know. I've never been down there."
  The doctor said, "Shut up. Let me look at you," and knelt down next to the fallen bodyguard.
  But the commander said, "Is there any way of communicating with him from up here?"
  "That phone over there, hung on the wall."
  "Shut up," the doctor repeated, fishing in his bag.
  The commander went over to the phone, examined it briefly, put it to his mouth and ear,
activated a stud on its side.
  He said, "Dunninger? You might as well come on out of there, or we'll have to blow you out
that might wind up plastering you around the walls… No, we won't kill you. Not yet. Not if
family ponies up the ransom… Don't be a dizzard, Dunninger. Of course we can get you ou
there. We're here in the pillbox, aren't we? Stop trying to stall, nobody's coming to your assista
This house is too far away from any other for the ruckus to have been heard, and we ha
scrambler blanketing all communications. So come on out of there before we scrape you out."
  He listened for a moment longer and then hung the phone back on the wall. He looked at the
trap door to the bomb shelter below.
  Two more civilian-clad, armed men had crowded into the small compartment. They looked d
at the doctor working on Rick Flavelle, who had passed out.
  The doctor said, "Here, you two men carry this fellow out to the chopper."
  One of the newcomers grumbled, "Why not let him die? Chet is dead and two of the other
have copped one."
  "Because we're not butchers. Now get this man to the aircraft."
  While the two were carrying Rick out into the garden patio, the trap door began cautiously to
The three remaining gunmen trained their weapons on it. The commander reached down and gra
the steel door and pulled it completely back. On the steel ladder below stood an apprehensive m
his late middle years, white of face, lips trembling. He was clad in swimming trunks.
  "Come on, come on," the commander of the terrorists said. The other climbed out fearfully
put his hands high over his head. He saw the two bodies and winced. The commander jerke
head. "Come on, this way."
  Harold Dunninger said, doing his best to keep a tremor from his voice, "Where are we going?"
  "To a hideout until we collect the ransom. If we collect it."
  "Oh, don't worry. Don't worry about that. You'll collect it. Don't worry."
  "We're not worrying—either way."
  They passed through the garden, into the house, and down the hall toward the front d
Everywhere were signs of the short battle that had been waged so recently, including two bodi
uniforms similar to those of Rick and Alfredo.
  Outside, a copter had landed on the extensive lawn. The two gunmen who had carried Rick
were hoisting him up into it. More armed men in prole clothing were streaming from the house,
of them with bandaged wounds. They were in high good humor, calling back and forth to each
banteringly.
  The commander said, "One of you boys go back and get some clothes for this character. Coz
bandage his eyes. He's got a reputation as a sharpy."
  When all had embarked, the craft swept off the ground and reached for altitude. The comma
seated next to the pilot, said evenly, "Get out of here soonest. It won't be long before one of t
damned servants gets himself untied. Shouldn't be much more than an hour before the IABI is
us."
  "Right," the pilot said.
  Still blindfolded, Harold Dunninger, now in better command of himself and making an effo
control his trembling, was pushed down on a hard seat in the copter. At least, thank God, Betty
the children were now safely in Mexico.
  And then the chilling thought came to him. He and Betty hadn't been getting along these days—
since she had found out about that ridiculous little harem he'd been keeping down in the city.
group sex thing. Betty was of the old school, had even insisted on marriage. But now they had
planning divorce, and Betty would have the reins of his fortune when it came to the ransom. W
was to prevent her from taking an uncompromising stand against the kidnappers, refusing to
their demands? On his death, she would inherit the whole fortune, one of the largest on the conti
Damn!
  Betty had let him know, in no uncertain terms, that she hated him for what she called her betr
The bitch didn't realize that she'd lost what appeal she had possessed as a young woman. N
though pushing sixty, he still had the sexual drives of a man in his thirties. Those bimbos he
were only for occasional orgies, nothing important. As for the family, he loved the two boys and
grown used to Betty. He hadn't wanted the divorce; was still arguing with her about it. But she
adamant. Oh, God, Betty! Would she meet the kidnappers' demands? After all, it was only mo
There was always more, endlessly more, where it came from.
  The aircraft slid into a landing and again he was hauled, pushed, led blindly this point to that.
he was in some kind of a building, perhaps a dwelling. Nor did his captors utilize an elev
Instead, he was marched up stairs, down a hall, then pushed into a room. A door slammed be
him.
  Harold Dunninger stood there a while, his eyes still bandaged but his hands free. Finally, hesita
he reached up and tore the blindfold away.
  He was in a small bedroom. It could have been a servant's room in any of his own houses. Bu
not even his servants lived in quarters as drab as these. Two chairs, a table, a dresser, a bed, an
door to a small bath. On the bed lay some of his clothes, including shoes. Whoever had snatche
the things had forgotten socks and handkerchiefs. On the table was a plate of sandwiches w
looked less than appetizing and a half-liter plastic of beer. The furniture was less than new, the ru
the floor well-worn. There was one window, but what looked like tar paper had been taped over
the outside so that he couldn't have looked out without breaking the glass, and he assumed tha
would bring punishment.
  For lack of anything else to do, he donned shirt, slacks, and shoes. They hadn't even brought
underclothing. No Tri-Di set, not even a radio or books. The pockets of his slacks were empty.
  There came a gentle knock at the door and Harold Dunninger looked up, apprehensive a
Before he could respond, a stranger entered.
  None of the kidnappers he had thus far seen had looked like desperadoes. They had been dre
as proles, but they hadn't been vicious, in spite of the circumstances. But this one was different.
  Among other things, he was only about twenty, and one had to look twice to realize that he w
younger. He had what only could be described as a hesitant face. Polite, well bred, fresh-face
though he hadn't been shaving very long, and far from aggressive. His expression was al
apologetic. He was well-dressed in sports clothing and wouldn't have looked out of place w
tennis racket in his hand.
  He said, "Good afternoon, sir."
  Harold Dunninger stared at him. "Who the hell are you?"
  The other flushed. "My name's Thomas Spaulding, sir." He stood there almost like a waiter
butler at attention.
  Dunninger continued to eye him. He said finally, "Well, what do you want?"
  "I've come to… to be with you, sir. Do you mind if I sit down?"
  "It's your jail," the older man snapped, somehow feeling relief at this development, some
gaining courage from the appearance of this inoffensive youngster. He himself took one of the c
at the table.
  "I'll do what I can to make you as comfortable as possible under the circumstances."
  The tycoon snorted in disgust. "Comfortable! Under these conditions? What could you d
make me comfortable?"
  "Anything within reason—something to read, something to eat besides those sandwiches? Perh
something to drink beyond the beer there? Writing materials? Or would you just like to talk?"
  "Talk about what, goddamn it?"
  "Anything you like, sir. I'm here to keep you company."
  "Thanks," Dunninger said, even able by now to mount sarcasm.
  Thomas Spaulding looked anxious and cleared his throat. "Perhaps you'd like a Bible. Or w
you prefer a United Church brother to talk to?"
  "Those ignorant bigots? There's never been such a corrupt, stupid religious movement in
history of the race. I'm a Catholic, boy!"
  "Yes, sir. I remember now. Would you like a priest?"
  The cold went through Harold Dunninger and his face went slack. After a long moment he
"What do you mean, would I like a priest?"
  Young Spaulding said, "I am not superstitious myself, sir, but I have no prejudice against t
who are. I thought… I thought it was the custom of your faith to make peace with your
before…" He let the sentence dribble away.
  The older man stared at him, cold fingers walking down his spine. Finally, he got out, "Y
going to shoot me. That leader of yours, that one who talked me out of the bomb shelter. He
you wouldn't kill me."
  "Comrade Ostrander knew you wouldn't be killed if the ransom was paid. But I doubt
promised anything more. You have twenty-four hours, sir. If the fifty million pseudo-dollars is
forthcoming by that time, I am afraid that… that your life is forfeit.''
  "Fifty… million… pseudo-dollars."
  "Yes, sir. Comrade Ostrander has already made the initial contact. The ransom is to be paid i
special numbered account in Tangier. And there must be guarantees that no attempt will be mad
prosecute anyone. If such attempts are made, you will be, uh, eliminated."
  Harold Dunninger slumped back in his chair, his eyes wide. Betty would never permit such a
to escape her hands. Yes, it was available. But she would never… not Betty. In spite of the fact
she had been bom into luxury, and certainly had lived in luxury, Betty was a compu
pennypincher. She made a point of prowling the kitchen, enraged if the servants opened a bott
wine for themselves. The allowance she doled out to the boys was a farce. Harold Dunn
augmented it secretly each week. Her pennypinching was proverbial. Fifty million pseudo-dol
No. Never from Betty, even in the best of times.
  Harold Dunninger said shakily, "I'll take that drink."
  "Yes, sir." Young Spaulding got up and went to the door, opened it, and stuck his head
obviously speaking to a guard stationed in the hall.
  Dunninger's mind raced. Or tried to. He had to get out of here somehow, within twenty-four h
Was this kid armed? If so, was there any way to take his gun, and get through the guard which
obviously would have posted? He closed his eyes and groaned. Harold Dunninger was
muscle-bound hero. He'd let himself go to pot over the years. He'd never been much for sports,
as a youngster. And even if he was able to overwhelm Spaulding, there would be more of
beyond, downstairs—Men trained and experienced with guns, while he hardly knew enough to
one. He closed his eyes in sick dismay, his stomach beginning to roil.
  Tom Spaulding returned with a squat bottle and a glass and put them on the table before
captive.
  Dunninger shakily took off the bottle's cap and poured. It was a bottle of his own prehis
whiskey. It would seem that his kidnappers weren't above looting. He knocked back the spirits w
quick motion. He had to make some sort of plans.
  The young man had seated himself again and was looking in compassion at the captive.
  Dunninger said, "Are you supposed to be seeing that I make no plans for escape?"
  The other seemed embarrassed. "Well, no, sir. It was my idea. It goes back to the old British
French army days of the late 18th century. All officers were gentlemen; they came from g
families—aristocrats. If one was to be shot in the morning, a fellow officer was assigned to stay
him in his cell and, well, be with him. Take messages to his family or sweetheart, help him make
his will, if necessary. Talk with him. Possibly read the Bible with him. That sort of thing. Just,
keep him company."
  Dunninger eyed him, even as he poured another stiff drink. "Why'd they pick you?"
  The boy looked embarrassed again. "I suppose it's because I know you, sir. We come from
same background. My father was a close friend of yours."
  The older man was staring now. "You're Pete Spaulding's boy? Why, I remember you
Tommy Spaulding. I haven't seen you since you were about ten or eleven. A thin little fellow, al
nervous."
  "Yes, sir. I remember you, too, Mr. Dunninger. Very clearly."
  "Look, call me Harold," the other said. His voice had an edge of excitement now. "Look, Tom
I've got to get out of here. My wife'll never pay that ransom—never in a million years. We've g
figure some way of getting me out of here."
  The young man blinked and shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid that's impossible."
  "But look, these people are killers. They're kidnappers. Mad dogs must be shot down on sight
  Tom Spaulding was still shaking his head in rejection. "No, sir, they're idealists. Don't you k
whose hands you're in? We're the Nihilists."
  "We?"
  "Yes, sir. You must realize, we don't have anything against you as an individual. We're oppose
the socioeconomic system you represent. We are going to change it."
  The tycoon closed his eyes once more and tried to wrench his mind into thought. He opened
again and said desperately, "See here, boy. That sum your Comrade Ostrander demande
ridiculous."
  "Yes, sir. It was purposely made so, to attract attention to your case."
  "It'll never be paid. But I'll tell you, Tommy, on my word of honor, that if you can get me o
here, I'll give you five million pseudo-dollars, all tax-free. All deposited to your account
questions asked, say, in Switzerland or Nassau. My word of honor."
  "Sir," the other said sadly, "you don't understand. Even if I did need the money—and I don
wouldn't interest me. I'm a devoted member of the Nihilists, and though I'm sorry that you are in
position, I'm dedicated to ending this social system. I'm willing to participate in the liquidatin
others, if required to accomplish our ends."
  Dunninger glowered at him. "You're completely around the bend. You're crazy."
  "I don't think so, sir. The world's in need of change. The overwhelming majority of the ra
living in misery and degradation."
  The tycoon said impatiently, "What the hell do you think you'd replace our system with?"
  "We differ on that question. You see, Nihilists don't ever expect to come to power ourse
We're basically anti-organization, if you can comprehend that. We're against the status quo, bu
don't offer a definitive alternative system. We believe production should be democratically ow
and we believe in world government, but not of the present systems."
  Dunninger groaned in the face of what he thought sheer madness. "But what do you think y
doing? You assassinate people, especially rich or powerful people. You commit arson and sabo
What's that got to do with reforms? You're nothing but terrorists."
  "No, sir. Our basic goal is to spur the people into alterna-lives to capitalism and communism. M
people never consider the possibility of a basic change in their own system. The system tells
that what prevails has always been and will always be. They fail to realize that nothing change
steadily as social systems."
  Dunninger was in despair. "You'd prefer what they've got in the Soviet Complex?"
  "We're against them both. In the West, production means are owned by a few private individ
In the East, it is in the hands of the State. To the rank-and-file citizen, it makes comparatively
difference. In short, we're trying to goose the world's population into thinking about change."
  "So you're actually willing to murder me, to gain what you think are desirable ends."
  "Yes, sir, we are," the boy said simply.
  "It's not fair; I've never killed anybody in my life!"
  The boy looked at him and took a deep, unhappy breath. "Haven't you? Maybe you never pul
trigger, but the blood on the hands of your social system is unbelievable. Millions have died du
pollution and disease brought about by your rampaging industry. Millions have died from poiso
foods and drugs that were continued because they made a profit. Why has cancer eru
geometrically over the last century and a half? Mr. Dunninger, you don't even know how many de
you've caused."
  Dunninger tipped up the whiskey bottle once again. The boy was a wild-eyed unthinking fan
Given time, he might have been able to get through to him, convince him how wrong he was,
misguided. But he, Harold Dunninger, didn't have time. He had less than twenty-four hours now.
  Harold Dunninger upended the bottle, killing it.
  "Can you get me another one of these?" he slurred.
  Chapter Thirteen: Roy Cos
  Roy's secretary Mary Ann, publicity man Jet Peters, and writer Ferd Feldmeyer sat in a row
couch before the Tri-Di screen in the luxurious winter villa of some absent northerner.
variable-image Tri-Di screen was set into the wall of the living room. At the moment, it was just
enough so that the people on lens were life-size. There were some uncanny attributes. Though
trio had been exposed to Tri-Di projections all their lives, the illusion was as though they could
spoken back and forth with Roy Cos and the others being shown.
  The face of a well-known commentator was smiling as though earnest, sincere, and oh-so-frien
  Mary Ann frowned, her plain face impatient. She said, "You've got the wrong station, Ferd. T
Ken Butterworth. I listen to his commentaries every day."
  Jet Peters swigged at his highball. Sitting around waiting for the broadcast, he'd already had en
to still the characteristic tremor of his hands. He said, "Ken is Roy's announcer. Forry ponie
fifty thousand to get him for just a few minutes. Nothing but the best for Roy Cos. That Brit sh
in Nassau will be sweating thirty-eight caliber turdlets at the rate Forry goes through that m
pseudo-dollars a day. Christ only knows what we're paying for fifteen minutes of prime time o
international hookup."
  The life-size figure seated behind the desk said, "Folks, this is Ken Butterworth, yours t
Tonight, I have a surprise for you. If you follow the news at all, you know that Roy Cos has ga
instant fame as the Deathwish Wobbly. Roy Cos, a dedicated idealist, is risking his life—per
sacrificing it—to bring you the message of the Industrial Workers of the World—the Wobblies.
Cos is unsusal for a man with a message. He doesn't insist that you subscribe to his admit
radical view—only that he be granted the opportunity to say it and allow you to make your
decisions.
  "Roy Cos's life has been insured for an unbelievable sum. So long as he lives, he has a very
credit line. Unlike others who sign Deathwish Policies, Roy Cos is devoting his credits to sprea
his message. His life expectancy might be measured in hours. But tonight he will bring you
program of basic changes to our social system. He plans further broad casts…"the
commentator paused dramatically "… if he survives. Folks, I present Mr. Roy Cos, the Death
Wobbly."
  Ken Butterworth faded out and Roy came on lens, sitting at i similar desk. Flanking him and be
stood Billy Tucker and Ron Ellison, their faces alert, their eyes periodically roaming.
  Ferd's plump mouth seemed to pout. "What the hell are they doing there?" he said.
  Jet Peters laughed. "One of Forry's ideas to emphasize Roy's continual danger. They're in a
studio in one of the smaller Tri-Di stations about fifty miles from here. I don't know where. Th
not a chance that anybody knows where they are, and even if they did, they couldn't get into
studio. But it looks authentic. Roy is being guarded every minute."
  Mary Ann said, even as Roy started his talk. "He looks awful. His face is too pale."
  "Too heavy, too," Ferd said. "Put some of the cosmetic boys to work on him, Mary Ann
needs to cut a sympathetic figure. Kind of romantic."
  Roy was reading his speech somewhat stiffly. He'd never appeared on the airwaves before.
three watching had heard the speech a dozen times before and had all had a hand in its
polishing, so they didn't bother to listen too closely.
  Jet said, "He needs coaching. Forry ought to hire a couple of actors to give him some point
He looked at Ferd. "Where do we meet the rest of them after the broadcast?"
  "Search me," Ferd said. He looked at Mary Ann.
  Mary Ann said, "No. That's why I had you pack, ready to go. We're to meet Roy and the othe
a prearranged street corner, ditch our car there, and then go on. I don't know where."
  "I hope the hell we don't get separated from them," the publicity man growled.
  Ferd took a sip from his glass of beer. "Well, from now on, the credits start accumulating," he
in his fat man's voice. "Now we come out from cover and start spending that money. Do you re
we've already made seventy thousand apiece? We've been on the payroll a week and Forty h
allowed him to use his credit card at all. Man, when he does—it'll all hit the fan at once."
  The secretary put her elbows tight against her sides in feminine rejection. "Don't talk abou
money we're making," she said. "It sounds ghoulish."
  Jet said to her, "Where are we going to meet them?"
  "On a street corner."
  He scowled impatiently. "What street corner?"
  She was embarrassed. "Forry told me not to tell anyone."
  The publicity man didn't get it and said, "You mean he doesn't even trust us?"
  "Oh, don't be a cloddy, Jet. It's not just us. He didn't tell anybody where we were to rendezv
except me. Only one of us needs to know. The fewer people who know, the less chance there i
an accidental leak."
  Roy Cos finished his talk and Forry Brown took over, seated in Ken Butterworth's place, len
him a spurious celebrity. The scrawny little newsman was more at home on lens than Roy. He
squinting his faded gray eyes, "Thanks to all you people for listening. As Ken Butterworth said,
will have more to say—if he survives. It's rumored that the contract for his death—his murder—
the hands of the legendary Graf Lothar von Brandenburg, of Mercenaries, Incorporated. In shor
just a matter of time now. Roy Cos and his staff are on the run. But I'm going to let you listene
on something: we are not going to give advance notice of Roy's broadcasts. Instead, we're goin
spring them at just about any time, any place. You might even keep your video recorders ta
Tomorrow or the next day, just by chance, you might come onto another Wobbly broadcast. If
when you do, phone three of your friends who might be interested, and tell them that the Death
Wobbly is again hurrying through one of his talks before the Grafs killers can catch up to him
one-beat pause before Forry delivered his clincher: "They just might catch him while he'
camera."
  Jet came to his feet and said, "I'll finish packing my bags. Got some things I've got to cram
them." He left the room.
  Mary Ann looked after him thoughtfully.
  Forry, on the Tri-Di screen, was continuing. "We applied to the Inter-American Burea
Investigation for protection and were ignored. The only guards Roy has are four friends, fe
Wobblies. They are unarmed. They applied for permits to carry weapons but were denied. I sug
that any listener who is indignant over this get in touch with his congressman and senator. Dem
that Roy's guards be allowed weapons! The Grafs gunmen will be armed to the teeth. Of co
most of you do not yet support the Wobbly cause. I, Roy Cos's manager, am not a Wobbly. Bu
all subscribe to the American tradition of fair play. We all believe that this dedicated man mu
heard, before his inevitable fate overtakes him. Good night, fellow members of the human rac
you see us again, all of us will have been very, very lucky"
  The screen faded.
  Suddenly, Mary Ann was on her feet, hurrying from the room. She went down the hall to Jet Pe
bedroom. It was closed but there was no lock.
  She pushed through and entered briskly.
  The publicity man was standing in the middle of the room, a pocket transceiver held to his m
His habitually bleary eyes widened, and for the briefest of split seconds it looked as though he
going to hide what he was doing. But that was nonsense.
  Her eyes accused him silently.
  He looked at her. "One of my publicity outlets. I thought of one last thing I could plant in a…"
  Mary Ann said crisply, "No. All evening long you've been trying to find out where Roy is—w
we were to meet and where we were going.''
  "Don't be a mopsy," he said contemptuously, deactivating the transceiver and returning it to a
pocket.
  "I want to know to whom you were talking."
  "None of your goddam business."
  "I want to know, too," a voice said from behind her. Ferd Feldmeyer stepped into the room.
  Mary Ann said to him, "I passed his room earlier and saw his bags there on the floor. He
already packed. His excuse for leaving while we were still listening to the broadcast wasn't valid.
now I caught him phoning somebody."
  Ferd looked at the publicity man wearily. "What the hell's the matter, Jet? Wasn't ten thousa
day enough to keep you honest?"
  Jet Peters stared at him. "Ten thousand a day? Don't be silly. He won't last the next twenty
hours—especially after that broadcast roasting the contracting corporation and the Graf. You
ought to come in with me. I was offered a quarter of a million pseudo-dollars, tax free, jus
fingering him. They'll boost that now, if all three of us cooperate."
  "What some assholes will do for money," Feldmeyer said, shaking his head. "I always thought
were a square guy in a sloppy sort of way, Peters. You and Forty and I have known each other
long time. You shouldn't have sold Forry out. You undoubtedly contacted the Graf's people on
own. They wouldn't have known how to get in touch with you, or even that you were working
Roy."
  The other said in a quick rage, "Poor Cos is going to get it anyway! What difference does a
days make? We'll collect our ten thousand a day as long as he lasts and then, when they get to
we'll get a bonus of maybe another half million from the Graf when they burn him. The Graf n
reneges on a deal."
  "No," Mary Ann said bitterly. "And neither do I, you cynical gob of snot."
  Ferd Feldmeyer held out a hand. "No more reports, Peters. Give me your transceiver."
  "Get screwed, you fat jerk."
  Ferd's eyebrows went up in his lardy face. "Peters, I'm twice your weight and ten years you
Do you really wanta try me?"
  Jet glared but finally dipped a hand into his side pocket and brought forth the communica
device. The speechwriter took it, dropped it to the floor, and ground it under his heel. "You stu
greedy bastard," he said. "You not only don't get the seventy thousand pseudo-dollars, but
won't get anything from the Graf's outfit, either." He turned to Mary Ann. "Let's go. We don't
to keep them waiting."
  Carrying their bags, Mary Ann and Ferd piled into the car parked in the driveway. In actuali
was Jet Peters's vehicle, which bothered them not at all. Mary Ann drove.
  Under way, Ferd Feldmeyer growled, "The idiot. Didn't it ever occur to him that when the G
boys finally polished off Roy, some of us might go, too? They might just toss a grenade, gettin
all. Then the Graf wouldn't have to renege on the quarter of a million he promised Jet. There wou
be any Jet to pay off."
  Mary Ann said, "Well, at least we learned one thing."
  He looked over at her, still disgusted at the defection of his friend. "What?"
  "It's definite that it's the Graf's contract."
  "A hell of a lot of good that does us," he said. "The Graf's men are far and away the most effi
in their rotten business."
  The corner where they were scheduled to rendezvous wasn't far. The small Tri-Di station cou
have been many miles away. Forry wasn't telling anything he could withhold.
  Mary Ann parked, and within three minutes another car pulled up alongside them. Les Bates w
the wheel, Forry beside him. The rest were in the back.
  Forry called over, "Hurry it up. Let's get out of here."
  Mary Ann and Ferd brought their luggage over and stuffed it into the large compartment o
limousine. Ferd crowded into the front with Forry and Les; Mary Ann got into the back with
and the three other guards, taking a jump seat.
  Roy said, "Where the devil's Jet?"
  Ferd answered wearily, "He sold out to the Graf. Mary Ann caught him reporting. Evidently,
promised to finger you."
  Les took off, accelerating rapidly.
  "Damn," Forry said angrily. "I didn't expect any of the team to get the gimmes this soon."
  They rode in silence for a moment.
  Les said to Forry, "Where are we going?"
  And Forry said, "I don't know."
  They all looked at him blankly.
  He said impatiently, "Don't you get it? None of us knows where we're going now. So at least w
sure that the Graf's gang won't be there waiting for us. Anybody have any ideas? One thing,
now on we have to be more out in the open. We've got to have as much security as possible
with Roy available to the media. He's got to give interviews, issue statements, keep in the public
We can buy media time, but that doesn't mean that we can ignore free publicity. So, any ideas?"
  For a time, as they sped across the country, all were blank.
  Billy Tucker said hesitantly, "I was thinking in terms of getting a couple of mobile homes
keeping on the move. Just turning up from time to time for broadcasts."
  Roy objected, "Then we'd be hiding from the news people as well as the Graf and we'd mi
that free publicity Forry's talking about."
  "And that's going to get your message across even faster than your own talks," Mary Ann said
  Dick Samuelson said, "I hope the organization is grinding out our pamphlets fast enough to
the demand."
  "They won't have to," Forry said. "But never fear, profit-making publishers will get into the a
there's a market, before the next week is out, you'll see more material on the Wobbly program
you ever suspected could exist. But to get back to it. Where do we go?"
  Ron Ellison said hesitantly, "I know a big hotel in Miami where they've got a king-size penthous
  "I worked there once," Ron told him. "I know the place. It wouldn't take much to secure it. Th
only one private elevator, with a steel door. And there's another steel door at the only stairway.
place was originally built with the idea of attracting South American politicians who'd taken off
their country's treasure, or Syndicate men, or maybe Tri-Di stars who wanted to get away from
fans."
  Forry said sourly, "There are quite a few places in southern Florida of that type. Anything sp
about this one?"
  "Well, yes," Ron said. "When I was working there, there were three or four other Wob
besides me. Hotels are automated to hell and gone, these days, but you've always got to have s
staff."
  "I get it," Roy said. "Having our own people planted in the hotel means that much more secu
They might be able to spot something offbeat and report it to you."
  "That's right," Ron said nodding. "You'd be surprised how fast gossip goes through a big h
Suppose one of the Graf's men turned up claiming to be from the phone company and wantin
get into the penthouse for repairs. The hotel electrician, a chum-pal of mine named Larry, would
him in a minute. Either that or he'd tag along with him, just to be sure, as long as he was in the ho
  "I'm sold," Forry said. "Ron, get on your transceiver and find out if that penthouse is availab
so, rent it in your name. Don't mention anything about Roy or me. Say you'll pay in advance
but don't let on that you have endless funds. Say you're coming in tonight."
  While Ron was making arrangements, Forry said to Roy, "If I know this type of hotel penth
arrangement, there'll be a private entrance, probably at the rear of the hotel. Ron will know. We
in that way. You and I will have scarves around our heads, on the off chance that somebody
saw the broadcast might spot us. We want to be organized in that place before our coming-out
to the news syndicates."
  "Right," Roy said. He took a deep breath. "How long do you think I'll last, Forry?"
  The other took time to light a smoke before answering. He said, trying to keep feeling from
voice, "I don't know. Probably longer than anybody thinks. There are some aspects of this one
the Grafs boys haven't run into before. In the past, the suckers who signed the Deathwish Polici
have their fun and spend their credits did it in public—nightclubs, restaurants, bars, shops, thea
They were sitting ducks. We're going to present them with a whole new set of problems."
  They pulled up before the looming beachside resort hotel an hour later and were met at the pr
entrance by the manager. Monsieur Pierre Boucherer was a product of the best Swiss
management school, therefore, a whiz at fawning.
  He fawned. He welcomed their party of eight with pure enthusiasm. He saw nothing untoward i
heads of two men swathed in scarves. He saw nothing untoward in the party insisting on takin
their own luggage to their extrav-agantly expensive skytop rental. He would have seen no
untoward if they'd all had live coral snakes for neckties. He alone accompanied them to
penthouse.
  It took two trips in view of their number, the amount of luggage, and the fact that the elevator
only medium-size. But at last, all of them were gathered in the spacious living room.
  "Jesus," Billy Tucker said, looking around, taking it all in. He had obviously never been in a lu
hotel apartment.
  Monsieur Boucherer fawned, even as he rubbed his gloved hands together. "And now, how m
serve you?"
  Forry, still masked like a Moslem virgin, looked over at the bar. He then sent his eyes around t
companions. "What's your favorite guzzle?" he said.
  They looked at him in mild surprise for a moment, but then: "Medium dry sherry," Mary Ann s
  "Whiskey," said Roy, who was also still swathed, but then, "No. Make that Scotch."
  "Yeah, Scotch," Ron said.
  "Bourbon," Dick said. "Real hundred-proof sour mash."
  "Me, too," Bill said.
  "I'm a beer man—but none of this synthetic stuff," Les said.
  "Brandy," Ferd said, running a small tongue over his fat lips. "French cognac."
  "Cognac for me, too," Forry said. And then, to the manager, "Send up two cases each of sh
Scotch, bourbon, and cognac, and ten cases of Pilsner Urquell. All of the best quality the
cellars provide."
  The manager gaped at him blankly. He said, "But sir, the bar is automated, either for indiv
drinks or by the bottle…"
  "Send up the cases," Forry said. "This penthouse has a kitchen, of course, and a large pa
deep-freeze and all?"
  "Of course, sir."
  "I want it completely stocked within a couple of hours, from your stocks on hand, with en
food to last us a month or more. The very best, mind you."
  Monsieur Boucherer was too taken aback to remember his fawning. He opened his mout
protest, to declare the abilities of the hotel's chefs, but then closed it again. "Yes, sir," he faw
"And what else?"
  Forry said, "This room is going to be converted into, uh, something of an office. We'll want a
dozen desks and the standard equipment to go with them—TV phones, voco-typers, li
boosters for the National Data Banks. All of this should be up here in the next couple of hours."
  The manager blinked. "Yes, sir."
  Forry pressed on. "I understand that there's a stairway, steel-doored at both ends, leading up
I want the door at the other end kept closed and two hotel security men posted at it twenty
hours a day. They are to pass no one."
  That, evidently, was not an unknown desire on the part of guests registered in the pentho
Monsieur Boucherer was able to make with a fawn again. "Certainly, sir."
  "Two guards are to be stationed at the elevator as well, twenty-four hours a day. No one ou
this party is to be allowed to pass without my okay. My name is Brown."
  "Very good, Mr. Brown."
  "For the moment that's all. I'll see you in the morning about the credit transfer to cover all th
will be on a Swiss International Numbered Account."
  "Of course, sir."
  When the manager was gone, the little ex-newsman sighed and unwrapped his scarf; Roy Co
the same. Forry sent Ron and Dick to double check the doors. Les Bates made a beeline for the
calling over his shoulder for orders.
  The others slumped into seats, all suddenly weary.
  Roy said, "What's the idea of ordering all that guzzle?"
  "And all the food, for that matter?" Mary Ann nodded.
  Forry said, "Anything we order tonight is probably safe. It's unbelievable that the bogeymen k
we're here. But after tomorrow morning, when we let it out where we are, nobody in this team
drink or eat anything that doesn't come from our private stock. Don't dial for drinks on the aut
don't have any food sent up from the kitchens. From now on, we're poison-conscious.
conscious of the fact that a bottle can be gimmicked with explosives. Take off the cap and wham
  "Yeah," Roy said in resignation. "From now on, we've got to assume that anything that c
possibly kill us, will."
  Mary Ann glanced over at him, her eyes sad, but she said nothing.
  Roy glanced at his diminutive manager. "What was that about you asking the IABI for protec
And about the guns? I didn't know you'd requested gun permits for the boys."
  "I haven't," Forry told him. "But it sounded good over the air. Bring home to the viewers
toughness of the spot you're in. At that stage, it was just as well the IABI didn't know wher
were, even if they did want to guard us. They're undoubtedly infiltrated by the Graf's organiza
and we'd have put ourselves on the spot. And asking for gun permits for them would have reve
the fact that Ron, Billy, Les, and Rick were lined up with you and that might have led to trackin
down. If the IABI denied we'd asked for protection, nobody would believe them."
  "You're quite a Machiavelli, Forry," Ferd wheezed.
  Les had served them drinks and they settled back in satisfaction. They all felt the tensions o
past few days.
  Forry said, taking out the last pack of cigarettes he had bought in Nassau, "I hope that s
manager can come up with tobacco as well. I'll have to order that, too, before the night is out. T
all I'd need, some doped cigarettes."
  He looked over at Ron. "You know this place better than any of the rest of us. Go around
decide what rooms each of us should have. Give Roy the most strategically located one—you k
the one that's furthest from both of the elevator and staircase."
  Dick stood and walked over to the French windows that opened onto the hotel's roof. There
an extensive garden, largely of potted plants, a swimming pool, a sun deck, tables, and fo
chairs. He said, "What's to prevent a chopper from settling down out there with a few of the G
lads in it?"
  "Nothing," Forry growled. "We're going to have to post a full-time guard outside."
  Dick turned and looked at him. "There's only four of us."
  Forry nodded. "I know." He looked at Roy Cos. "We're going to need another four of
Wobblies. Have you got four more like Ron, Les, Dick, and Billy?"
  The Wobbly national organizer sighed. "There aren't as many of us as all that, you know, and w
not all young, unattached, strongarm types. And probably a lot of the membership don't even a
with what I'm doing."
  "All right," Forry said sourly. "But we need at least four more guards, preferably familiar
guns."
  "Guns? What guns?" Dick said bitterly. "Just one of the Graf's pros with a shooter could blow
asses off us all."
  Forry looked at him. "By tomorrow we'll have guns. You can buy anything in this country if
have enough credit, and as of tomorrow, we'll be openly spending Roy's million a day. A
old-time crime reporter, I have a few contacts. Gyrojets all right?"
  "Yes," Dick said, happier now. "Both handguns and assault rifles."
  Roy said, "I'll get together with the boys and we'll try and pick four more guards." He turne
Mary Ann and Ferd and said, "How'd the broadcast go over?"
  Mary Ann said, "Well, good and bad." She glanced over at Forry. "For one thing, his present
isn't too good. His appearance is, well, poor. A hero can't be pale and dumpy."
  Forry ran his eyes over the Wobbly organizer, who was grimacing, and nodded. "I shou
thought of that. There're injections these days that can darken his complexion, or we could u
sunlamp. And we can have him massaged and dieted down to the point where he doesn't loo
lardy."
  "Hey," Roy said in protest.
  They ignored him.
  "There's another thing," Ferd Feldmeyer said. "That first speech was good enough, perhap
summed up the Wobbly program. But we can't just repeat it over and over again. We've got to
fresh material."
  "Like what?" Dick asked, in rejection. "I thought it was swell. Gave the movement's stand exa
That's the point of the whole thing."
  The speechwriter shook his head. "You can't just keep hitting the viewers over the head with
statement of what you want. You've got to come up with new, exciting stuff; something to keep
coming, wanting to listen in to future programs."
  Ron said, "But we've got nothing else to say."
  Ferd took another pull at his cognac. "Then we've gotta find some exciting details. Almost any
that's a current issue, something they aren't doing right under this so-called welfare state.
  "Take VD—various drugs have been developed up over the years to combat venereal dise
First the sulfas. They were tremendously effective when first discovered, but in a few years,
strains of gonoccocci had developed that were immune to sulfa. Then the antibiotics
streptomycin came along, but the germs adapted to them and eventually thrived. Well, suppos
put our scientists to work on a whole series of new antibiotics. Then, on D-Day, everybody i
country would take the new antibiotic, whether or not they had ever had any venereal disease. E
man, woman, and child, including the president and Roman Catholic cardinals. Later, one o
other new antibiotics would be given everybody, to nail the germs missed that first time. And
then on, nobody would be allowed into the United States of the Americas until they'd had
antibiotics. This is a half-assed description of an idea some researcher wrote, and I may have s
of it wrong. But I know smallpox was eradicated. I bet VDcowWbe."
  "Great," Roy said, "but it has nothing to do with fundamental social change. It could be
under any system."
  "But the thing is," Ferd said patiently, "to get to the people, you've got to participate, take a st
stand on everything from pollution and depletion of natural resources to ending war, women's ri
race problems, and all the rest. Your stand should sound more sensible than anybody else's, or
more Godly. And you've got to sound off about it, louder and more insistently than anybody el
you're ever going to get a following, that'll be how."
  The identity screen on the door buzzed. Ron and Billy popped to their feet.
  "That'll be the first load of food and guzzle," Forry said. "You boys supervise it. Roy and I'
into our rooms so that nobody'll recognize us."
  "I'm going to bed anyway," Roy said. "I'm bushed to hell and gone and I've got a snea
suspicion that tomorrow'll be a busy day." He paused and added in deprecation, "I've g
suspicion that the rest of my life is going to be a busy day."
  It was a half-hour later that a knock came at Roy Cos's bedroom door. He was lying on his ba
bed in his pajamas, hands under his head, staring at the ceiling. Beside him, on the night table, w
drink he had brought from the living room. It was untouched.
  He looked at the door and said, "Come on in."
  Mary Ann was clad in a simple white nightgown and sturdy bedroom slippers. She carri
half-empty bottle of Scotch. Her hair had been combed out and her face glowed as if fre
washed—or freshly made up.
  Roy said, his tired hazel eyes puzzled, "Hello, Mary Ann. Something up?" He came to one elbo
  "That should be my question," she smiled, and closed the door behind her. Her face had a
which, Roy decided to his surprise, brought a wistful beauty to her ordinary plainness. Mary
Elwyn would never be thought of as a pretty girl but her femininity was there, now that she
discarded her brisk office efficiency.
  She brought her eyes up and to his and the flush deepened. "I thought you might be loneso
she said, her voice low.
  Roy stared at her. Plain, Mary Ann might be, but even the dreary nightclothes she wore cou
disguise the healthy womanly body. Her breasts were high, her waist taut, her legs surprisingly
Roy hadn't noticed those legs before. It seldom occurred to men to scrutinize the Mary
equipment.
  For a moment, he couldn't remember when last he had bedded a woman. It had probably been
of the Wobbly members.
  Roy said, after running a hand through his faded brown hair, "Sit down, Mary Ann."
  She sat on the edge of the bed and again avoided his eyes.
  He said, "Look, there's obviously no future in me. If we happen to get caught
emotionally—well, I won't be able to feel grief.''
  She didn't say anything to that.
  He said, an edge in his voice, "I don't want charity, Mary Ann."
  She looked up at him. "Then you're a fool. I do, Roy. I'm lonesome, too."
  He said quickly, "I'm not exactly the romantic type. I know what I look like, what I am. Those
boys guarding me are more nearly your own age. And they're all good, healthy…"
  "Oh, shut up," she said. She threw back the bedclothes and squirmed herself in beside him,
tossing her bathrobe to the foot of the bed and kicking off her slippers. "I'm not interested in b
I'm interested in a loving man." She flicked off the night table light. "And you're the most loving
I've ever met, Roy Cos."
  Chapter Fourteen: Frank Pinell
  Frank and Nat Fraser got off the metro at the Odeon Station and started up the street. A
practically all large cities these days, vehicular traffic in Paris was at a minimum though pedest
and bicycles occupied the streets even at this time of night in Left Bank, still the home of artists
Sorbonne students.
  Nat Fraser looked over at his younger companion approvingly. He said, "Cobber, you look l
regular toff in those new duds. A little on the Frenchy side, gawdstrewth."
  Frank snorted at the tall, gawky Australian. "They ought to look good, you ponied up en
credits to outfit me."
  "Nothing's too good for a cove working for the bloody Graf." Nat looked up at a street sign.
Monsieur Le Prince," he read. "That's it."
  Frank said, "Who's this Colonel Boris Rivas?"
  "Old-time mercenary. Mostly Africa and Near East. Last time I saw him was in Yemen. He h
contract there with some fifty commandos and a few hundred ragheads. Too bloody-minded b
for my liking, cobber. I was done on the bone but I did a bunk instead of joining up."
  Frank frowned. "Now I really need a translation."
  "I don't go for finishing off women, kids, and old folks. Fair dinkum, I don't. Rape, killing civi
looting—old Boris gets his lollies out of it. Bad business. If the situation pickles, you might hav
depend on those women and old coves. Hide you, feed you, if they're lucky enough as to
anything to eat. Maybe nurse you, if you've copped one."
  He looked up at a sign over the doorway of a dilapidated building that looked a good two cent
or more in age. Hotel Balcon.
  "This is it, cobber. Just follow me bloody lead. Rivas is competition to the Graf. This is his
bloody chance. He comes in with the mucking organization, or the barstid's had it, and that'
dinkum oil."
  "You mean we, uh, shoot him?"
  The other grinned cheerfully. "More likely he'd shoot us first, cobber. But we're here und
bloody flag of bloody truce. Let's go."
  The hotel lobby was no more impressive than the outside of the building. It had the odor of
decay. Its lone occupant was a bent old man behind the desk, obviously the concierge.
  "What room's Rivas in, cobber?" the Aussie said.
  To Frank's surprise, the old man spoke English. "Top floor. Room 505."
  "Too right," Nat said, and made a gesture with his head. "Get your arse out of here." The old-t
studied the set of Nat's jaw, then scooted out a door behind his desk.
  Frank looked at him in surprise.
  "He's been paid," Nat said, heading for the stairway. There was no elevator.
  The building was five stories high and Nat Fraser had obviously been in third-class French h
before. At each landing he pushed a button in the wall which turned on a low wattage bulb just
enough for them to reach the next landing. The management of the Hotel Balcon did not w
electrical power.
  On the fifth floor, the pressing of the light button gave them just enough time to find room 505
Fraser knocked on the door and the hall light flicked off before the portal opened.
  A huge black was there, almost as tall as the Australian and, if anything, broader of shou
deeper of chest. He was the blackest man Frank Pinell had ever seen—actually ebon
complexion—yet his face was more nearly European than Bantu. He was a beautiful phy
specimen and his movements belied his size; he moved like a black leopard.
  Nat said, "The colonel is expecting us."
  The black opened the door wide without change of expression. Room 505 turned out to be a s
suite. Since doors were open, it could be seen that there were two bedchambers and a bath.
place was better furnished, more comfortable than would have been expected of the Hotel Balco
  The room they had entered was filled with chairs, a table, files, piles of papers, maps,
correspondence. Behind an old metal desk sat Colonel Boris Rivas. Rivas sat straight in his chai
posture military. His face was dark and somewhat oily, so that he looked more like a Greek or
than a Frenchman. His black hair was streaked with gray and looked as though it could u
shampoo. He was on the brawny side, and wore his civilian clothing uncomfortably.
  His dark eyes gleamed dislike but he said, in passable English, "Sit down, Fraser." He look
Frank, sent his eyes over to Nat again, but then brought them back to Frank, whom he took
greater length. "And who is this?" he demanded.
  Nat had taken one of the comfort chairs, crossing his long legs. Frank sat down in the other.
big black leaned against the wall and watched them, his face still expressionless.
  The Australian pushed his bush hat to the back of his head and said, "The arrangement was
there be two of us and two of you. Fair dinkum. This is Frank Pinell, one of the Grafs newest b
Frank, our cheeky cove behind the desk is Colonel Boris Rivas. Who bloody well promoted hi
colonel, nobody seems to know."
  "That's enough provocative talk, Fraser," the colonel snapped. "And this is Sergeant Sengor,
ago of the Senegalese Airborne Commandos, my right-hand man—and bodyguard." The co
brought his eyes back to Frank and said, "You wouldn't be related to the late Buck Pinell, w
you? There is a resemblance."
  Frank wrinkled his forehead and said, "My father's name was Willard."
  "He was a mercenary?"
  Frank said uncomfortably, "Could be. I was very young when he died and I was told very
about him."
  "If you're the son of Buck Pinell, I'm surprised to see you in the employ of Brandenburg. P
was a man. The Graf is a wolf."
  Nat said, "Cooee, who's giving with the mucking provocative talk now?"
  Rivas ignored him. "I've always suspected that Graf Lothar von Brandenburg was responsibl
Buck Pinell's death."
  "Pull your head in," the big Australian growled. "A fine bloke you are to throw such n
nonsense around. You're crazy as a kookaburra if you think the Graf did Buck in. They cobbere
with each other when they were both no older than joeys." He looked over at Frank. "I never
Buck Pinell meself; before me time, gawdstrewth. But if he was your father, he was a wowser,
all they say."
  The colonel hit his desk a double rap in impatience. "Shall we get on with it?" he said. "
contacted me for a meeting. Very well, what do you have to say? I warn you, I will not be intimid
by Brandenburg's cheap threats."
  Nat Fraser grinned at him. "The Graf wouldn't spend his bloody time on a cheeky zany like
Rivas. Peter Windsor sent us, strewth. The mucking message is simple enough for a dingo to g
through his block. The mercenary business is too bloody small for any competition. So Win
says this is your last mucking chance. You and your whole bloody outfit are invited to join up
Mercenaries, Incorporated."
  Boris Rivas's dark face went darker still. He made little attempt to conceal his rage. "Or else?"
  "Windsor thought you'd know," Nat said easily.
  "Fraser, you can take this message to that pig Windsor. I am in control of all contracts in this
of Common Europe. I shall continue to be. I am not afraid of the Graf. His organization h
handled a sizeable mercenary operation for years. His contracts these days are almost all indiv
hit jobs which, of course, are more in keeping with his talents. Sergeant, see the gentlemen to
door!" Boris Rivas pushed out of his chair and made his way over to his improvised bar wher
sloshed a sizeable drink into a highball glass, adding no mixer to it before knocking it back.
  Without speaking further to the French mercenary, Nat Fraser came to his feet and made a ge
with his head to Frank. "Let's do a bunk, cobber. This bloody arse is asking for it, strike me bli
he isn't."
  The sergeant, his face still empty of expression, opened the door for them.
  When they were gone, the colonel, still in a rage, snarled to his guard, "We'll see about Nat Fr
the lickspittle. That Windsor scum has his gall sending two of his gunmen to try and intimidate
Me! Why, I've seen more combat than Brandenburg and Windsor put together."
  He sat down again at his desk and angrily dialed on his TV phone.
  When the face appeared, he snapped, in French now, "Captain Bois, get over here with as man
your lads as you can assemble within a few minutes, to man my hotel. The Graf has thrown d
the gauntlet. We'll have to confer. I'm getting in touch with Major Dupres and Captain Flaube
well. There's a possibility that we might have some trouble with that Australian swine, Fraser."
  The face on the screen was that of a thin man, somewhat bucktoothed and now looking cautio
unhappy. "What did Fraser have to say? Dupres informed me that you were to meet with him."
  "Peter Windsor demands that we ally with the Graf. In a subservient position, without doubt."
  Captain Bois said, still cautiously, "And what did you tell him?"
  "I threw him out, of course—Fraser, that is. But now I'm alone here with Sergeant Sengor. I
we'd better move some of the lads into the hotel, just to be sure. One doesn't know what
murderous Fraser's orders might be."
  The thin man shook his head. "Sorry, Boris. You're not big enough to go up against the Graf
tolerated small organizations such as ours in the past, while recruiting our best men. But
contracts are too few and far between for him to allow competition. He's amalgamating e
mercenary group still outside the ranks of Mercenaries, Incorporated."
  "Traitor!"
  The other shook his head again and his tone was apologetic. "I talked it over with Flaubert. W
both had offers from Windsor to go on the Graf's full-time retainer, with promotions. I'm a
we're taking the offers, Boris. I suggest that you make your own peace with him. He'd prob
promote you to brigadier."
  "Brigadier, you ass! He hasn't had a brigade-sized contract since '80."
  The other's face was rueful, even as it faded from the screen.
  Boris Rivas was livid. He came to his feet again, went back to the liquor, and repeated
performance of a few minutes before. He said to the impassive black, "Get a drink, Sergeant,"
returned to the desk.
  Sengbr went over to the bottles, poured himself a small gin, and returned with it to his place ag
the wall, near the door.
  Rivas flicked on the phone screen again and dialed. When the face appeared, it was that
coarse, middle-aged man who looked as though he was half drunk. In fact, even as he sat
before the screen, he lifted a glass to his lips.
  Rivas snapped, "What's the matter with you?"
  "Nothing."
  "Well, confound it, get over here with any of the men you have in mat bistro with you. W
having a fracas with the Graf and his pigs."
  "I know. The word is all about town."
  The colonel stared at him. "Spread by whom?"
  "By Bois and Flaubert, among others. They said that you're washed up, Boris. They're signing
Brandenburg."
  "And what do you think, Henri?" the colonel snarled in a high rage.
  The other took another drink. "I've stopped thinking. I can't afford it. Peter Windsor h
approached me. If he doesn't by the weekend, I'll offer him my services. If he doesn't want the
looks as though I'm retired."
  The face faded and Rivas slumped back in his chair for a long moment. Finally, he got up
poured himself another drink, a smaller one this time. Carrying the glass with him, he went ov
one of the curtained windows. He said to the black, "Turn off those lights."
  The sergeant brushed his hand over the switch at the side of the door. Rivas stood to one sid
the window and pushed back the curtain a few inches. Across the street, he could make out a f
standing in a doorway. He let the curtain back and for a moment leaned against the wall, brea
deeply. He knocked the drink back and threw the glass across the room, shattering it against th
wall. His hand went beneath his coat to emerge with a small Gyrojet, a silencer attachment o
muzzle.
  "Come on, Sergeant," he muttered. "It's you and me now. We'll go to ground and start recru
for our counterattack. That scum Brandenburg doesn't know what fighting men are. He hires la
do his dirty work; hasn't been in action himself for decades. I just wonder how impregnable
Wolfschloss of his really is."
  The sergeant opened the door, peered up and down the dark corridor, then let the colonel pre
him. They hurried down the stairway, the colonel pressing the light button, as had Nat Fraser, at
landing. And at each landing they shot glances up and down the hotel corridor. The lobby
empty.
  "This way," Rivas snapped. "Out the back. To the alley."
  They went behind the desk and utilized the same door that the concierge had disappeared thr
on Nat Fraser's orders. They went down a dark, narrow corridor to the portal leading out into
alley. The colonel, gun in right hand, cautiously opened it and peered through.
  The alley was dark, very black, and led to the left. It had no lights at all. One end led out ont
street; the other was a cul-de-sac blocked by a high brick wall. On each side, the walls were b
and tall. The only light came from the street, fifty feet away. The door through which they eme
was at pavement level. The alley was cobblestoned, going back to the days of Napoleon the L
As they emerged into it, two figures entered from the street, cautiously, half crouched.
  "Damn!" the colonel snarled. "We can't afford a shoot-out here. The flics would lay it at my d
Back, back the other way!"
  But then he slowly, as though with great care, leaned forward and went down onto his knees
coughed softly, then leaned forward again and put his hands on the cobblestones in front of
The Gyrojet pistol clanged to the paving. He slowly bowed his head, as though staring in fascin
at the cobbles before him. There was a splashing sound. His arms and legs seemed to give w
the same time and he fell forward into the puddle of his own aortic blood.
  Nat Fraser and Frank Pinell came up, tucking their guns back into holsters beneath their c
They stared down at the body. A four-inch combat knife handle protruded upward from the bod
Boris Rivas. The Australian looked up at the sergeant and nodded. "Be with you in a meejum mi
Sengor."
   He turned and led Frank, who had been staring at the fallen man in dread fascination, twenty
down the alley.
   Nat said, his voice unruffled and unhurried, "You do a bunk back to the hotel and get your th
I'll stay here with the wog and do the necessary. Your orders are to go to Vaduz, in Liechtens
and to the Wolfschloss—that's the Graf's stronghold. You're to contact Peter Windsor there. I w
be seeing you again, cobber, not this time." He stuck his right hand out. "It was bonzer gettin
know you, Frank."
   Frank Pinell ignored the hand and looked into the other's face coldly. He said, his voice eve
won't shake hands with you, Fraser. You're no friend of mine. You and Panikkar had it all wo
out to set me up for that Mahdi job. Anybody with a brain in his head could see that it w
one-way trip. I don't know what happened, or why, but at the last minute this Peter Windso
somebody else on the Graf's staff, diverted me to this instead. I played along with you for a w
Fraser, just to see what the hell was going on, but I never would have taken that Mahdi job. It
suicide."
   The big Australian nodded. He took off the bush hat, reset the brim, then returned it to his h
"What you say's the dinkum oil, cobber. Sorry. It was out of my mucking hands. I have to
whatever orders they give me. You see, they've got a lock on me."
   He turned and went back in the direction of the sergeant, who had the body of Boris Rivas u
the arms and was hauling it back into the dark hallway of the hotel.
   Frank took the rocket shuttle from Paris to Zurich, then a vacuum tube to Buchs, on
Liechtenstein border. The vacuum tube line crossed the tiny principality on its way to Vienna
didn't stop in Liechtenstein. There was evidently no shuttleport, nor even an airport. Frank bega
get the idea of just how small and remote this country was when he had to take a surface bu
complete his journey.
   There had been no customs inspection at the border; that was taken care of in Vaduz itself
didn't spot any police but the bus station had an official look about it and there were several
lounging about clad like those stationed at Colonel Ram Panikkar's fortress-like estat
Tangier—berets, commando-type uniforms, and paratrooper boots. They carried Gyrojet carb
as naturally as though they had been bora with them in hand. None of them paid any parti
attention to Frank, who was the sole passenger debarking at Vaduz.
   There was a desk with a sign reading Customs and Immigration and, carrying his own two b
he made his way to it. The young man there, dressed in civilian garb rather than a uniform, looke
at Frank's approach.
   He frowned slightly and said in English, after taking in the newcomer's appearance, "I'm afraid
have made a mistake, sir. Liechtenstein is not a tourist country. There is nothing particular he
attract visitors. If you hurry, you can return to the bus, which makes its next stop in Feldkirc
Austria. You can take the vacuum tube from there to Innsbruck or…"
   Frank said, "Thanks for the wholehearted welcome, but I'm here to see Mr. Peter Windsor at
uh, Wolfschloss, whatever that is."
   The other's voice became more brisk. "I see. May I see your identification?"
   Frank brought forth his International Credit Card, which had been given him by Colonel Panikk
Tangier. He had wondered at the time if it was a forgery, but evidently not. He had drawn on i
credit when traveling without any difficulty. He wondered how many pseudo-dollar credits he ha
his account.
  An International Credit Card, as always, doubled as a passport. The customs man glanced at i
then put it in a slot. In moments, a voice from the desk screen spoke in German. The official no
and handed it back to Frank. He must have pressed a button with either hand or foot, since on
the uniformed men came up.
  The customs man said, "Escort Mr. Pinell to the Wolfschloss. He is to see Mr. Windsor a
donjon."
  "Right," the other said, and took Frank in. He lifted one of the two pieces of luggage and
"This way."
  Frank followed him out to a small parking area and to one of the several jeeps there. They pu
bags in the back and climbed into the front.
  The other looked as though he was probably American and spoke like it as well. He must
been roughly Frank's own age but had a toughness about him somewhat reminiscent of Nat Fras
  As he started up, he said, "First trip here?"
  "That's right," Frank said.
  "Bore you shitless unless you're quartered up in the schloss. Not bad up there."
  "What's a schloss?"
  "Castle."
  Frank said, "American?"
  His guide hesitated momentarily before saying, "Canadian."
  "I guess that makes you an American these days. Been here long?"
  The other looked over at him briefly, then turned his attention back to the road without answe
It would seem that questions weren't good form locally, though the Canadian had asked the first
  It was an excellent road. They had passed out of Vaduz in moments. Frank said, "I work fo
Graf, too. At least, I think I do."
  That didn't seem to lower any barriers. They went on.
  Frank look up shortly and said, "For Christ's sake."
  The driver grinned. "Looks like something out of a fairy story the first time you see it, eh?"
  Frank had never seen a castle before, save in historical Tri-Di shows. He had no idea that
could be this large. The Wolfschloss was built atop a small mountain. Even the lower founda
were a thousand feet above the valley floor. It brought to mind an action-filled movie revival o
last century, depicting the good guys storming the Alcazar in Segovia. They had used catap
small primitive cannon, battering rams, and finally, scaling ladders. It had been on the gruesome
with the defenders pouring melted lead and boiling oil down on the attacking forces. The good
had finally taken the castle by storm, but Frank had wondered ever since what sort of soldier w
be idiot enough to be first man up one of those scaling ladders.
  He had never expected a castle to be as large as the looming Wolfschloss. He wondered if it
ever been captured in the old days. He didn't see how it could have been, before the advent of h
artillery.
  Along the road, since they had left Vaduz, they had passed guard houses and on two occas
concrete pillboxes, heavy automatic weapons projecting from their slots, but they had been sto
only once, and then, briefly. The guards were obviously acquainted with his guide.
  Now they pulled up before an ultramodern building with two heavy steel cables extending fro
interior up to the schloss. There were ten or twenty other vehicles in the parking area.
  They got out, each carrying a bag, and headed for the entry. There were two guards there, a
with the usual Gyrojet automatic carbines, stationed to each side of the metal door, and one who
his shoulder tabs, was obviously an officer wkh a sidearm in a quick-draw holster.
  When the two approached, the guide gave an easygoing salute to the officer and it was returned
as offhandedly.
  The guide said to Frank, "Your identification?"
  Frank handed it to the officer, who looked at it briefly, handed it back, and said, "Go on in,
Pinell. You're expected. Welcome to the Wolfschloss."
  The metal door slid to one side, into the thickness of the wall, then slid silently shut behind t
They were in a moderately large room, steel of walls, ceiling, and even the floor, which
however, carpeted. Six armed men studied the newcomer.
  One of the seated officers held out his hand without words and Frank handed over his Internat
Credit Card again.
  There was a faint buzzing sound, and the officer looked at him coldly. Two of the guards hu
over. The other two covered Frank, less than casually now.
  The officer said, "You're carrying a shooter."
  "That's right," Frank told him.
  The two guards frisked him quickly and came up with his stubby Gyrojet with its attached sile
It was put on the desk of the examining officer.
  That worthy said dangerously, "You mean you've got the gall to try and get in to see Mr. Win
armed?"
  "For Christ's sake," Frank said, mildly impatient. "It was issued to me by Nat Fraser, in Tan
Nobody told me where to hand it in."
  The officer looked at him for a long moment, then down at the gun. "It's one of our models
muttered. He flicked on a desk screen and spoke into it in German.
  The officer finally looked at Frank's guide and said, "Take him up, Colin."
  While this was going on, two of the other guards had taken Frank's luggage, opened both b
and gone through them. Frank got the feeling that they were being electronically scanned at the
time.
  His guide, Colin, said, "This way, Mr. Pinell."
  They went through another metal door and into what turned out to be the cable house prop
looked like the waiting room of a small shuttleport. There were unupholstered benches and ch
and a small bar at which a pretty young blonde, in a feminine version of the ever-present comm
uniform, presided. There were two more guards at their ease here, and three civilian-dre
bored-looking men, all carrying very ordinary-looking attache" cases.
  The ceiling was only partially roofed and the double cables, which were attached by heavy lin
chain to the floor, extended through the opening. In only moments, a cable car came sliding int
room and descended into the slot built for it into the floor. One of the guards went forward
unlocked its door. Two passengers emerged, one a tall, well-dressed black carrying a very
briefcase, the other an efficient-looking, middle-aged woman who looked Spanish or Italian.
headed for a door other than the one Frank and Colin had utilized.
  The three other men, one an Oriental, entered the cable car. Frank and his guide got in, too. Th
was rectangular, with rounded corners and modest windows. By the looks of them, none o
windows could be opened, and Frank suspected that the glass was bulletproof. As Frank to
seat, the guard outside locked the door and they took off with a slight lurch, climbing at a s
angle though the swaying gondola remained horizontal.
  Frank stared out a window in fascination. Beneath them were scrubby, hardy trees and mas
jagged boulders, occasionally with wiry grass. From time to time he could spot a zigzag
ascending the hill. It looked as though it hadn't been used for years and, from time to time,
were indications that it had once been wider—perhaps a narrow road. In the distance
spectacular snow-topped Alps.
  He looked over at Colin and said, scowling puzzlement, "You mean that this cable car is the
access to the, uh, schloss? Surely it can't be supplied from a gondola?"
  "Of course not," the other grunted. The guide was slumped back in his seat, not bothering to
out. He had obviously made the trip many a time.
  In ten minutes, the cable car swung into an aperture again and settled on its skids into another
Frank could see, through the windows, only a small portion of huge castle wall, partially b
partially massive stone, before they passed into the interior.
  A guard unlocked the door and all issued forth. The three other passengers hustled off. They
the waiting room of the terminal by one door, and Colin led Frank through another.
  The steel room into which Frank was ushered was similar to that below, but not identical. For
thing, there were ports in one of the walls which evidently overlooked the cable car ascent. B
each of them was mounted heavy weapons of a design Frank had never seen before, even in f
There were six guards on duty here and, once again, two officers. Their shoulder tabs looked
impressive than those the two below had worn.
  He went through much the same procedure as before: he was electronically searched, and his c
card was checked out, then handed back to him. "Righto, corporal," the bored officer said. "Y
cleared for the donjon."
  "Yes, sir," Colin said, saluting in the offhand manner that seemed to apply to these professiona
  This part of the castle had been reconstructed recently. On the other side of the metal door thr
which they exited was a modem, though militarily barren corridor, which couldn't possibly
dated back to medieval times. It extended only fifty feet or so before they were confronte
another heavy portal, which automatically opened for them onto a vista which made Frank gasp.
  Before him lay an immense area, more like a park than the courtyard of a looming fortress—a
devoted largely to sports. From where they entered, Frank could see an enormous swimming po
the far end, with scores of bathers, both men and women, enjoying the place. Nearer were a d
tennis courts, also well patronized. And nearer still, a fairly good-sized putting green, la
patronized by older types. There were also practice courts for basketball and jai alai. Between
were pleasant walks, extensive lawns neat as a golf green, fountains and gardens spotted here
there.
  To the right, however, was also a copter landing pad, and on it two aircraft, one a heavy c
carrier, the other a fighter, weapons protruding from apertures. Frank realized then what his g
had meant when he'd answered that the cable car wasn't the only manner of supplying
Wolfschloss.
  One had to look about the walls, the battlements, the projecting turrets, the round towers a
corners of the walls with their conical tops, to realize that this was indeed the interior of a ca
centuries old.
  "Not bad, eh?" Colin said. "The Graf must have spent a mint doing the enceinte up like this.
led the way.
  "Enceinte?" Frank said.
  "The ward," the other told him. "The open area inside the walls."
  It came to Frank that the Wolfschloss must house the population of a small town. The build
snuggled up against the heavy stone walls, were sufficient to provide all the needs of thousands.
  The closer Frank looked, the less medieval it seemed. He could make out anti-aircraft guns, m
launchers, mortars, and machine guns. He said with a touch of sarcasm, "One small nuke and t
the end of the whole works."
  Colin looked over at him as they walked. "Straight down, about half a mile, are the bomb she
You're as safe here as you'd be in the Octagon in Greater Washington."
  "I'd hate to dig myself out, afterwards."
  "You wouldn't have to. There are tunnels leading off to exits more than a mile away.
Wolfschloss couldn't take a fusion bomb, maybe, but it could take a helluva lot."
  "Where are we going?" Frank said.
  "To the donjon."
  "What's a donjon?"
  "The keep."
  "That tells me a lot."
  "In the old days, it was the final defense. It was where
  DEATHWISH WORLD igj everybody retreated when the walls were breached Now the Graf
his staff live there.''
  Frank could see the keep, the highest and the largest of the towers. It was a castle within a c
and must have been one hell of a disappointment to come up against in the days when you
nothing more than a crossbow, sword, and battleaxe
  He was apprehensive about what was to come in his confrontation with Peter Windsor, the G
front man One thing was certain: there was no line of retreat for him If something went wrong,
was no possible way for him to get out of the Wolfschloss, even if he had been armed
  Chapter Fifteen: The Graf
  As Frank and his guide drew nearer to the keep, its true size became ever more impressive. B
time they drew up to its sole entrance, he realized that it was as large as some apartment building
  Before the entry were stationed four uniformed guards and an officer. Gone was the easygoin
Frank had come to associate with the mercenaries of the Graf. These five were alert and efficient
  Colin came to attention and saluted the officer, who responded just as snappily and then
Frank.
  "Franklin Pinell, sir," Colin said crisply. "On appointment to see Mr. Windsor."
  "Your identification, sir," the officer said, holding out his hand.
  Frank gave him his card. At this rate, the thing would be worn out before too long.
  The other examined it carefully, returned it, saluted Frank with the same snappiness, and
"You're expected, sir."
  The ancient medieval door had long since been superseded by a massive steel one. Built into
side of it was a smaller door, just wide enough so that two persons could have walked in sid
side. It now slid open. Colin said to Frank, "This is as far as I go, Mr. Pinell. I'm not cleared fo
donjon. Good luck."
  Frank went through the door and was again surprised, as he had been by the parklike effect o
enceinte. The basic medieval aspects of the keep had been retained. The stone walls and na
apertures were still there. The floors were still flagstone. Otherwise, the ground floor of the
seemed an ultramodern office building.
  There were a score or so office workers in the lobby, walking briskly here or there, papers in h
They ranged in age from Frank's early twenties to sixty or more but most, both men and wo
were on the youthful side. Some were uniformed, some not. Frank approached the first of the d
mildly surprised that it wasn't automated. Behind it sat a sharp-looking young blonde who w
have done the reception room of the largest multinational corporation in Manhattan proud.
smiled encouragingly. Frank said, "Franklin Pinell to see Mr. Peter Windsor."
  "Your identification, please?"
  She took his card, put it into a desk slot, and scanned the screen before her. She returned it to
and said perkily, "You're expected, sir. Elevator one."
  The three elevators were numbered in gold. Number one seemed somewhat more ornate than
others. Frank stepped in. There was no order screen, nor any other manner that he could se
activating the compartment. He shrugged.
  The door closed and started upward. And continued upward. It would seem that Mr.
Windsor was officed in the higher reaches of the keep. Eventually, it came to a halt, and he eme
into an office containing four desks and four very busy workers. It was quite the swankest o
Frank had ever been in, including that of Ram Panikkar in Tangier. It was difficult to realize th
was in the nerve center of a castle going back to the days of Richard the Lion-Hearted.
  One of the clerks got up from her swivel chair and came toward him briskly, smiling in the
pert manner as the receptionist below. She was dressed in what Frank thought must be the
from Paris. She said brightly, "Fraulein Krebs is expecting you, Mr. Pinell. If you'll just come
way." He said, "I was to see Peter Windsor."
  "Yes, sir," she said, leading him across the room to a door which was lettered Margit Kre
gold. Evidently, he was going to see Fraulein Krebs whether he liked it or not.
  The identity screen picked them up and the door swung open. The girl said, "Mr. Pinell,"
stepped back.
  The office inside was luxurious to a point that Frank had never witnessed even in the most l
Tri-Di shows. Withal, it managed to project a touch of femininity. It could never have been take
a man's room. Above all, it radiated wealth. Frank was no art expert, but recognized Impressi
paintings when he saw them. There were two on the walls. He had no doubt whatever that they
originals.
  Behind one desk sat a serious, studious-looking young man and a woman of, say, thirty-five be
the other. Her strikingly handsome face was difficult to estimate. She had beautifully dark hair,
tweeds that couldn't disguise a very good figure, and her smile was efficient. But her eyes?
  Those eyes had a predatory look as they ran up and down Frank, taking in his face, his frame
had a feeling new to him. It was usually the man who looked at a woman in such a way as to men
undress her, estimate her capabilities in bed. Now he felt as though positions were reversed.
Fraulein Krebs do this to every man she met?
  She said, "Franklin Pinell," even as she rounded her desk and came toward him with her
outstretched. "We've been looking forward to meeting you."
  He shook and murmured some amenity, wondering who in the hell we could be. Why in the w
would a bigshot in Mercenaries, Incorporated want to see him? Surely there wouldn't be anyo
the organization lower on the totem pole than Frank Pinell. He had been astonished at the recep
he had been getting all the way from Vaduz to here, the inner reaches of the keep.
  Margit Krebs said crisply, "That will be all, Kurt."
  The young man at the desk stood, clicked his heels, and said, "Ja, Fraulein Krebs," and left.
  When he was gone, Margit said, leaning her buttocks back against her desk, "And what do
think of the Wolfschloss?"
  He managed a small grin and said, "Flabbergasted. I had no idea of the size of these Euro
castles, nor the excellent condition some of them are in."
  She nodded at that and smiled. "They're not all so large, of course. And Lothar spe
considerable sum in renovating this one."
  "Like I said, I'm flabbergasted. How many people live here?"
  "It varies from day to day, but right now there are 2,321, counting you. Six left yesterda
assignments, but four others returned."
  He blinked at her.
  She laughed and said, "I have total recall, which is one of the reasons I am Lothar's secretary.
see, some items involving Mercenaries, Incorporated can't be written down. With me on h
Lothar doesn't need written records of such items. The records are in my head."
  "Lothar?"
  She cocked her head a bit to one side. "Lothar von Brandenburg… the Graf."
  "Oh." He cleared his throat. "Actually, Ms. Krebs, I was instructed to see Mr. Windsor. I'm
sure why."
  "Margit," she told him. "In the inner circles, we're informal. I'll take you to Peter right now.
expecting you and is rather on the curious side." She turned and headed for a door opposite the
by which he had entered.
  For a moment, he looked at her blankly. Inner circles? Was the competent, efficient, hands
Fraulein Krebs suggesting that Frank Pinell belonged to the inner circles of Mercena
Incorporated? She obviously had made some mistake. But how could anybody as sharp as
secretary of the Graf be that far off? And why should the notorious Peter Windsor be cur
about meeting Frank Pinell?
  He shook his head and followed her. They went down a short corridor and, without knocking
pushed open a door and strode in briskly. More hesitantly, Frank followed.
  The office beyond was almost identical to that of Fraulein Krebs in size, but there was only
desk, and the feminine element was missing. The wall decorations were of a military nature, inclu
paintings of war scenes and a flag which was holed in various places by what looked suspicio
like gunfire, and including a submachine gun which was racked in the manner that sportsmen dis
their shotguns or rifles.
  Behind a somewhat battered and littered desk sprawled a lanky man, a report of some kind i
hand. He wore tennis shoes without socks, khaki walking shorts, and a khaki shirt, its sleeves r
up. Frank's first snap judgment was that the other couldn't be much older than himself, but
realized on seeing the wrinkles at the side of the eyes that Peter Windsor projected an air of y
that wasn't there. He was almost twice Frank's age.
  Margit said briskly, "This is Frank, Peter. I'll check with Lothar." She turned and left. "Sit d
dear boy," Windsor said. And then, as Frank was doing so, "Yes, I can see the resemblance.
could only be the son of Buck Pinell."
  Frank said, "You knew my father?"
  "Not too well, really. Saw him off and on for a few months, I'd imagine. I don't think that he r
fancied me, if the truth be known."
  "I didn't know him much myself. I was too young and he was away most of the time. What wa
like?"
  The other thought about it, sending his lime-green eyes ceilingward. He murmured finally, slo
"A sort of dashing chap. He liked combat, I shouldn't wonder. Some men do, you know. They
for the excitement. He liked nothing so much as to find what he considered a just cause and
fight for it. He didn't mind making a profit at the same time, but for him, the enjoyment was i
combat. For myself, and for the Graf, I think, it has always been purely business. Buck fough
causes, we for money. He wasn't really cut out to be a soldier of fortune, you know."
  "How do you mean? From what I've come to understand, he was a mercenary."
  The Englishman nodded. "He was a soldier but I fancy that the fortune part of it wasn
uppermost interest."
  Frank didn't know if he quite understood that or not.
  The other put down the report he'd been perusing, took up another, and rapidly scanned it
said, "And how did the Boris Rivas affair come off last night?"
  "Exactly as you had it set up. Everybody close to the colonel had been bought—even
concierge at his hotel and his long-time bodyguard. Poor bastard never had a chance."
  Peter Windsor said coldly, "Never give an opponent a chance if you can avoid it, Pinell.
every opening you can, every advantage. In that manner you'll live longer. Rivas had his chance
was a bloody fool for not coming in with us. There was no use mucking around with him whe
refused."
  Frank said, "I suppose that Senegelese sergeant of his will get a good position with Mercena
Incorporated now."
  Peter Windsor shook his head at him. "No. He'll be paid the amount promised and sent on his
If he'd betray Rivas, how can we be sure that he wouldn't betray us, given the opportunity? The
never welches on his commitments but, on the other hand, he demands loyalty."
  Frank said, very evenly, "How did the ethical code apply to me? I was to be sent on an impos
mission. It's unlikely that I could have escaped."
  The Englishman shook his head again. "At the time, dear boy, you weren't actually a member o
organization in the same sense that our exuberant Nat Fraser or Colonel Ram Panikkar are. How
you were offered a sizeable sum, a hundred thousand pseudo-dollars desposited to your accou
the Bahamas, before you were to leave for Central Africa. Upon the success of your mission
were to make your escape and enjoy the amount in whatever manner you saw fit. Very well, w
was the betrayal? If you accomplished your assignment, your pay was awaiting you."
  Frank said softly, "The colonel told me there was to be a chopper available for me to es
in—not that I was to be on my own."
  Peter Windsor raised eyebrows and said, "He did? He wasn't authorized to make such a ple
I've always thought Panikkar a bit of a swine. I'll have to take this up with him. It wouldn't do fo
chiefs reputation to have such items bandied about."
  There was a faint humming at one of the desk screens and Peter swung his feet down to the f
"That's the Graf now. Come along, Frank."
  Frank stood, and as he did so, his eyes came upon the racked submachine gun. "A keepsake
the old days?" he said.
  The Englishman said dryly, "I haven't used it for some years, but it's still kept loaded."
  He led the way, strolling casually out a rear door and down a short, empty hallway to an elab
double door. The screen on it picked him up and half the door opened. They entered.
  The Grafs informal office was impressive. So was the Graf. He stood at the ceiling-to-
window which framed the Rhine and its valley, his hands in the coat pockets of his immac
business suit. He was staring out, his face characteristically expressionless. On their entry
short-statured Graf turned, and, for a long moment, stared at Frank. Frank, feeling uncomfort
came to a halt and simply remained on the spot.
  The spry old soldier approached and looked him in the face with open candor. The American
taken aback by the smoky gray-flecked irises of the other's eyes and more so when Lothar
Brandenburg put his womanishly small hands on his shoulders.
  The Graf sighed and said, "Yes, you could only be Buck's son. You're Buck as I first knew
many years ago when we were both, ah, callow youngsters." He turned to one of the overs
couches and lowered himself, saying, "Sit down, Franklin."
  Peter Windsor cleared his throat and slumped into one of the chairs, crossing long
nonchalantly. He said, "He does look like Buck, at that. I told him so."
  Frank found a place and joined them, still without the vaguest idea what he was doing here.
  The Graf said, "We were somewhat surprised when your arrival in Tangier was reported."
  There was no point in pussyfooting around. Frank had already decided there was no retrea
said, "I couldn't have been much of a surprise. It was already set up. I suspect that the two
men were in on it, possibly even Judge Worthington back in the States. Certainly the cab driver
the two muggers in the medina in Tangier. First came Nat Fraser, as implausible a knight in arm
ever came down the pike. He took me to your Colonel Panikkar, who lavished good will on
supposedly putting me deeply into his debt. He gave me strong arguments for taking an assign
for you. I might look young and ah, callow, as you put it, but I'm not as much a fool as all th
was a suicide project. Actually, I wouldn't have taken it, but Panikkar didn't know that. I pl
along, just to see what the hell was going on. But it was called off from your end, before I
turned it down. What's got me wondering is why."
  The Graf remained silent through all that. Now he nodded.
  Peter Windsor said, "Because we discovered that you were the son of Buck Pinell, dear boy."
  Frank hadn't taken his eyes from the Graf. He said, "Boris Rivas claimed you might have bee
cause of the death of my father."
  The old man nodded again. ' 'Then, for once, Rivas spoke the truth. I was the cause of
father's death, Franklin."
  Frank stared at him.
  The Graf said, "It was my fault, but I did not kill him, Franklin. Your father died in my arms,
saving my life. He sacrificed himself to rescue me. He was my best friend, and I, his. I have not
many friends in this life, Franklin. His last words were to put your life in my care."
  The young American took long moments to assimilate that. Finally, he took a deep breath and
"You didn't seem to do much in the way of carrying out his request."
  The Graf said, "It was taken out of my hands. Your mother was fanatically against me and
stood for. She had been violently against your father's, ah, profession. When my represent
approached her, she absolutely refused to allow me to participate in your raising. She refuse
accept any of your father's extensive earnings, as she had always refused while he was still alive.
relationship between your father and mother was not a close one, Franklin. She was contempt
of him. She only continued to allow him to visit occasionally because he was your father and
loved him. Your mother was a good and compassionate woman with whom Buck Pinell was de
in love. She refused to marry him, though he wished it. Their affair ended when she discovered
father's way of life."
  "But my mother is dead now."
  The Grafs usually expressionless face registered surprise. "I didn't know that. I should have k
closer check on you as the years have gone by. But still, I hadn't wished to interfere with
mother's plans for your education and upbringing. It was the only thing for which she would
upon your father's accumulated fortune and, even then, frugally. I had planned to make contact
you upon its completion."
  "It's completed now," Frank said flatly.
  "I see. And the employment computers didn't select you for a position in whatever field you
selected?"
  "That's correct. In any of the fields I selected."
  "Why not?" the Graf said bluntly.
  "Because there are jobs in our economy for only about five percent of the population. But the
is largely mine. I switched subjects too often. I started in aviation, but after a few years, I could
that it was becoming so highly auto-mated that there were going to be practically no posi
available. So I switched to space and spent a few years cramming so that I might be chosen to g
Lagrange Five or the Asteroid Belt. But then the government began cutting back drastically on
space expenditures, so drastically that it was all but impossible to get out to the space islands
then…"
  "Very well. I can see your problem. So when you finished your schooling you were unable to
employment."
  "Actually, I've never quite finished it, though it became more difficult after my mother's death
my source of income was cut off. She never gave me access to my father's resources, hating the
she did. I'm not even sure that she could have. I don't know what the legal arrangements were. S
then, I've largely been on GAS. However, I've held a few small jobs out of the ken of the compu
In between I continued my studies as best I could."
  The Graf leaned back in the couch. "You might consider a position in my organization, Frankli
  Peter Windsor had been listening, his eyebrows a little high. Obviously, much of this was ne
him but he learned best by listening.
  Frank Pinell, who had been gaining confidence over the past fifteen minutes, shook his head a
old mercenary's words. He said, "I have certain reservations. Nat Fraser and Colonel Panikkar
me a rundown on the position you assume on the things you do in your, uh, organization. Howev
suspect that toward the end, at least, my father might have had some of the same reservations. W
did they call him? The Lee Christmas of the 21st century. I've read a little about Lee Christm
wonder if he ever went in for outright political assassination."
  "Possibly not. I checked on this early American mercenary after Fraulein Krebs gave me a bit o
background the other day. He was an uncouth, uneducated man—a railroad worker, I unders
before becoming a soldier of fortune. Undoubtedly, he had the usual prejudices of his time an
upbringing."
  The Graf's voice was becoming a bit impatient. "See here, Franklin, you must realize that man
accepts the fact of killing his fellow man under acceptable circumstances. What are accep
circumstances is the bone of contention. Even the assassin can become a hero—g
circumstances. Let us take a few examples from the history of your own very aggressive na
Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, and Colonel Travis, heroes of the Alamo, were not Texans. They
American adventurers; mercenaries. The Alamo was not garrisoned by Texans, it was garrisone
men of many nations sent to that part of Mexico to seek their fortunes with their guns. The flag
flew over the Alamo was that of a troop of New Orleans volunteers. How many true Texans
there I do not know, but certainly Crockett was not one of them. He had been a Representati
Congress from Tennessee."
  "I didn't know that," Frank murmured.
  The Graf went on. "A group of American mercenaries during the First World War formed
Lafayette Escadrille, a pursuit squadron in the French Air Force. By American law, this should
deprived them of American citizenship. Instead, as soon as the United States entered the con
they became heroes, and their squadron became part of the American forces. The Flying Tigers
fought as mercenaries under Chiang Kai-shek against the Japanese before Pearl Harbor? These
were all highly trained pilots from American army, navy, and air force schools, and they flew
latest in American fighters. They were paid for each plane they shot down, with American m
funnelled to China. But they were mercenaries, and became American heroes, instead of losing
citizenship.
  "So much for mercenaries; let us consider assassins. Suppose that in my own country the Ge
Staff had been successful in assassinating Hitler. Would they not now be heroes?"
  The young American was unhappy. He said, "Panikkar and Nat Fraser gave me similar argum
They didn't convince me."
  Peter Windsor said, "Let's face reality. Man kills his fellow man for profit, don't you know?
the owner of a colliery. The mine is unsafe because he has ignored expensive safety devices. It c
in and fifty of his miners are buried alive. Indirectly, he has killed them—for profit. Is he
brought to trial? I fancy not. He is a pillar of the community."
  The Graf said, "But enough of this for now. You must be
  Reynolds with Dean Ing
  tired, Franklin. We'll meet for dinner. No need for you to make a decision at this time."
  Evidently, he had signalled somehow since Sepp, the liveried butler, materialized. "Bitte, Herr
," he said, bowing.
  "Sepp," the elderly mercenary said, "this is Mr. Franklin Pinell. See him to his suite. I suppos
bags have been delivered by now. And see that he is assigned a valet."
  "Ja, Herr Graf." Sepp turned to Frank. "Mr. Pinell?"
  Frank nodded at Peter Windsor, came to his feet, and followed the stone-faced servant out a
door.
  In the medieval stone corridor along which Frank followed Sepp, the elderly servitor said pol
"If I may say so, sir, you resemble your father remarkably."
  "So everybody's been telling me. You knew my father?"
  "I had the honor to serve with him in two campaigns, sir," Sepp said, his voice po
inflectionless. "Before I lost my leg."
  Involuntarily, Frank glanced down and now noticed that the servant limped lightly.
  Frank said, "I had gathered that the Graf made a policy of granting suitable compensations fo
wounded men. Shouldn't you be living in comfortable retirement somewhere?"
  "Well, yes, sir. But you see, I am wanted by both Interpol and the American LABI. I am safe h
  "That you are," Frank smiled. "From what I've seen of it, this castle has many attributes of a re
Shouldn't you be able to retire right here?"
  They had reached a heavy wooden door and, for a moment, the servant stood with his hand o
knob. For the first time Frank saw a slight expression on the other's usually immobile face. It
ruefulness. He said, "I suppose so, sir. However, the Herr Graf is used to my service. A
besides, it is of interest to be here in the center of things."
  He opened the door and they stepped inside. Frank's luggage lay in the living room's center.
suite was spacious—an extensive living room with ornate wooden furniture, a bedroom wit
enormous canopied bed, a large bath, and what Frank assumed was a small study. He was a
surprised at the art of whatever interior decorater had redesigned the donjon of the Wolfschloss.
man had been a genius in merging the old and new. That the rooms were those of a
  Dark Ages castle was obvious, but they were modern in the best sense of comfort. That they
once been cold, damp, and grim could easily be imagined, but not with the modern convenie
added. The suite was absolutely palatial.
  "It is satisfactory, sir?" Sepp said with polite anxiety.
  At this height in the keep, it had undoubtedly never been necessary to continue the na
bowmen's apertures that prevailed on the lower levels. The windows were spacious and looked
on a picturesque setting of Alps, glaciers, streams, and the upper reaches of the Rhine.
  Frank shook his head. "It's a beautiful suite, Sepp. What was this about a valet?"
  "I'll assign you Helmut, sir. A very reliable servant."
  "What do I need him for?"
  The old soldier-turned-butler seemed a touch surprised. "Why, sir, he'll do for you. Something
a batman, an orderly, sir."
  Frank sighed. It would be an advantage to have somebody who could show him the ropes
didn't even know his way around the corridors. He said, "All right, but tell him the less I see of
the better."
  "Sir, Helmut will never intrude unless summoned. Is there anything else, sir?"
  Frank looked around. There was even a heavy wooden bar, which looked handcarved, se
against one wall. "I suppose not," he said. "Thanks, Sepp."
  "Not at all, sir. I was always a great admirer of your father, sir. In the fracas in which I lost my
he carried me over a kilometer through enemy fire to the nearest field hospital." He coughed be
adding, "Although he was wounded himself."
  Frank couldn't think of anything to say to that, and the ramrod-erect old man turned to leave.
  When he reached the door and was about to open it, he hesitated momentarily, then half turned
said, "Don't trust any of them, Mr. Pinell."
  Chapter Sixteen: Frank Pinell
  In the Grafs informal office, Lothar von Brandenburg was saying to his aide, "What do you
of him, Peter?"
  Peter said slowly, "Frank seems a straight-speaking young man. Adequate education, all that so
thing."
  The Graf looked at him. "You seem to have reservations."
  "Well, not really. But you seem to accept him rather wholeheartedly. He is frightfully young t
taken into our inner circles."
  The older man gave one of his rare, gray smiles without humor. "He is older than you were wh
first met you, Peter."
  The Englishman waggled a hand in rejection. "Perhaps we went to different schools."
  "We shall sound him out further at dinner, but meanwhile, I am quite impressed," the Graf told
"Ram Panikkar and that Australian fellow didn't hoodwink him for a moment. Meanwhile, let u
about the day's developments. Where is Margit?"
  It wasn't a question that needed an answer. Margit entered immediately, obviously having
summoned.
  She said briskly, "Lothar, Peter," and took her chair.
  Peter said, "There's one item, Chief, on which we should get cracking. This Roy Cos, who si
a standard Deathwish Policy in Nassau."
  "The Wobbly organizer? Yes, of course. I thought we notified Cellini, in New York, to p
couple of top men on him."
  "Jolly well," Windsor said in disgust, "but our Mr. Cos is still with us and Brett-James, who
the contract, is screaming like a chap with the blue spiders. Cos and his business manager, a Fo
Brown, are spending money like autumn leaves on the wind. Ordinarily, the poor bloody clods
sign these contracts have neither the imagination to spend a fraction of their million pseudo-doll
day available, nor to avoid our people. They usually go on a drunken, woman-chasing binge in s
expensive resort. They take the most posh suites and they buy—dear God, do they buy!"
  The Graf eyed him in incomprehension. "But what does this Cos fellow do?"
  "He's spending, right up to the hilt each day, on prime Tri-Di time for his lectures. He's also re
huge auditoriums for his rallies, and hiring a large staff of bodyguards and aides, such as pub
men and speech writers."
  Margit said, "Can't he be reached through bodyguards or other employees?"
  Windsor shook his head. "Not so far. We had a publicity man lined up but he was discovered.
bodyguards are all trusted Wobblies and the attempts to bribe them into defecting have all met
violence. But that's not the only difficulty. His message is beginning to get over. For a century a
half the few radicals of the United States have been a laughingstock. Nobody bothered to liste
their demands for fundamental changes, don't you know? But now the proles, caught up in
emotion of his plight, are beginning to consider his program. I've heard from two members o
Central Committee of the World Club. This man is a potential danger to the overall program.
demand that he be liquidated posthaste."
  The Graf said, "Notify Cellini to drop all else and concentrate on this man. Why can't he be pi
off by a sniper from a distance?"
  "Because wherever he goes there are mobs around him. Not just bodyguards—there are eig
them now—but his staff and thousands of gawking curiosity seekers, most of them at least par
in his favor. A hit man can't get near him without running into considerable danger, and fro
distance, there are so many people about him that a man with a rifle can't get a clear bead on
sod."
  The Graf said impatiently, "That is for Cellini to solve, Peter. And that brings up the matter o
World Club. How did the operation against Harold Dunninger work out?"
  "Completely as planned. A really good show. Nils Ostrander deserves a bit of a bonus."
  The mercenary head looked at his secretary. "Refresh me on the details, Fraulein."
  Margit's eyes went vague. She recited, "Harold Dunninger, international tycoon. Candidate me
of the Central Committee of the World Club and, until his recent death, considered most likely t
admitted to the Central Committee upon the retirement of Grace Cabot-Hudson. He belonged t
so-called liberal element in the Central Committee, which includes such people as Jeremiah Aub
Fong Hui, and Mendel Amschel, who wish to see the forming of a world state based on
democratic principles than most. The liberal element is opposed by such members as Harrin
Chase, John Warfield Moyer, and the Committee's secretary, Sheila Duff-Roberts. Also, of co
by such candidate members as the Prophet of the United Church and yourself. It became neces
that Harold Dunninger be eliminated to increase your chances of being nominated a full memb
the Committee. Obviously, it could not be handled in the usual manner or suspicion w
immediately fall upon Mercenaries, Incorporated. So our mole in the Nihilists was instructe
kidnap Dunninger and hold him for a ransom of fifty million pseudo-dollars, with his life forfeit i
ransom was not paid."
  The Graf interrupted, speaking to Peter Windsor. "Suppose he had paid the ransom. Then
Nihilists would have had no escuse to execute him."
  Peter yawned and said, "We looked into it thoroughly. He was on the outs with his wife, don't
know? And she was in control of his interests in his absence. We were quite certain that she w
never pay such a sum. She didn't. He's dead and the killing laid at the doorstep of the Nihilists."
  The Graf thought about it and finally nodded in agreement. "Very well, I understand that the Ce
Committee is in session in Rome. You will go there as my deputy, Peter, and exert what pres
you can to have me entered as a full member into the Committee. I assume that your stron
competitor for the honor will be the Prophet."
  Windsor said thoughtfully, "Don't you think it would be better, Chief, if you went yourself? Yo
been a Candidate
  Member for years but none of the Committee have ever met you. You'd throw more weight if
attended, I shouldn't wonder."
  The Graf grunted contempt of that opinion. "Peter, I have not left the Wolfschloss for tw
years. The last time I did, three separate attempts were made on my life. The last nearly succee
No, I'll stay here. Keep in mind that the Prophet will also be represented by a deputy. He ha
intention of permitting a rumor that he is so worldly as to belong to the World Club. Is there any
else?"
  Peter said, "One other item that ordinarily I wouldn't bother you with. A black named Ho
Hampton, who seems, ah, an enigma. He is an active member of the Anti-Racist League in Am
and indications are that he will soon be raised to membership in their National Executive Comm
This Anti-Racist League has come under the scrutiny of the World Club. So long as they
confined to North America alone they could be largely ignored. But with the Central Comm
about to take steps to expand the United States of the Americas, these militant anti-racists take
new posture."
  "How do you mean?" the Graf said impatiently. "The next step in the erecting of a World Sta
to invite Australia and New Zealand to join the UnituI States of the Americas. The comp
conclude that, if invited, they will join. Perhaps Great Britain and Ireland will be next. In all
countries there are few minorities, so the anti-racists are no difficulty. However, offering membe
to still other nations poses a problem. Suppose India is approached. If the Anti-Racist League
to infiltrate and influence India, her votes would swamp the new United States of the World."
  "What has all this got to do with Horace Hampton?"
  "He is one of the more intelligent and aggressive members of the League. Sheila Duff-Roberts
given us a contract on this mystery man. I strongly suspect that the National Data Banks have
corrupted to the point of his dossier being a fake."
  Margit said musingly, "It isn't the easiest thing in the world to infiltrate the American National
Banks."
  "No, it bloody well isn't," Peter said. "And it seems unlikely that an organization as short of f
as this League could do it."
  The Graf said, "So we have a contract on the man. Very well, have it executed."
  Peter looked at him. "Chief, it occurs to me that we might send young Pinell to deal with
beggar."
  The older man's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
  "Because the boy's inexperienced. You've obviously got plans for him. Very well, he han
himself well on the Rivas assignment, to the extent that he was needed at all. But it would seem t
that he needs a bit more blooding. No particular hurry, but it will give him an opportunity to
something about the organization. He'd have to work through our local representatives in the St
of course."
  "I'll consider the matter," said the Graf. "Very well, if that's all, I'll see you tonight at dinner."
  Dismissed, Margit Krebs and Peter Windsor came to their feet and headed for the door.
  In the corridor, as they headed for their own offices, Margit looked up at the rangy English
She said, softly, "You didn't mention to Lothar that this Horace Hampton is considered the
efficient field man in the Anti-Racist League and very dangerous as compared to our Frank."
  He said, "If you thought so, why didn't you say something to the Chief to that effect?"
  "Possibly, just to find out what you're up to, Peter, dear." She eyed him mockingly. "You cou
be getting second thoughts about Buck PinelFs son, could you, Peter? For years now, you've
second man in Mercenaries, Incorporated. Undoubtedly, you've expected to take over when the
either retires or dies."
  "Who's better suited to take over the reins? But Lothar's in a position to turn over the w
organization to this stripling. If he did, an outfit that has taken half a century to build could go d
the spout overnight. Then where would you and I be, Margit, old thing?"
  She reached the door of her office and stood there for a moment, considering it.
  "How do you stand?" he demanded.
  "I don't know," she said evasively .^"Perhaps you're overestimating Lothar's acceptance of Fra
  "Perhaps," he grunted and went on.
  She looked after him and thought to herself, Peter is beginning to wonder if the Graf isn't ge
too old for the job. Perhaps a touch of senility. I'd hate to be in the crossfire if it came
showdown. Margit, my girl, you'd better start considering on what side of your own bread
butter is on.
  Dinner that night was another revelation to Frank Pinell, in a day that had been full of them.
baronial hall in which it was held was one flight up in the keep from the offices and suites. The w
floor was evidently devoted to the Grafs living quarters.
  Frank had entered the palatial living room attired in the dark suit which Helmut, his newly appo
valet, had laid out for him. There hadn't been much of a choice. He had bought two suits in Pari
Nat Fraser's suggestion, and several pairs of shoes. All the clothing he had brought with him
America he had discarded, also at Fraser's suggestion. But now he realized that he had ma
mistake. The Graf, Peter Windsor, and Margit Krebs were all in evening wear. Margit lo
stunning and ten years younger in a simple black silk affair that brought out the pale perfection o
Scandinavian skin. She wore but one item of jewelry, a matched string of pearls whose deep
luster was obvious from across the room.
  The three were seated about a cocktail table, sipping drinks and chatting, as Frank came in.
Graf looked up and frowned but then said, "Please give us the pleasure of your company, Fran
Sit down." The Graf added smoothly, "We always dress for dinner, Franklin, but I assume
travel clothing is limited."
  Frank said, "I've never worn so much as a tuxedo, not to speak of tails. You don't when you'r
GAS, you know."
  "Forgive me. It skipped my mind that you didn't inherit your father's fortune. Yes, Sepp?"
  The butler leaned forward slightly and spoke to his master in German.
  "Ah," the mercenary grunted. "Dinner is served. Margit?" With his secretary on his arm, follo
by Peter Windsor and Frank, he passed through the double doors into the dining room.
  Compared to the refurbishing of the rest of the keep, the dining hall had hardly been touched b
genius of an interior decorator. Frank could well imagine the old days when some long-dead d
princeling, or archbishop had held forth here. His closest henchmen would be present with
women, wassailing about a huge round table, while minstrels and clowns provided med
entertainment, as scurrying servants brought on heaping platters of food, and huge mugs
foaming beer, mulled wine, or subtle mead.
  The table, however, was considerably smaller than that which must have prevailed in the old d
It would have seated eight at most. The setting was on the awesome side, so far as Frank
concerned. He had never eaten with more cutlery than knife, fork, and spoon, never eaten
candlelight, and most certainly had never eaten off gold.
  The Graf sat at one end of the table, Margit at the other, and Peter and Frank across from
other. It came to Frank that Peter Windsor was a changed man in evening dress, after his info
sports garb of the day. Now he looked as though he had been bom to wear formal evening att
matinee idol couldn't have been more at ease in it.
  Sepp presided with two footmen, also in livery, behind each chair. No more than two sips
taken from a wine glass before it was instantly refilled. It was all on the thick side so far as F
Pinell was concerned.
  It got thicker as the meal progressed. He recognized exactly two of the dishes presented, or at
the ingredients. One was a potato dish which would have been hard to miss, and one a delig
scallop-based fish course. He made the mistake of commenting on the scallops.
  "Ah," the Graf said, pleased. "You mean the Coquilles Saint Jacques Parisienne? It is on
Albert's specialities. He will be overjoyed to know you approve."
  Peter said, after sipping at his Chablis, "Albert is one of the three best chefs in Common Eur
Frank. It's a privilege to eat from his kitchen, I should think."
  Frank said, "You mean to tell me that one of the best three cooks in Europe works here for jus
three of you? I'd think he could get a job in any restaurant in the world."
  "The four of us now," his host said magnanimously. "Fortunately, Albert is in no position to te
his resignation."
  Margit said dryly, "Liechtenstein is somewhat like Tang-ier, in that there are no extradition l
and since Albert made the mistake of killing his wife, he sees fit to remain as Lothar's chef."
  "Poisoned her, to be exact," Peter said blandly.
  Frank looked down at the morsel of scallop on his fork and closed his eyes in sorrow.
  There were eight courses in all, with eight wines, winding up with a dessert which Margit told
was Nesselrode Pudding with Sabayon Fruit, served with a slightly chilled sauterne.
  Largely, the dinner conversation consisted of the Graf expounding on his dreams and turnin
what small charm he boasted in order to win the younger man over. Both Margit and Peter see
surprised at the extent to which he revealed top secrets of the innermost circle of Mercena
Incorporated. It would seem that Lothar von Brandenburg was most certainly now considering F
to be a member of that circle, in which case, it was the most rapid promotion the organization
ever seen.
  All of the servants save Sepp spoke nothing but German, and the table conversation wa
English.
  The Graf had said, "You are acquainted with the World Club, Franklin," while still on the o
soup.
  "Just slightly," Frank said. "Isn't it an organization of economists, philanthropists, and internat
do-gooders seeking solutions to worldwide problems?"
  "That is the facade we present to the man in the street," the other said, satisfaction in his voice.
  "We?" Frank said.
  "Mercenaries, Incorporated is represented in the highest echelons of the World Club."
  "That surprises me. I pictured the organization as a group of old-timers with more credits than
know what to do with, supporting a lot of foundations."
  Peter Windsor gave a snort of amusement.
  The Graf said, "I expect within a short time to be nominated to the Central Committee, w
consists of but ten members and has the ultimate say in all of the World Club's policies."
  "I didn't even know they had a Central Committee," Frank admitted.
  "You're not supposed to, dear boy," Peter said.
  The Graf shot him an impatient look before turning back to Frank. He said, "The real goal o
World Club, Franklin, is world government—a world that has become one under the aegis o
Club. Obviously, such a united world will no longer have wars and…"
  Frank interrupted, "But then what would happen to Mercenaries, Incorporated? It seems to me
your organization depends upon a multitude of antagonistic nations. You should be suppo
nationalism, not trying to do away with it."
  The Graf smiled his gray smile. "It's a far-seeing man who is able to accommodate inevi
changes, Franklin. Sooner or later there will be world government. When it comes about, I wis
be part of its direction, not a leftover from the past. This new world government will still have po
still have armed forces…"
  Frank interrupted again. "Why armed forces?"
  The old mercenary nodded at the question. "To keep the peace. Contrary to popular belief, the
need a state has for an armed force is not to fight foreign enemies but the potential enemy within
an example, take Latin America before it amalgamated with the United States. They spent bil
annually building up then* armed forces though there hadn't been a major war in South America
century and a half. Those arms were to keep their own people in subjection. So in the future, a
forces will still exist. I will be at their head."
  Frank looked at him in open skepticism.
  Margit said, "The first steps have already been taken, Frank—the formation of the United Stat
the Americas. The World Club is already secretly agitating in Australia and New Zealand for the
apply for admission into the United States. For a long time now, those countries have been clos
America than to England and the rest of Common Europe."
  Frank looked over at her. Candlelight did nothing to detract from the charms of Margit Krebs.
flashed sloe eyes at him, aware of their impact.
  He made a mental note of her obvious availability, then turned back to his host. "If the U
States of the Americas eventually becomes a United States of the World, wouldn't the IABI bec
the international police force?"
  The Graf waved that aside, saying, "It's true that John Warfield Moyer, a member of the Ce
Committee, foresees a united world in which his IABI will be the sole police force; bu
organization has been a farce since before the FBI and the CIA were joined together. An organiz
of clowns, headed by clowns, compared to my own. Moyer will be taken care of, in good time."
  Frank thought about it. He said slowly, "Then you're in the process of phasing out your merce
activities in expectation of becoming legal under this new world regime."
  "That's one way of putting it," Peter said.
  Lothar von Brandenburg said, "You are beginning to have second thoughts about my organiza
Frank?"
  "Perhaps. What about these assassinations, though?"
  "Such as the Mahdi? The only thing that will make sense under a world government is a
religion. The United Church, under the Prophet, backs the World Club. The fanatic who calls him
the Mahdi stands in the way of the amalgamation into one of all the world's religions. I'm afrai
must go. Others, too, of course. Always remember, Franklin, that a comparatively few key fig
can change history. The example of Somerset Maugham comes to mind. In his earlier years, w
working for British espionage, he was sent to Petrograd to sabotage the Bolshevik revolution
wrote later that if he had been sent two weeks earlier he might have accomplished his task and
revolution would never have taken place. How would he have done this? He probably had in
the assassinations of Lenin and Trotsky and perhaps of a few others of the old Bolsheviks."
  The American said grudgingly, "I suppose in some respects you've made your point. Under s
circumstances, assassination can be called for. But what happens when someone approaches
with a proposal to kill someone who doesn't deserve killing?"
  The Graf raised his eyebrows. He put down his glass of wine. "My dear Franklin, we
pragmatists, not mad dogs. Our interests are not only money. Suppose, for instance,
Mercenaries, Incorporated was approached by an enemy of the Prophet. As I told you, we sup
the United Church in its efforts to join all organized religions into a single worldwide state chu
ending once and for all conflicts between faiths. Very well, not only would we refuse the cont
but we would inform Ezra Hawkins, the Prophet, about this foe of his, so that he could take step
protect himself."
  "By hiring Mercenaries, Incorporated to eliminate the enemy?" Frank said.
  Peter Windsor chuckled. "You're catching on, dear boy.'*
  Following dinner, they sat for a time in the living room over coffee and cognac. The talk drifte
deference to Frank, to stories involving his father. The Graf carried most of the conversation,
his relationship with Buck Pinell had extended over years, but Peter Windsor was also ab
contribute a few anecdotes. Most of the stories were of a humorous nature and it came to Frank
combat veterans seldom talked much about actual combat itself. When it was shop talk,
something involving business at hand. But not as light conversation. Perhaps amateurs might bra
their exploits under fire, but professionals, no. And you couldn't get much more professional
Lothar von Brandenburg and Peter Windsor.
  When the party broke up, Margit offered to conduct Frank back to his suite. The winding corri
and stone stairways of the keep took some learning, and under the influence of the wines durin
meal and the generous brandies following it, Frank wasn't sure he could find his way unaided.
Graf looked tolerant, Peter amused, as they said their goodnights. On the morrow, Frank was t
assigned a guide to show him the Wolfschloss in detail.
  As they strolled along the stone corridor, Frank decided that nicety wasn't called for.
  He said, "Your rooms, or mine?"
  She looked up at him from the side of her eyes. "I thought you'd never ask. Yours. You m
never find your way bck to your own suite in the morning."
  And that was the full extent of their courting, then- preliminary love play. Margit was a busines
woman, in her sex life as well as her secretarial work.
  In fact, she was as straightforward a woman as he had ever bedded, and at his age, Frank
seldom gone without horizontal refreshments when he had desired them.
  In his bedroom, she had stripped with flattering haste, and had pirouetted exactly once, to show
the woman's body, saying, "Like me?" before sliding into the emperor-sized canopied bed.
  His voice was on the thick side as he told her, "Yes," climbing out of his own clothes.
  "Good heavens," she said, teasing him, "is that for me?"
  "Yes," he said hoarsely, already rampant.
  Not for Margit Krebs were new variations of the world's oldest theme. She took her sex str
and lustily, somewhat surprising Frank, who had expected unique desires on the part of
sophisticated wanton. Perhaps that would come later, he decided as he performed for her. Fo
present, his lady wanted immediate basic action.
  And wanted it again, within minutes after they had both reached rapturous climax. He bega
wonder if he had known what he was getting into, so to speak.
  Later, as they rested, both staring up at the rich cream-colored canopy above, he said, only p
in humor, "And what is a nice girl like you doing in this kind of work?"
  She followed along. "What's the classic answer to that? Just lucky, I guess."
  "Come on, come on. On the face of it you're the junior member of the staff that runs the toug
organization on Earth. Why would a woman like you want to hold down such a job? With
obvious ability you could get top positions anywhere. So why be the notorious Grafs secretary?
  She looked at him strangely. "It's where the power is."
  "I don't understand."
  "The Graf is the single most powerful man in the world, darling. Not the wealthiest, not the
with the most political clout, but the most powerful. Others may not always realize that, but he is
  "Why?"
  "Because he holds the life of every other living person in the palm of his hand."
  He thought about that for a long moment, before saying, "But that's him, not you."
  "The Graf doesn't operate in a vacuum," she told him patiently. "There is no such thing
one-man dictatorship. Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, Mao were the heads of teams. Without the
around them, they wouldn't have been able to cope. The same with Napoleon and Alexande
Great.
  Alexander would have been nothing but a headstrong, alcoholic youth had it not been
Nearchus, Parmenion, and other leaders trained by his father Philip. True enough, the Empire b
up upon his death, when the team started fighting among themselves. But while they were still a t
with him at the head, they were invincible. So it is with the Graf. He does not stand alone, makin
decisions. He has a team. I'm part of the team. You might be, too."
  That quieted him.
  She said, a quirk of amusement there, "I should warn you about Lothar. I think perhaps he's ge
a bit tired of Peter, who isn't quite as young and pink-cheeks as he used to be."
  That came as a surprise. "You mean he's gay?"
  She laughed. "What is your old American expression? He's as queer as chicken shit."
  "Not my cup of tea," he said gruffly.
  "You've already proven that, darling, though I do hope that you're up to proving it again."
reached over to stroke him intimately.
  Frank said, "Wizard, but hold it for just a little, eh?"
  "You mean that literally?" she said, wickedness in her voice.
  "You're a sexpot. Did anyone ever tell you that?"
  "Yes."
  He frowned again and said, "What ever happened to my father's estate? From what you pe
say, he must have been a partner for something like twenty years. When he died my mother ref
to take anything except enough to educate me on. What happened to the rest?"
  "Why, I don't know, darling." She frowned as well. "And I should know. I'm supposed to k
everything connected with Mercenaries, Incorporated."
  Chapter Seventeen: Lee Garrett
  When Lee Garrett reported to the office of Sheila Duff-Roberts early in the morning of the
after she had arrived, it was to find the Amazon-like secretary of the Central Committee of the W
Club already deep in work. A cigarette, half an ash, dangled from the side of her mouth, and
smoke from it spiraled upward.
  Sheila looked up, did her sparse smile, and said, "Good morning, darling. I rather expected yo
return here after your lunch with Jerry Auburn yesterday. Do sit down."
  Lee took the indicated chair and said apologetically, "We ran into some difficulty. By the tim
was ironed out I felt exhausted and Mr. Auburn took me back to my suite."
  "Difficulty?"
  "He was attacked in the restaurant by a waiter, apparently a Nihilist. I've read about them
course. But…" she shook her blond head "… good heavens, I didn't know it had gotten to the
where they were attacking prominent people right in the open."
  The other at last noticed the length of her cigarette ash and tapped it off into her improvised
tray. Her eyes narrowed. "Nihilists! The bastards are really getting out of hand. Just recently
kidnapped one of our candidate members of the Central Committee and shot him when his
couldn't pay a fifty million pseudo-dollar ransom. Something simply will have to be done. W
happened?"
  "It was terrible. The man was about to shoot Jerry—Mr. Auburn—from behind. But some
made him turn and, well, Jerry knows savate and…"
  "What the hell's savate?"
  "A method of fighting with the feet; an old French sport with some aspects of karate.
disarmed the man and had kicked him unconscious before the others arrived. The manage
course, was extremely upset. He said that the waiter was a new man who had only been there
few days. He called the police, of course."
  Sheila shook her head. "Trust Jerry to come up with something like that, fighting with his
Undoubtedly, he'll report on it later. With almost all of the Central Committee in Rome, we
afford to run chances of assassination. Which reminds me: we're to have a party tonight. All o
Central Committee members and candidate members will be present. It will give you an opportu
to meet them and for them, of course, to get an impression of you. In the ballroom, beginnin
nine."
  Lee frowned. "Candidate member?" she said.
  "Yes. You see, there are but ten members of the Central Committee, plus myself as secretary. M
of them are rather elderly. So, at any given time, there are as many as a score or so cand
members, waiting to be made full members upon the death or retirement of any of the pre
incumbents. One of the matters to be handled at this session is such a promotion. G
Cabot-Hudson hasn't been active for some time, so she is being asked to retire to the positio
Central Committee Member Emeritus and a new member will be appointed."
  In an angry movement of a well-manicured hand, she took up another cigarette and lit it, be
going on. "And it's ten to one that it won't be another woman. Male dominance still prevails i
Central Committee. You'd think that at least half the members should be female, but no. The
ego we still have with us." She snorted. Then, "Well, be that as it may, dear, I'll see you at the
tonight. Have you met any of the other members, besides Jerry?"
  "I haven't had the opportunity."
  "I mentioned you to Fong Hui, who has just rocketed in from Hong Kong. He'd like to meet
Fong is the only Oriental Central Committee member, though there are candidates from Japan, I
and Indonesia."
  "When did he wish to see me?"
  "This morning." Sheila Duff-Roberts touched a button on her TV phone.
  Almost immediately, a door leading to the back opened and a girl bustled through. She was a
thing, smaller than Lee Garrett and absolutely dwarfed by the Junoesque Sheila. She was a bit o
plump side, which didn't detract from her vivacity.
  Sheila said, "Lily Palermo, Lee Garrett. Lee is to be my new secretary, Lily darling, to rep
Pamela. But you girls can get to know each other later. Right now, I'd like you to take Lee to F
Hui's apartment. The old fuddy-duddy's expecting her."
  "Right away," Lily said. And to Lee, "My, you must have spent a fortune on that hair."
  Lee came to her feet and said to Sheila, "See you at the party, then."
  "Good-O, darling," Sheila said, already back at her work.
  As they started down the corridor, redundant with art as everywhere in the Palazzo Colonna,
said, touching her hair, "Believe it if you will but it's my own and I do it myself."
  "It's lovely," Lily told her and giggled. "You should have been at tüepartous last night. You w
have been the hit."
  Lee made a moue. "Group sex turns me off," she said.
  The other looked at her from the side of her eyes. "I'm surprised that Sheila is taking you fo
secretary then."
  Lee shrugged. "It was rather thrown at me, without my having much to say about it, though fra
this whole World Club thing has its fascinating aspects."
  "Oh, it's the most wizard job you can imagine. You're right in the middle of the most impo
goings on in the world. You're really on the inside."
  Lee said idly, "Whatever happened to Pamela, the girl I'm taking over from?"
  "I don't know. She was awfully nice. Kind of a little serious, even more dedicated than most.
and she still talked with that soft brogue they have."
  "What was her last name?"
  "McGivern. She wouldn't take anything from anybody, not even Sheila. They'd argue hammer
tongs."
  "Maybe that's why Sheila let her go."
  The little girl was silent for a moment, as they rounded a turn in the wide corridor. Then she
quietly, "Sheila never fires you from any of these jobs. She might transfer you to some
position, somewhere else. But she'll never fire you."
  "Why not?"
  The other wasn't quite happy at the question. "Well, I suppose if the computers selected you i
first place, you have more than usual ability, and the Central Committee doesn't want to was
Besides…" she hesitated for a moment "… you're in on so many top-secret matters that
wouldn't like you to blab them around." She rolled her eyes. "I can just see somebody who
worked for the Central Committee sitting down and writing a book about it."
  Lee thought about that. She already had several new things to think about this morning. For
she had gotten the damnedest impression that Sheila had already known about the attack on
Auburn before she had told her. But then, it was Sheila's job to know everything that happ
pertaining to the Central Committee members.
  Lily brought them up to an imposing door, similar to that which opened into Sheila Duff-Robe
salon. Once again, there was no identity screen. She knocked briskly, then reached down fo
bright brass knob.
  She smiled brightly at Lee, said, "See you later, dear," turned and tripped briskly away.
  Lee entered, closing the door behind her. She blinked in surprise at the large room's decor. She
stepped from a Roman Renaissance corridor into a chamber which should have been eight thou
miles away, in a Chinese palace or mansion of the Ming dynasty. One had no doubts whatsoever
all of the exquisite furnishings, all of the art, and even the rugs, were genuine antiques. The w
room belonged in a Chinese museum.
  There were two occupants—an old man behind an intricately carved ebony desk, and a
certainly not over twenty, wearing a sleek, long, yellow, high-collared cheong-sam. She was kne
upon a dais, plucking a thin Mandarin melody from a jong resting on the floor before her. Her
fingers played over the instrument as though caressing a lover.
  The old man was frail with a wisp of a white beard and a bald head poised forward on his
neck with great natural dignity and grace. He wore the red-tasseled, crystal-topped cap and
navy-blue gown of the scholar.
  Lee said formally, after bowing, "May I trouble your chariot? My name is Lee Garrett."
  His aged eyes took her in for a moment, then the slightest of smiles appeared on his yello
parchment face. "My chariot is untroubled. Pray take an honored chair."
  "I am totally unworthy."
  "The unworthiness is mine," he told her. "My office is favored by your visit."
  Lee sat across the desk from him and said, "It is a poor woman's delight."
  "The office shrinks in humble shame before your footsteps." Fong Hui shook hands with him
keeping his delicately tapered fingers well within his long loose sleeves.
  The Chinese girl who had been playing the jong stood and trotted toward a rear door. She tu
without speaking, bobbed several bows, and left.
  Fong took Lee in again, the faint smile still in his eyes. "I suspect that you would have been cap
of going through the formal greeting of years past in the original Mandarin."
  Lee Garrett acknowledged the compliment. "Only awkwardly, Mr. Fong. My father was a diplo
When I was a young girl he was stationed for two years in the People's Republic in Peking. He
an ardent linguist and always insisted that the family study the language of the nation to whic
were posted."
  "Such talents will be welcome in the position Ms. Duff-Roberts tells me you are to occupy.
smiled faintly again and let his eyes go about the room. "Undoubtedly, you are surprised at both
office and my attire."
  "I have always been a great admirer of the art and culture of the Celestial Empire, Mr. Fong."
  His thin voice held a touch of exasperation. "And I have long been displeased by the increa
domination of the Western culture. But I wage a losing battle. The culture of the West sw
everything before it—its modes of dress, its food, its manners and mores. An accident of hi
gave the European and North American powers domination over the world for at least the presen
that the habits of the West have prevailed to the detriment of other cultures, not neces-sarily infe
As to dress, without doubt the Chinese cheong-sam and the Indian sari are far more flattering t
feminine figure than the awkward garb of Europe. And throughout the world now, all cities
beginning to look like Cleveland, Ohio, while such architectural gems as Angkor Wat in Camb
and Kyoto in Japan are now no longer anything but museums on a grand scale."
  Lee said, "I agree with you, Mr. Fong. Even Rome now has its seven hills surrounded by sky-
condominiums and high-rise apartment buildings for the antlike existence of the proles, the slum
the welfare state."
  He was obviously enjoying her company. "My dear," he said, "you seem wise beyond your y
Perhaps some evening, after adjusting to your new atmosphere, you will honor me with
presence at dinner. My chef is from Shanghai."
  "I am overwhelmed, Mr. Fong. I consider Chinese cuisine the world's finest."
  The old man touched his wisp of white beard and said, "And now, my dear, tell me: what are
impressions of the World Club?"
  She said hesitantly, "I am somewhat overwhelmed. Its scope is much greater than I had thoug
am inclined to wonder whether it has bitten off more than it can chew. The problems seem inso
to me."
  He nodded. "When I was a boy, confronted with my youthful unsolvable problems and in des
my father once said, 'What were you worrying about last year at this date?' And I saw on refle
that all my unsolvable problems of that time had, indeed, been solved or lost relevancy. The
might be said to apply to the long-range troubles of man. This is the year 2086. What were
difficulties one century ago in 1986? In those days, savants were aghast at the world's probl
surely they would never be solved. But let us ask the question again. Suppose that an Americ
the year 1986 was to look back a century to 1886 and consider the problems of that time. The In
Wars were not quite over; Custer's forces had been destroyed only ten years before and Geron
had kept the Southwest in a state of siege. Labor troubles were paramount, the anarchists at
peak. The Haymarket bombing killed seven, wounded sixty. The
  American Federation of Labor was not yet strong. America was in an unprecedented stat
growing pains. The robber barons of industry were taking over the country wholesale. Immig
were swarming in to the point where nearly half of New York City couldn't speak English, to
dismay of the earlier-arrived Anglo-Saxons."
  Lee laughed softly. "I see what you mean. By 1986, the problems of 1886 had all been solve
disappeared. And so, is your suggestion, will be the problems of our time by 2186."
  He smiled in return but then became more serious. "Tell me, my dear, what do you think of
Sheila Duff-Roberts?"
  She said carefully, "I don't know her very well as yet. She seems very capable."
  The old man nodded. "I am afraid that she is too prone to take on authority which should rema
the hands of the Central Committee, with the assistance of its candidate members, though I def
the majority in retaining her as secretary." He hesitated. "Nor do I think that she should participa
the sometimes differing currents of the World Club."
  He must have caught the puzzlement in her eyes and said in amusement, "Did you think that all
accord in the Central Committee, my dear? Happily, it is not. If it were, I myself would withdra
frozen program is seldom a valid one, certainly not over a period of time. It was one of the p
weaknesses of the Marxists back in the 19th and 20th centuries. Marx and Engels did their wor
early as the first part of the 19th century. Their Communist Manifesto, written in 1848, predicte
imminent breakdown of capitalism and a proletarian victory. A century later, the capitalist system
changed and was stronger than ever. Marx and Engels had died, but most of the so-called Mar
continued to follow them as though no changes in political economy had taken place; as though
developments as fascism and the state capitalism of the Soviet Union had never raised their
heads. At any rate, there are conflicting opinions in the Central Committee of the World Club a
to a degree, welcome them. When two minds meet, both learn something. An Einstein cannot
with a moron and exchange opinions without both learning something—however little."
American girl said, "But what are these differences in opinion? I had gathered from Sheila and
Auburn that the goal of the World Club is world government."
  He smiled his little smile again. "It is, but there can be varied types of world government. So
have met our debonair Jeremiah Auburn. He is a young man with depths not immediately perce
by some. Indeed, there was considerable difficulty in nominating him to the Central Comm
However, his father before him was a member and such, ah, old-timers as myself and G
Cabot-Hudson were adamant in vouching for him. The three of us have similar views pertainin
the nature of the world state to come. We had hopes that Candidate Harold Dunninger, who also
somewhat similar views, would replace her upon her retirement. Unfortunately, he was rec
murdered by the Nihilists. Opposed to our view are John Moyer of the American IABI wh
suspect, sees the future government as a police state, and Harrington Chase, with his strong r
beliefs, who undoubtedly sees it as a government of whites over the rest of humanity. Some o
candidates, such as Lothar von Brandenburg, I am sure, see the future government as a dictator
while Ezra Hawkins, of the United Church, probably desires a theocracy. Ah yes, my dear,
afraid that there are conflicting currents within the ranks of the World Club."
  Lee said thoughtfully, "I can see that there must be ramifications that never occurred to me."
  The faint sound of a muted gong came from the inner depths of the apartment and the old
smiled ruefully. "I am afraid that my physician reminds me that it is time for my nap."
  The American girl stood immediately. "I must thank you for wasting so much of your valuable
on one who is so ignorant of the great problems resting upon your honorable shoulders."
  "The pleasure, my dear, is mine. You are to fill an important post, privy to the inner
developments of the World Club. One cannot know the future, but perhaps one day you may
succeed to the position now occupied by Ms. Sheila Duff-Roberts."
  Lee bowed formally, said, "With your permission, Mr. Fong," and turned and left.
  Behind her, Fong Hui sighed softly. Old his clay might be, but he still had an eye for a superlat
pretty girl.
  Lee Garrett puzzled out the route to her own suite, only twice losing her way through the ramb
twisting corridors of the Palazzo Colonna.
  Inside it, she carefully locked the door before going into her small office. She checked the tim
her wrist chronometer, then put her shoulder bag on the desk top. She activated a s
compartment in the leather purse and brought forth from it a device like a ballpoint stylo.
pressed a stud on its side and began moving slowly about the room, pointing the gadget here, t
and particularly in the vicinity of electronic devices such as the TV phone.
  After thoroughly going over the office, she returned to the living room and resumed her activ
As she approached the apartment's second TV phone, sitting on a small table against a wall
device began to buzz faintly. Her eyes widened in suspicion and she approached closer. The buz
increased. She nodded to herself and then continued about the room. She finished the living r
and continued her task in both the bedroom and the bath, but she found no more electronic b
She deactivated her device, returned to her office, and replaced it in her shoulder bag, extra
from the same secret compartment another device. She also took up her pocket transceiver.
  She went back to the living room on her way, pulling a thin antenna from its place in the flat me
box of her device, which looked something like a small cigarette case. She placed it next to the
phone and pressed a stud. It began to hum faintly.
  She sat down on the couch, turned on her transceiver, flicked the scrambler button, and dialed
  The answering voice came almost immediately.
  Lee said hurriedly, "I'll have to make this quick. There's a bug in my suite. I have the muffler on
heaven knows what would happen if some monitor was checking manually. So, briefly, everythi
going better than we could have dreamed of. I am the Secretary of Sheila Duff-Roberts, the secr
of the Central Committee. I am meeting the ten members, one by one by one. So far, I have f
more division among them than we had known. Grace Cabot-Hudson is to be replaced; the Graf
the Prophet are top contenders for her position. Both will add to the extremist element in
Committee."
  A thin, faraway voice spoke from the transceiver.
  Then she said hurriedly, "I must go. There is to be a parry tonight which I'll attend. Meanw
check this, if you can. A Pamela McGivern, an Irish girl, was the former holder of my job. I
know what happened to her but I was indirectly informed today that once one takes a job this c
to the Central Committee one doesn't quit. Obvious question: where is the McGivem girl?"
  The voice spoke again.
  And Lee said, "I'll be very careful. I'm a little afraid."
  She switched off the transceiver, hurried over to the muffler and deactivated it as well, then to
back into the office and hid it again.
  Chapter Eighteen: Jeremiah Auburn
  It soon came to Lee Garrett, when she attended the party in the ballroom of the Palazzo Colo
why Sheila Duff-Roberts's position was so important. The Committee itself was undoubtedly
most informal presiding body of a large and influential organization of which she had never h
Sheila's office held it all together. Present at the get-together were nine of the ten Central Comm
members, about a score of candidate members, and another score or so of prominent suppo
and employees of the World Club who had not as yet attained Central Committee rank, but
knowledgeable of its secret nature and headed various of the foundations, research groups, pres
groups, and lobbies. All were in formal dress but that was as near as Lee could see to it bei
formal affair. She would have called it a cocktail party, at most. The buffet was one of the
elaborate she had ever seen, and Lee Garrett had attended many an embassy affair. There
tobacco fumes in the air as well as those of cannabis.
  Men predominated by far. She noticed a dozen other women, most in their middle years, and
gave the impression of being the wives of male members. One wore a golden Indian sari
otherwise all were gowned most expensively in the latest styles. Two of the men wore Arab garb
all the rest were in European dress, though at least half were of dark complexion, including one
black man who, unlike the others, didn't seem at ease in his black tie and tails. For a moment, as
surveyed them, she wondered about the conservatism in men's dress. Formal attire had cha
precious little since the days of Abraham Lincoln. Sports and daily wear, yes; evening wear, n
guest at a reception given by
  Woodrow Wilson probably wouldn't have looked out of place here tonight.
  When she first entered there were as many servants present as guests, tending bar and the bu
carrying drinks and canapes, running the errands waiters run. But very shortly after she arrived
seemed magically to disappear, to her surprise. Then the realization came: those present were no
position to be overheard. For the balance of the evening, the guests helped themselves to the b
and the abundant drinks at the two bars.
  She recognized only a few people—Sheila Duff-Roberts, of course, and Jerry Auburn, and F
Hui, who inclined his bald head in salutation when their eyes met. Across the room was Nils No
an unconventionally jovial Swede who had been pointed out to her though thus far they hadn't m
  No, this was no formal party; merely a get-together of the bigwigs of the World Club. They s
or sat about the ballroom of the renaissance palace chatting, arguing, debating; sometimes frie
sometimes in heat, and in groups of anywhere from two to eight. Most seemed to make a polic
circulating around, joining one conversation for a time, then drifting on to another individu
group.
  Sheila had suggested Lee's presence as an opportunity to meet not only other members o
Central Committee but the other influentials of the World Club as well. For the moment, she d
quite know where or how to begin. But then, from across the room, Jerry Auburn waved to he
was standing with Sheila Duff-Roberts, who was dressed in a stunning, bright-blue evening g
which surely must have been designed with only her in mind. With them was a stranger who bo
fragile handkerchief with which he daintily touched his lips after each sip at the champagn
carried.
  Lee approached hesitantly, wondering if the wave had meant she was to join them, and
beamed at her. He held a highball glass in hand and, by the darkness of its contents, it was e
straight spirits or nearly so. His shining eyes and flushed face indicated that the drink prob
wasn't his first.
  When she came up to the others, Jerry waved his glass in a gesture of welcome and said, "Ho
meet Carlo Brentanto.
  Carlo, this is Lee Garrett, Sheila's new secretary. A knockout, which you wouldn't recog
though Sheila does."
  Sheila, who had a brandy glass in hand, murmured throat-ily, "You look stunning in that g
darling."
  Carlo Brentanto said, in almost a lisp, "Incantato," and bowed over Lee's hand gallantly.
  Jerry said, "Carlo's been explaining that the gays should inherit the Earth."
  "Certainly, they should have a greater say in its governing," the Italian told him coolly. "Afte
my dears, they have been outstanding throughout history. It is ridiculous that there isn't a s
homosexual in the Central Committee."
  Jerry took a pull at his drink and said, "Well, we have our imposing Sheila.'' Sheila snorted.
  "Over and over, the homosexual has proven himself down through history," Carlo argued,
daintily sipping. "Can you think of anyone more outstanding in the military and in government
Alexander the Great, Caesar, Frederick the Great, and many more prominent than Plato? Man
reached his heights when the homosexual was most widely understood— The Golden Ag
Athens; the Renaissance here in Italy."
  "Tolerated, but not exactly in power," Jerry said. "Off hand, the only governments I can thin
that were ruled by the gays were Sodom and Gomorrah—and they came to a fiery end."
  "I've always wondered what it was they did in Gomorrah," Lee murmured.
  "You name it, they did it," said Jerry. Sheila gave her curt little laugh and said, "I'm gratified to
you have a sense of humor, darling."
  The Italian fluttered the hand bearing his handkerchief and said, "Oh, all of you are quite hopele
think I shall go over and join the admiral."
  "I have no doubt you'll try," Sheila purred. He left and the three of them looked after him
moment.
  Jerry said, "How in the hell did he ever get into the candidate class?"
  "Actually, he's quite brilliant and the Brentantos are the wealthiest family in Italy," Sheila told
"What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Jerry, before he interrupted us?"
  He finished his drink and said, "Oh, yes. When I asked you yesterday what had happene
Pamela McGivern you said that I'd undoubtedly hear later. I haven't. In fact, I've asked a coup
the Committee and none of them seem to know, though Chase managed to mutter that it was g
riddance. I don't believe that our Pamela was capable of hiding what she thought about his r
leanings."
  Sheila said, "She was becoming quite impossible. It's one thing my being somewhat of a min
without portfolio in the Central Committee, but, after all, she was only my secretary, and there
no reason for their putting up with her opinions."
  Jerry cocked his eye at her. "Minister without portfolio, eh? I didn't know that was how
regarded yourself, Sheila. I thought you were more like a Man Friday. You're sure that you're
beginning to take on responsibilities beyond those the Committee had in mind?"
  Sheila's silent irritation was only partially concealed.
  He said, "Now, what happened to Pamela? I, for one, liked the girl, and so did Fong Hui, am
others."
  "I dismissed her, giving her a bonus of fifty thousand psuedo-dollars."
  "Without consulting anyone, eh?"
  "I didn't think it necessary. After all, she was my secretary. I originally employed her on my
without consulting anyone."
  "What happened to her? Where is she now?"
  Sheila frowned slightly. "I wouldn't know. Perhaps she returned to Ireland."
  "Perhaps," he said. He looked at Lee. "Neither of us has a drink. Should we go on over to the
and remedy that situation?"
  "Thank you," Lee said, and turned her eyes questioningly to her superior.
  Sheila did her bleak smile and said, "Run along, dear, and do meet as many of those present as
can. You'll be working with all of them later."
  Jerry took Lee by the arm and led her to one of the bars which had been set up in the ballr
immediately across from the buffet tables. For the moment, it was unoccupied.
  He dropped the curt air he had assumed with Sheila Duff-Roberts and said, "What w
be—champagne? One of the candidates has his own vineyard near Rheims. He provides us wit
best vintages."
  "That will be fine, Mr. Auburn."
  "Jerry," he told her. "I'll stick to cognac."
  There was a long row of ice buckets, each with a bottle of sparkling wine. He selected one w
had already been opened, took up a clean glass and poured for her, then took up a half-empty b
of impressive-looking brandy and renewed his own glass with a generous charge. She had been r
Save for two ice cubes, he was drinking his spirits straight. Lee winced at the idea of putting i
good cognac.
  She said, "Cheers," and sipped at her wine. It was certainly as good as any she had ever tasted
  A small, thin, slightly hawk-nosed, dignified elderly man came up and poured himself a gl
sherry. He nodded at Jerry and looked questioningly at Lee.
  Jerry said, "Mendel, this is Lee Garrett, Sheila's new secretary. She's a bit bewildered, undoub
because she didn't know the Central Committee was composed of such far-out folk. Lee, th
Mendel Amschel, a Committee member and once my father's closest friend."
  "I'm charmed, my dear," the newcomer said, taking her hand. "I don't know why, but one n
expects surpassing beauty in a girl who must also be surpassingly intelligent and competent."
  "Why, you old goat," Jerry protested. "I saw her first."
  Lee was fully aware of the identity of Mendel Amschel, reputedly the head of the richest ban
Common Europe, although his name seldom appeared in the news.
  "You flatter me, Jerry," the older man said, smiling gently at the girl. "However, if I were tw
years younger…"
  "You'd still be sixty," Jerry said. "You dreamer."
  "Gentlemen, gentlemen," Lee protested. "Isn't the Code Duello still legal in Italy? If you must
over me…"
  "Right," Jerry said. "The bois at dawn. I'll get Peter Windsor to second for me. I see him
there, talking to the Archbishop. Competent man in a fight, I understand, but don't turn your bac
him. You might get a knife in it, even though you thought he was on your side."
  The banker raised his eyebrows at the younger man. "I suspect when it comes to a vote to rep
our Grace Cabot-Hudson, you are not likely to opt for the Graf."
  Jerry said testily, "I doubt if the original founders of the World Club ever expected profess
killers to be represented in the Central Committee."
  "I discussed it with Harrington," the other said. "He pointed out that most of the former merce
activities of Lothar von Brandenburg are now becoming phased out, but that there will always
need for espionage and, ah, strong men even in a World State."
  Jerry dismissed that opinion. "It's true mercenaries are on the wane. Wizard. But the Gr
expanding into other lines. Personal assassination hasn't been so prevalent since the days o
Borgias. He's simply computerized it."
  The Viennese banker scowled at him questioningly. "Isn't that largely a matter of gossip
rumor? Every homicide in the world is being laid at the door of the mysterious Graf."
  "Yes." Jerry looked thoughtful. "And that reminds me. I wanted to see Peter Windsor and
about the death of Harold Dunninger. He's the one I would have voted for to take over Grace's
on the Committee, rather than either the Prophet or the Graf."
  "So would I have, my boy," Amschel said. "But the Nihilists, who seem daily to become
bold, got through his defenses."
  "I wonder," Jerry said. "At any rate, I want to talk with Windsor. You two get to know each o
see you later."
  When the younger man had gone, Amschel sighed and said, "Our Jerry Auburn is consider
different than I remember his father." He smiled slightly. "Perhaps it is the generation gap, after
was Fredric Auburn's contemporary. Jerry seems a bit precipitous. I wince at his confrontation
the Graf's representative." He turned his eyes from the retreating Jerry and brought them back to
"I imagine everyone is asking you what you think of the World Club."
  "Well, yes," she told him carefully. "My first reaction is that the Central Committee's plans see
be somewhat premature, though I support them. Is the world ready for a universal government?"
  "Ready or not," he said with a touch of resignation in his voice, "it is the only answer. Today
world is on the precipice of disaster. What is the old Britishism? The chickens have come hom
roost. The slowly developing problems of the past three centuries have now reached a head."
  Lee demurred. "Oh, come now, the world is comparatively dormant at present. There are no
immediate crises. We haven't known a major war within the lives of anyone now living."
  He shook a thin finger at her. "My dear, it is astonishing how quickly matters can develop w
conditions are ripe. Consider the spring of 1914 when everything seemed stable. The Kaiser
securely on his throne, Franz Joseph of the Austro-Hungarian Empire on his, the Sultan ruled
powerful Ottoman Empire, and the Czar of all the Russias had recently celebrated the 3
anniversary of Romanoff rule. Five years later, there was no major monarchy in Europe
England, and capitalism itself had collapsed in Russia, the largest nation of the world. No, my
comparatively overnight, world institutions can radically alter, given the right, or perhaps I should
the wrong, conditions."
  She took a full lower lip between perfect white teeth. Then, "And you think such conditions
today?"
  "Yes." He looked about. "Come, my dear, let us find a place to sit down. My friend Fong Hui
me you are an interesting young woman. Frankly, I was sorry to see Pamela McGivern leave, bu
was necessary at least we seem to have found a competent replacement. Would you like me t
your glass?"
  "No," she said. "No, I have plenty." She followed him to a fifteenth-century couch set against
of the large chamber's walls. When they were seated she said, "And what do you foresee in
nature of this new World State? What kind of government will it be? I get the impression that the
considerable difference on this among Central Committee members."
  He conceded the validity of that. "Yes, there is. Some of us wish to continue the typ
democracy that now prevails in the United States of the Americas."
  She sipped again at her wine, frowning slightly. "You advocate a two-party democracy with
of the parties controlled by a power elite?"
  He smiled his little dry smile again. "Yes. I am a product of my class and my age. My class o
the so-called Western world. 1 believe that they should govern it. Benevolently, of course,
maintaining all the liberties that man has achieved. Perhaps half of the Central Committee and
more of the candidate members concur."
  "And the ordinary citizens, including the proles: they are still to have the vote?"
  "Yes, of course, my dear. Why not? It keeps them happy to think that they have the ultimate
Every four years we put up two candidates and let them take their pick. What could be
democratic than that? You must realize that even at the height of the Empire, the Roman prole
had the vote. They usually sold it to the highest bidder, of course, but they had it. The proles
dear, we shall always have with us. They are the masses who labor at the undesirable jobs w
labor is needed, or fight as common soldiers in times of war. They are the nonentities. The world
passed them by. A typical example is the peons of Latin America, now assimilated into the U
States of the Americas. Uneducated, untrained, they were pushed from a burro society into on
electronic computers. They won't adjust, nor will their children. Like the Roman proletariat,
must simply be fed and otherwise taken care of by the state, as cheaply and efficiently as poss
and forgotten about."
  "But there are exceptions among them. There surely are many exceptions."
  "Of course, and they must be found and encouraged. Thomas Edison was born in poverty and
only about three years of grammar school. But he was a genius. Andrew Carnegie came to Am
as an immigrant and fought his way upward into the highest ranks of the powerful. Oh yes, ther
many exceptions. The ancestor of Harrington Chase who founded the Chase fortune was an oi
worker in Texas."
  Lee shook her head and put her empty glass down on a small table beside the couch. "I had al
thought the
  World Club to be composed largely of economists whose research was supported by we
philanthropists."
  The international banker was obviously amused. "Don't exaggerate the contributions
economists, my dear. They are highly overrated compared to us, the pragmatic. If there was ev
group to which the question, 'If you're so smart, why aren't you rich?' applies, it is the econom
Economics aren't as complicated as all that but the economists tny-thologize the subject. Ther
exceptions, but most of them go through life as second-raters—teaching, writing books that few
and even fewer understand, or selling their services to governments or the powerful. They make
way with gobbledy-gook terminology, but practically never do they get rich. Even a five-pe
advantage on knowing what way the stock market was going to go would make them wealthy
they simply don't know. Karl Marx himself, that analyzer of the capitalist system, lived and di
poverty. Did you ever hear of a Rockefeller, a Dupont, a Getty, or any other founder of the
American fortunes, who was an economist?"
  Lee's smile was inverted. "I am afraid that you are making a cynic of me, Mr. Amschel."
  The smile he returned was thin. "I hope not, my dear. You are far too charming to succum
cynicism. However, take as an example the monetary crisis of the last century. Every econom
the world was working on the problem of the collapse of international money. There was not en
gold or any other precious metal in the world to back the needed mediums of exchange. All nat
particularly your United States, simply began printing paper money, which had no value sin
represented nothing. Inflation was rampant. Inflation, of course, is not a matter of prices going
but of the value of money going down. The United States, with a two trillion dollar a year econo
faced disaster because it had issued perhaps four hundred billion dollars' worth of paper wi
backing. Did the economists solve the problem? No. It was solved by an obscure specul
writer."
  "I didn't know that!"
  "Oh, yes. He proposed that the government, in taxing the two hundred top corporations o
United States, take ten percent of the taxes in the form of their common stock. This
amalgamated into what was called United States Basic
  Common, a sort of gigantic mutual fund. Its shares, of course, paid dividends based on
combined dividends of the corporations. The stock was placed on every stock exchange o
world to seek its level. Each year, the government added its new common stock, taken in the for
taxes, to its U. S. Basic Common. Anyone who had dollars could turn them in for Basic Comm
In short, the money of the United States, now called pseudo-dollars since there was no gold be
them, was now backed by the American economy." The banker made a little snort. "It wasn't
before all other developed nations followed the lead. The world now has valid currencies."
  Halfway across the room, Jerry Auburn was interrupted on his way to seeing Peter Windsor.
  Harrington Chase, his inevitable glass of bourbon and branch water in hand, waved him down.
American tycoon was a stereotype of the cattleman or oil entrepreneur who had flourished in the
Southwest. He differed little if at all from his progenitors. A Henry Ford or a Joe Kennedy m
have come from rough-and-ready, tough-and-tight-eyed schools, but in two generations
descendants were attending Ivy League universities and had become ladies and gentlemen
conducted themselves as aristocrats—America's new nobility. But not the Chases! Harrin
Chase's fief was a ranch enveloping two large counties overlapping in Texas and Oklahoma, l
than the areas of several northeastern states. Big and ruddy of face, his bulk no longer called fo
riding his famed Palominos, but he usually still affected riding boots. And a king-sized cigar,
when police were in the vicinity, was always in his mouth. He also, Jerry knew, invariably ord
steak and potatoes, in the most celebrated restaurants, with apple pie and ice cream for dessert.
  With Chase, as usual at a Central Committee session, was his closest associate, John War
Moyer, for some twenty years Director of the IABI. A square-cut man in his late fifties, Moyer,
his bulldog face, shaggy brows, and cold, accusing eyes, looked every inch what he wa
high-ranking police officer. In his case, the highest ranking in the world.
  Chase said, with an overriding joviality, "Hold on, Jerry, old-timer.''
  Jerry Auburn came to a halt, albeit reluctantly. "Something up, Harry?" He knew perfectly we
other hated that name. He nodded at Moyer. "Hi, Fuzzy," he said, inwardly pleased at the direc
wince.
  Harrington Chase hefted his glass up and down a couple of times pontifically. "We've been mu
over the replacement of Grace Cabot-Hudson, now that she's let it be known she's resigning."
  Jerry said, "I had been inclined to Dunninger… until somebody got to him."
  "Never cottoned much to Harold myself," Chase said pompously. "Kind of a goddamned lib
Show me a liberal and I'll show you a man on the verge of a coyote Euro-communist. But at lea
was a white American, just like us three."
  Moyer looked at Jerry: a policeman's look. "What do you mean, somebody got to him? T
Nihilist subversives shot him when his people wouldn't pay the ransom. His wife must have tho
they were bluffing."
  "So they say," Jerry nodded. "Which leaves the field more or less left to Ezra Hawkins and L
von Brandenburg, two of the most unlikely candidates for a seat in the Central Committee I c
imagine."
  Harrington Chase puffed out his cheeks. "At least the Prophet is a God-fearing Christian, a w
man, and an American. We Americans ought to stick together. We wouldn't want to see a slan
like lyeyasu Suzuki, or a nigger like Sri Saraswate, on the Committee."
  Jerry took him in. "It's never been proven that the Prohpet can read or write. Supposedly, the
echelons of the World Club are composed of highly intelligent, well-educated men and women
superstition-spouting demagogues."
  "Look, boy, us Americans have a manifest destiny to run this world. It's in the cards. But u
we hold the cards, we'll wind up with the wogs taking the pot."
  The younger man regarded him, doing little to disguise his contempt. "Harry," he said, "do
realize that half the United States population is below average in intelligence?"
  The billionaire's eyes all but popped in indignation. "That's a damn lie!" he rumbled.
  Jerry shook his head in pretended despair. "Your American chauvinism does you little cr
Harry. Of course, half of every population is below average, and the other half above average. W
do you think average means?"
  The oilman sputtered, then took a heavy slug of his bourbon.
  Moyer said, obviously getting it before his colleague did, "What's that got to do with the Pro
being elevated to the Central Committee, Auburn? It seems to me that having a man of God in
number makes good sense. The fact that the majority of us are among the world's wealthiest
some people the wrong way, especially the liberal intellectuals. The Prophet heads the biggest ch
in the world, and every day it gets larger."
  Jerry turned his gaze to the IABI head. "And did it ever occur to you, as a fuzzy, that the nu
of crimes in a city each year is proportional to the number of churches there?"
  The other stared at him. "You must be around the corner, Auburn. The more churches, the
crime."
  Jerry shook his head in sorrow. "On the face of it, fuzzy, the larger the town is, the more chur
there are. And the larger a town is, the more crime there is."
  Harrington Chase said angrily, "You're getting away from the point, Jerry. The point is, we
want any more kikes like Meyer Amschel in the Central Committee, and no more chinks like F
Hui."
  Jerry said, "We'll see about that when it comes to the vote, Harry. In my opinion, Amschel
Fong may be on the oldish side, and overly conservative, but they're two of the best we've got.
now, excuse me; I want to have a few words with Windsor. Has it ever occurred to either of you
the Graf is so afraid of leaving that castle fortress of his that he always sends a deputy to repre
him? What kind of a Committee member would he make if he never bothered to attend sessions?
  Before the arrival of Jerry Auburn, Archbishop Willy Beck and Peter Windsor had been hitti
off jolly well, as the Englishman might have put it. The Graf's right-hand man, now in impecc
evening wear, was a far cry from the languid, easygoing young man of the Wolfschloss. Now, i
view of his peers, he presented himself as the British aristocrat—straight of posture, clippe
voice. His companion was dressed in black and wore the reversed collar of clerical tradition.
were approximately the same age, approximately the same height, but there the resemblance en
save for goals. Willy Beck, a lifelong evangelist who had first taken the stump at revival meetin
the American Bible Belt at the age of fourteen, had the sanctimonious face of his trade—
expressionless, save for a sadness which tugged at the heartstrings of his feminine followers. Ind
his face had been compared to that of Lincoln before the beard. His voice was soft, with a dep
sorrow similar to that of an undertaker. His railings against the evils of drink and tobacco wer
trademark, which would undoubtedly have led the faithful to goggle at the Manila cigar he now
in one hand and the glass of that most delicate though strong of spirits, Hungarian barack, in
other.
  The Archbishop was saying, "Yes, you are quite correct. The Prophet foresees, once the W
State has come to power, the reestablishment of the Holy Office, the Inquisition— under a
inspiring name, of course. Heretics must be rooted out. At this point it is quite impossible, but
the United Church has become the State Church of the World Government, matters will be diffe
Since the days of Socrates the organized religions have found that to be the ultimate truth. But
at this point, we must rely on other means to confound our Godless opponents, and that is wh
Prophet sees the need for greater cooperation between our two organizations."
  Peter Windsor said, sipping at his Scotch, "You put it most interestingly, Your Excellency. In
manner do you think the United Church could be of use to us?"
  "In most of the present-day branches of the United Church, my son, we follow the rit
confession. Perhaps a judicious leader might be reluctant to reveal his secrets, but often the
restraint does not apply to his more devout wife. It is astonishing, the information that is reveal
the confessional booth, especially if encouraged by a trained confessor— information that woul
priceless to an organization involved in espionage."
  "Bloody marvelous," Peter Windsor said, lost in admiration of the possibilities. "And in return?
  The Archbishop's face was sad. "Alas, my son, in this sin-ridden world the true faith often
what would seem insurmountable obstacles raised by the followers of the Adversary. Such ene
of the United Church would feel the wrath of the heavens. Who knows what might befall a st
official of some false faith who exhorts his fellows to refrain from cooperation with our
cause…"
  "Chaps such as the Mahdi, I wouldn't wonder," Peter said.
  "Indeed. Our sainted leader, Ezra Hawkins, spent long hours in prayer before coming to
reluctant decision to remove this limb of Satan from the scene, so that his deluded followers mig
long last see the true path to salvation."
  "Long hours in prayer?" Peter said musingly. "I say, do you chaps really find time for that so
drill?"
  Willy Beck sighed. "Peter, sometimes I am inclined to think that Ezra takes himself a bit too lite
in his role of Prophet. It does not do for a religious man, or a politician, to believe too much i
own propaganda. The more one knows his religion the less he believes, if he is a pragmatic man.
  Peter accepted that, pursing his lips. "However, the Prophet is, shall we say, no longer young.
history tells us that it is often a devoted follower of a great prophet who finally witnesses
flowering of the new religion. It was not Jesus who founded Christianity as we know it, but
And Mohammed never saw Islam spread beyond Arabia. It was the second-generation Mos
who conquered half the known world."
  "A point well taken, my son. And who can tell what the good Lord has planned for the future
tell me, how is the health of the Graf these days?"
  The Englishman shook his head regretfully. "I am afraid that Lothar is aging rather rapidly,
you know? Sometimes he seems to make rather ill-considered decisions."
  Archbishop Beck shook his head, also in sorrow. "Not long for this world, then. How
undoubtedly, when he goes to his reward there will be more youthful hands to take the reins o
worthy organization."
  Peter Windsor fixed his green eyes on the other man's face for a long calculating moment befo
said, "Perhaps we should talk this over in more detail in the near future. I suspect that matter
coming to a head faster than some of us realize."
  It was then that Jerry Auburn came up, recently refilled glass in hand, dark blue eyes with a
glaze. He said, not quite slurring, "Hi, Peter. Done in any poor cloddies of recent date? Hi, W
saved any good souls lately?"
  "All souls are good, my son," the Archbishop said unctuously.
  "You ought to know; you must get a wide variety of them. The United Church will take any
into its ranks, down to and including animists."
  The Archbishop was sadly forgiving. He said softly, "In my Father's house there are m
mansions. We are all one in the loving eyes of God, be he called Jehovah, Allah, Brahma, May
The Great Spirit."
  Jerry said, taking another healthy pull at his drink, "Or Artemis and Pan, for the sake of the va
witch cults. You'll adapt to anything to suck another faith into the United Church. If the A
religion was still in existence, you'd allow them to cut out the hearts of a few thousand victims
year. If the Canaanites were still with us, they could throw their firstborn into the flaming bronze
of Ba'al."
  "Surely, my son, this is not a subject upon which to jest." There was sorrow in the voice o
Prophet's right-hand man, but his eyes were narrow and cold.
  "I wasn't kidding," Jerry said. "The archives don't record what long-dead con man first drea
up religion and put nine-tenths of the human race on the sucker list, but he must have been a gen
  The Archbishop said, his long face expressionless, "I am neglecting my duties as the represent
of a candidate member of the Central Committee. I must pay my respects to Harrington Chase
devotion to the United Church is well known; only last week he contributed a million pseudo-do
If you'll forgive me."
  When he was gone, Jerry said to Peter Windsor, "I hate to see you two getting together."
  Peter said, "Oh, Willy's all right. I assume that most of us in the World Club are either agnosti
atheists, but we'll always have religion with us, and I'd rather see the United Church on our side
have it oppose us."
  "Sometimes I wonder what our side is," Jerry said. He fixed his eyes on the tall Britisher. "H
you heard about the attack on me yesterday?"
  The other looked worried. "Yes, I did, Jerry. Jolly good that you were able to thwart the begga
  "Yeah, wasn't it? What I've been wondering about was who fingered me."
  "What do you mean, dear boy?"
  "I mean that it seems unlikely that cloddy went to all the trouble to get a job at the Hos
dell'Orso just to take a crack at the first wealthy customer to come along. If he had, he would
polished someone else off long before I arrived on the scene. It's the most expensive restaura
town and there's a fistful of millionaires and top politicians there every day. No, he was waiting
me. Somebody had tipped the Nihilists off that it was my favorite eating spot. I'd just got in to R
the same day. And he was waiting."
  Peter looked distressed. "What's your point, old chap?"
  "All of a sudden, the Nihilists seem to be taking an extraordinary interest in members and cand
members of the Central Committee. It was only a few days ago that Harry Dunninger was kno
off by them, back in the States. If he hadn't been, sure as hell the Central Committee would
nominated him to full membership. With him eliminated, it looks as though either the Graf o
Prophet has a much better chance. If I'd been knocked off, both of them would have the chance
  "I don't follow you."
  "I think you'd better try." Jerry Auburn's eyes had lost their alcohol sheen and were now very l
  The Englishman shook his head. "Really, old boy, I don't know what you're talking about."
  "Your people had the contract to guard Dunninger. When the Nihilists raided his estate, four o
guards had been pulled off, weakening resistance so that overwhelming the defense was a c
Now, what I want to know is what contracts you people have with the Neo-Nihilists."
  Peter Windsor flushed in indignation. He said strongly, "Really, Auburn, your suggestio
inadmissible."
  Jerry's voice was winter cold. "I'm asking you if you have contacts with the Nihilists. If you te
no, and through my people I later find out that you have, your organization is mud in the W
Club, chum-pal. Remember that I'm a member of the Central Committee. All by myself I
blackball the Graf from ever becoming a full member. I think I could throw enough weight to
him tossed out of the World Club entirely. And that would hardly fit in with your plans, wou
Windsor?"
  "Now, see here, Jerry," Peter Windsor said hurriedly. "You're getting off onto the wrong foo
course, the Graf has infiltrated the Nihilists, along with all other subversive organizations. A
deal of our work is espionage. We infiltrate everywhere, especially into organizations having any
of political connotations."
  "So, who's your head mole in the Nihilists?"
  The other stared at him. "We haven't one. We have several plants among them but they're n
enough importance for us to go to any great extent to infiltrate them. It's just a matter of keepin
sods under observation. Had we gotten news that poor Harold Dunninger was to be kidnapped
would have immediately informed him. The Graf, after all, is a loyal candidate member of the Ce
Committee."
  Jerry Auburn took him in for a long, cold moment. "We'll see about that," he said. He finishe
drink with the stiff-wristed motion of the practiced drinker, turned on his heel, and headed fo
bar, leaving the Englishman staring after him, boiling anger in his pale killer eyes.
  Lee Garrett gave up at about one o'clock in the morning. She had done her best to m
acquaintances, as ordered by Shelia Duff-Roberts, and had met perhaps a dozen of the mem
and candidates. She had spent the last half hour in the'company of Nils Norden. From what she
gathered, the Scandinavian tycoon was on the fence so far as the divisions within the organiz
were concerned. If Chase and his colleagues were the right wing of the Committee, and Jerry Au
was on the left wing, then Nils Norden must be thought of as the center. Not that she'd discusse
World
  Club with him to any extent. Largely, he seemed interested in conducting her back to
suite—and to bed.
  By this time, she had learned the layout of this part of the Palazzo well enough that she ha
trouble finding her way to her quarters. She sighed her weariness, kicked off her shoes, picked
up, and headed for the suite's interior, her bedroom in mind. To get to it, she had to pass throug
living room. She was surprised to find the lights were on.
  Then she spotted Jerry Auburn sprawled on the fifteenth-century couch, his feet, shoes and al
on one arm of the priceless antique. His inevitable glass was on a low table, within easy reach
looked up at her.
  "What is the meaning of this, Mr. Auburn?"
  "Jerry," he said. "If we're to become lovers we must forget formalities."
  "Lovers!" She dropped her shoes onto the floor and slipped her feet into them. "If you came
to…"
  He held up a weary hand. "Please. No indignation. I never rape girls. I've never had to. In
sometimes they rape me."
  She snorted and ran her eyes over his sturdy athlete's body. "It'd take quite a mopsy to rape
my friend."
  "I rape easily—a flaw in my character," he explained, swinging his feet around and to the floor.
down, Lee. I have something to ask you."
  "I'm tired," she said. "I want to go to bed." But she sat, taking one of the antique chairs, which
more comfortable than it looked. It would have to be.
  "So do I," he told her earnestly. "But we'll get to do that later." He pointed at the phone, the
she knew was bugged. Her eyes widened when she saw, sitting next to it, a muffler similar to the
she had utilized.
  "Nobody's listening in," he said, reaching over and picking up his glass.
  "I don't know what you're talking about," she got out.
  He took back some of his drink. "You know, everybody's been telling me that this evening
told her. "Peter Windsor, for instance. However, you're reporting to someone. Whom? Don't bo
to deny it, honey. We often monitor the quarters of new employees, on the off chance that they'
attempt to infiltrate the World Club. You'd be surprised how many elements would like to kno
inner workings. By chance, the monitor in this case is an old family friend, indebted to my late fa
He reports to me first—and sometimes I'm the only one he reports to. At any rate, honey, he tell
that your bug was muffled for a time. Obviously he couldn't tell me whom you called, nor what
said, but he was aware of the muffler. So what is a nice girl like you doing with a sophisticated p
of electronic equipment and who were you calling, to report what?"
  She glared at him angrily, even while her mind raced. "My mother!" she got out finally.
  He closed his eyes in pain and pushed his left hand over his mouth. "Oh, come on now, honey
  She said challengingly, "My mother is Rosamond Brice."
  He cocked an eye at her. "I know Rosamond Brice. Or did. She doesn't look old enough t
your mother. And, what's more, she doesn't act like a mother. She's been in more beds than
been in automobiles. And when she comes to town the local distilleries put on an extra shift."
  Lee went to the bar and poured herself a drink from the first bottle that came to hand. She
down a quick snort and made a face. Absinthe. She poured some water into it and returned to
chair.
  She said defiantly, "My mother and father weren't married, but for a time they evidently h
somewhat hectic love affair. For some reason, she agreed to have a baby. By the time I came
affair was waning. Mother couldn't bother with me; I interfered with her good times. But f
wanted me and raised me. We loved each other very much. After he died, I became friends
Rosamond although we're worlds apart as a rule. When I told her I was to work for the World C
she told me that they'd probably bug my rooms and gave me a muffler so that we could talk wi
being overheard. She knew about mufflers because she always uses one. She's afraid of jea
wives, sweethearts, or whoever, listening in on her calls to lovers."
  He looked at her for a long disbelieving moment.
  She came to her feet and said, "Oh, hell; come on. I suppose this was inevitable."
  "Come on where?" he said.
  "To the bedroom. I'm going to rape you a little."
  Chapter Nineteen: Roy Cos
  Roy dreaded getting up, but that feeling of dread was now a daily occurrence. He couldn't b
himself to face the Coming day. How long had it been now—a couple of weeks? More than tha
least he was giving the bastards a run for their money. One of the newsmen had told them that O
Brett-James, in Nassau, had been fired by the outfit issuing the Deathwish Policy Roy had signe
for. Evidently, the cosmo-corp's executives blamed the Englishman for not spotting potential tro
in the offbeat Roy Cos and his manager. Long before this, they had begun losing money on the
Not only were the premiums eating them up, but the so-called Deathwish Wobbly was spendin
million pseudo-dollars per day at an unprecedented rate. How many people did he have on
payroll now? Over twenty, Roy supposed, counting the stenographers down in the offices on
floor below—a payroll of more than two hundred thousand pseudo-dollars a day! If he w
feeling so damned depressed, he might have laughed. Imagine Roy Cos spending over a mill
week on his staff.
  Mary Ann, on the pillow next to him, said, doing her best to keep the anxiety from her v
"Something wrong, darling?"
  He looked over at her. Mousy of face, Mary Ann Elwyn might be, but a mouse of very sp
attractions. It was the first time in his life that he'd had a deep involvement that went beyond
sex.
  "No, not really," he told her.
  She looked at her wrist chronometer. "You're supposed to hear that Tri-Di singer this mornin
the United Church broadcast."
  "Yeah," he said, staring up at the ceiling. "What was his name again?"
  "Stevie Summers. He's the current big thing in nostalgia folk song revivals."
  Roy sighed and said, "How's Forry getting along with the hotel manager?"
  She laughed shortly. "He's reversed the flow of crap, you might say. The first few days, g
were moving out wholesale when it was learned that the Deathwish Wobbly was staying
Evidently, they expected the whole New Tropical Hotel to be bombed flat or something. But
didn't last. Thrill seekers zeroed in wholesale. One of Ron's friends who works in the lobby say
manager is turning down bribes that run up to a thousand pseudo-dollars for reservations. Same
story—thousands of silly dizzards would give then-right arms to be on hand when the Graf's me
to you. I mean if," she added contritely. "Sorry."
  He ran a weary hand back through his shaggy, faded brown hair. "Nothing to be sorry about
told her. He dug around for something else to postpone getting out of bed. "How'd that girl c
out?"
  "The one who got in with the reporters yesterday? She's evidently what she said she w
celebrity hound. She wanted to see you in person, wanted to try to get your autograph. The gu
shook her down just like everybody else and she had nothing remotely resembling a weapon, so
let her through. Supposedly, she was a reporter."
  "If she could get past all of our security, so could somebody else," he said bitterly.
  "We'd better go and check out this Stevie Summers, darling."
  "All right." He swung his legs out over the side of the bed. Ignoring his bedroom slippers, he
over to the chair where he had thrown his clothes the night before and began to dress. Mary Ann
up too and went to the closet. The prole clothes she brought forth were as similar to his ow
possible.
  She looked over at him. Roy Cos had lost the extra ten pounds or so of weight and now lo
drawn rather than pasty of face. The sunbaths on the roof, which Forry Brown had insisted u
had wiped away the pallor. It came to her that Roy must have been quite good-looking as a y
man. Twenty-five years of inadequate diet and exercise hadn't done him any good, nor had the
hours of sitting around small, drab rooms arguing political economy, night after night.
  Forty Brown and Ferd Feldmeyer were in the living room with three of the guards who bore s
stocky Gyrojet automatic carbines. Dick Samuelson, in particular, carried his with a practiced ea
had turned out, when the weapons were first procured, that Dick had spent a hitch in the Sky-b
Commandos, and he'd taken over the duty of instructing his less knowledgeable Wobbly collea
in their use.
  Also present was a rather vague-looking young man, somewhere in his early twenties. He bo
guitar and was looking both impatient and bored. His fans might have swooned over him,
decided, but he looked like nothing more than a gangly kid.
  Forry, dressed identically to Roy, and looking somewhat ludicrous in prole attire, squinted thr
tobacco smoke at his employer. He said, "This is Stevie Summers. I promised him five thousan
sing one song as a preliminary to you roasting the Prophet."
  "It ain't the money," the singer said. "I hate that sapsucker."
  Roy nodded, went over to his desk, and took up a little red pamphlet, thumbed through it to
page he sought, found it, and handed it to the boy.
  "This is a book of old IWW songs," he said. "This is the one I wanted you to sing. It was w
by one of the early Wobblies, Joe Hill, who was executed in Utah for a crime he didn't com
because he was a radical. You sing it to the tune for the old hymn, In the Sweet Bye and Bye.
  "Gotcha," the boy said. He looked over the lyrics for a moment, then began to strum and sing
Roy's surprise, the singer's voice, though soft, grasped with appeal.
  Long-haired preachers come out every night,
  Try to tell you what's wrong and what's right;
  But when asked how 'bout something to eat
  They will answer with voices so sweet:
  You will eat, bye and bye. In that glorious land above the sky;
  Work and pray, live on hay, You'll get pie in the sky when you die.
  And the starvation army they play. And they sing and they clap and they pray,
  Till they get all your coin on the drum, Then they tell you when you're on the bum:
  You will eat, bye and bye, In that glorious land above the sky;
  Work and pray, live on hay, You'll get pie in the sky when you die.
  Workingmen of all countries unite.
  Side by side we for freedom will fight;
  When the world and its wealth we have gained
  To the grafters we'll sing this refrain:
  You will eat, bye and bye, When you've learned how to cook and to fry
  Chop some wood, 'twill do you good, And you'll eat in the sweet bye and bye. The boy e
with a bang on the strings, looked up and grinned. "After that, the Prophet'll want to crucify you
  "That's the idea," Roy said. "He's lined up with the other side. We want to make that clear.
looked at the folk singer. "That old radical song is kind of primitive as propaganda goes but it w
put you on anybody's shitlist, will it? The Prophet throws a lot of weight. With me, it doesn't m
any difference. He'll have to stand in line if he wants to take a crack at me."
  Stevie Summers shook his head, "The kids I sing for don't go for this holy-roller fling. So f
we're concerned, he can bugger himself with a wood auger. By the way, my old man's a Liberta
I've heard a couple of your bleats on Tri-Di. Your two organizations oughta get together."
  "There's been some talk about it," Roy nodded. Forry said, "We better get ready for that p
interview." He took young Summers by the arm and led him to the door, going over details abou
broadcast.
  Roy sat down at his desk and looked unhappily at the pile of mail before him. He thumbed qu
through it. There was nothing from anyone he knew. All strangers. He said to Mary Ann, "You
to go through this and spread it around to the girls for the standard answers? By the way, how c
I haven't met any of the stenographers?"
  Mary Ann came over from her own desk, carrying a letter. She said, "Ferry doesn't want them
this floor. Two of them are Wobblies, but the others are outsiders. For all we know, the Graf m
be able to get next to one of them. It's just as easy for a woman to take a crack at you as a man."
  Roy shook his head but said, "I guess you're right. What's that?"
  She put the letter down before him. "It's from Wobbly headquarters in Chicago."
  Billy Tucker, who was also dressed identically to Roy Cos, said, "Oh, oh. I was beginnin
wonder when we'd get a kick from the Agitation Committee. Some of those speeches Ferd has
writing for you aren't exactly the standard message the Wobblies have been making for the
century or so."
  Roy ripped open the envelope and quickly scanned the letter.
  "I'll be damned," he said. "I've been promoted from national organizer to a member of
Agitation Committee." He looked up at Mary Ann. "That's our executive committee, headed by
national secretary. He wants me to attend a meeting being organized by Synthesis."
  "What in the hell's Synthesis?" Dick Samuelson said. He was lounging against the wall, next t
door to the corridor, his carbine under his right arm.
  Roy grunted and said, "A new outfit that's trying to get all the radicals together. The w
shebang: Libertarians, Nihilists, Wobblies, the Anti-Racist League—everybody but t
Eurocommunist slobs."
  The door buzzed. Samuelson readied his gun and checked the identity screen. It was Forty Bro
  The newsman came in followed by Ferd Feldmeyer, who was carrying a sheaf of papers.
speech writer, like all the others of the team, was in prole dress identical to that worn by Roy. It
been one of Ferry's ideas. The whole team dressed exactly alike. As they invariably moved in a
group whenever they were in public, a hit man, at any distance at all, would have his work cu
telling which one was Roy. Roy had protested, particularly in the case of Mary
  Ann, but she had overruled him. As with the grossly fat Ferd and the king-sized Billy Tucker,
was small chance that even a myopic assassin would confuse her with his target, but the whole
of them being dressed alike wouldn't help him any.
  Forry, noticing the letter in Roy's hand, said, "What spins?"
  "I've been made a member of the Agitation Committee. They want me to attend a special me
that's being held in an attempt to amalgamate all radical groups."
  "That's out. No more public appearances," Forry told him sourly. "From now on, I've m
arrangements for your broadcasts to be made from right here. The fuzzies stationed at your last
picked up two armed men before they even got near enough to you for our boys to be needed.
meeting, there'd be more than two, and it's just a matter of time before one or more of them
within firing range. From now on, you don't leave the New Tropical Hotel. You don't even leave
floor."
  Roy said, "I'll have to attend that Synthesis meeting, if the national secretary wants me to."
  "Screw the national secretary. Let him represent the Wobblies. He's expendable; you're not. Y
the Deathwish Wobbly and you've put your message over more widely than all the rest of your o
put together since it was first started."
  Roy shook his head, feeling tired all over again. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, Forry
I'm a member of an organization, not just a one-man agitator. I take orders from our elected offi
just like Billy and Dick here do."
  The little newsman shrugged angrily but gave up and fished a cigarette pack from a jumper poc
  Ferd Feldmeyer tossed his sheaf of papers on the desk before his employer "Here's the U
Church broadcast. I played it the way you said, stressing the fact that the Wobblies have no
against religion per se since a man's relationship with his God is his personal business. But w
organized religion intrudes on politics, it's no longer a matter of religion. They're as vulnerable as
other political organization."
  Roy Cos was quickly scanning the speech. He said, "You used some concrete examples—
Roman Catholic Church, during the Middle Ages in particular, Islam, Shintoism in
  Japan, and all other religions that have supported class-divided society down through the ages?
  "Sure, sure," Feldmeyer said, running his obscenely obese hand back through thinning blond
"Practically every large church—once it got big—has supportd the status quo. And the Prop
United Church is no exception."
  Dick, at the door, reported, "The rest of the boys have finished shaking down the reporters."
  "Okay, let them in," Forry said.
  There were a score or so of reporters and photographers. They were followed by three mo
Roy's Wobbly guards, who stationed themselves alertly about the walls of the room, while
newsmen found places.
  Most of the reporters had been here before. Roy's press interviews were daily affairs, as wer
sessions with freelancers doing special articles. The senior of the newsmen, a wrinkled veteran,
was moist of eye from prolonged battles with the bottle, said, "What spins, Roy?"
  Roy Cos, seated behind his desk, said, "I'm still here, Don. What're my odds today?"
  "The bookies are giving even-steven that you get it today. Two to one that the Grafs boys get
by tomorrow. Four to one the next day, eight to one by the next," Don told him.
  Mary Ann winced; her face looked sick.
  "Jesus," Forry said. "What're the odds that he lasts the week out?"
  Don said, flatly, "A hundred to one against. The word is out that the Graf's getting uptight a
this. He likes to operate on the q.t. Publicity isn't his forte. The insurance companies are prob
giving him the prod, too. All this publicity about the Deathwish Policies is giving them a black
People all over, not just in the States, are getting indignant. It pretty well shows that anything go
this profit-oriented world. The multinationals are completely without morals. A man is put
position where he can't make a real living and then coerced into giving up his life in return for a
days of hedonism. Yeah, the pressure is increasing on the multinational insurance companies, o
Swiss banks, on Lloyd's of London—any outfit that's got a finger in the pie."
  Roy said, his smile working the usual wonder on his stoic face, "We'll make a Wobbly out of
yet, Don."
  The old reporter looked at some of the photographers and said, "Why don't you guys wait unt
interview's over before getting your pix? You just get in the way when we're trying to tape
Tri-Di."
  "Elitist," one charged amiably, and sought a chair.
  Forry said, "No special releases today, chum-pals. Fire away if you've got any questions fo
Deathwish Wobbly."
  One of them called out, "Roy, what's your stand on world government? It's in the air these d
You've probably heard that the Congress has invited Australia and New Zealand to join the U
States. And it looks as though England and Ireland will get the same invitation."
  Roy said, "We Wobblies are in favor of world government but can't see much advantage to i
far as the proles are concerned, so long as class-divided society is retained. We'd just continue t
in the same undesirable spot, subsisting on GAS. World government under an industrial democ
would be desirable, but under the status quo it would merely give the powers that be better co
of us. Instead of having dozens of countries, each with its own special conditions, its own rules
regulations, they'd have all of us under the same thumb."
  Another reporter held up a hand and said, "After you've taken over, are you Wobblies goin
continue to use the computers to decide who's going to work at what jobs?"
  Roy Cos touched the end of his nose and frowned. He said slowly, "What you've go
understand is that Wobblies are advocating an industrial democracy. It'll be up to the peop
decide such questions as that. We might come up with our ideas on how it should be handled
then when the new order has taken over, the people might say, screw that, and vote in some
else."
  The questioner laughed and said, "Well, what is your personal opinion? How would you vote?"
  Roy said, "Yes, I'd be in favor of continuing to use the computers to select who should have
job. However, there are some angles. We don't expect to put all of the population back to wo
production. They're not needed to produce all the products and services necessary for soc
That's where we differ from the Luddites. They want to destroy technology so that the whole
force can go back to production. That's ridiculous. After a million years or so man has finally so
the problem of producing all the articles we need. Now we can settle back and enjoy our longin
leisure. True leisure is not wasted. It's not only an opportunity to loaf. Man must spend this le
intelligently, not sitting before Tri-Di screens sucking on trank pills or drinking syntho-beer."
  Another reporter called, "Sure, but you'd be up against the same trouble we are now. There si
aren't enough jobs to go around. The computers can't find jobs where there aren't any."
  Roy said, a bit impatiently, "What I just said was that we don't expect to put everybody bac
work at production and services. But such jobs aren't the only kind of employment. Every
physically and mentally capable of working, studying, or participating in the arts and sciences ca
found a place. Be you ever so humble, the computers should be able to find something for yo
do, the biggest consideration being that it's what you like to do. If you've got a leaning toward on
the arts, then they won't have you cleaning up the environment."
  While Roy continued to field questions, one of the still-photographers sitting on the side
waiting his turn yawned and said to his neighbor, "That's an interesting box you've got there
old-timer. What is it, a holo or lite?"
  "Holo," the other said.
  The first one yawned again and said, "I don't believe I've ever seen you here before. Who are
working for?"
  The other ran his tongue over his lower lip. "International. The editor sent me over for a few s
for…"
  The first photographer's face had frozen. His voice was louder. "Like shit you are! I'm represe
International and I've never seen you before."
  Billy Tucker dropped his gun and lunged across the room, sent Roy Cos sprawling from his
and landed atop him behind the desk, his arms spread, his huge wrestler's body completely cov
the smaller man.
  One of the Tri-Di cameramen brought his rig crashing down on the head of the false photograp
who reeled, dropping his camera. Ron Ellison came charging up from where he had stationed him
against a wall, reversed his stubby carbine, and clubbed the man.
  Another one of the reporters, in advance of his fellows, stepped in close and drove his fist int
interloper's solar plexus. The others came up, largely getting in each other's way.
  "Son of a bitch," one of them snarled.
  Don, the veteran, looked at his Tri-Di photographer, who had sacrificed his camera in the i
attack. "You stupid cloddy," he said. "That's ten thousand pseudo-dollars worth of box. How'r
going to explain it to the office?"
  Forry Brown, rubbing his thin fist over his scraggly mustache while staring down at the fallen
said absently, "The Deathwish Wobbly will pick up the tab, plus a bonus of five thousand." He
looked at Ron. "How did this bastard get by you?"
  Ron said defensively, "He's not armed. We shook him down like everybody else, real thorou
He hasn't got so much as a pocket knife."
  The photographers were all recording the scene, particularly of the fallen man, the shattered ca
beside him, and of Billy Tucker and Roy, now emerging from their place on the floor behind
desk. The hulking Billy looked shamefacedly at the shambles.
  Mary Ann said, "Possibly he's like that girl yesterday. Wanted to see Roy in person. Talk to
Get his autograph.''
  The reporter who had originally started the ruckus by denouncing the now-unconscious intr
said, "Yeah, possibly. Let me take a look at that damned camera of his. He said it was a holo
doesn't know his ass from a holo in the ground."
  "I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Don said as the other scooped up the camera under discus
from the floor.
  While all watched, he fiddled with it. The back came away. Whatever the complicated jury-ri
device inside was, it had nothing to do with holo cameras.
  "For Crissakes, let me see that," Forry rasped, taking it from the other's hands. He stared a
insides, turned the instrument over to check the lens.
  He said in wonder, "This isn't a camera. It's a dart gun.
  The dart's fired by springs and comes out through the opening where the lens is supposed to b
  "I'll be damned," Don said. "You gotta admit, the Grafs tricky. When all these boys were f
away at Roy, flashing lights and all, this bastard could have fired his dart without anybody notici
It might feel like nothing more than an itch, and Roy'd scratch it. And, sure as hell, the po
wouldn't work until our phony photographer, here, was already on his way out of the building,
as a pig in shit."
  Roy shook his head wearily, sighed, and said to Ron, "Couple of you boys get him out of here
turn him over to the fuzzies down in the lobby."
  Forry said, "Tell them that our lawyers will prefer charges. If we can get him to admit he was
by the Graf, we'll sue Lothar von Brandenburg through the World Court. Not that it'll do any g
directly, but it'll be one more bit of damning evidence against the whole establishment.''
  Don said, "We'll do up the releases from that angle, Forry. Come on chum-pals, let's get o
here. This is news!"
  When they were gone, Dick said, "Roy, the party's getting rough—two people in two
penetrating our security. Maybe we ought to go to ground again; hide out somewhere."
  Roy shook his head again. "In the first place, there's no place to hide. They'd find us, soon
later. In the second place, there'd be no more broadcasts, no more publicity. We're just beginnin
get the message over. We can't stop now."
  Ron said, "Did you see how those news boys lit into him? They got to him before we could.
slob'll spend a week in the prison hospital, if he's lucky."
  Forry squinted his eyes through the dribbling smoke of his inevitable cigarette. "It's a good s
he said. "The press has been sympathetic from the first. Hell, it's been first-rate copy since we
made our news releases. But now they're really rallying around." He chopped out a cynical la
"Can you imagine some of those tough bastards beginning to accept what Roy's saying?"
  "It's early in the day for it," Roy said, "but how about a drink? I could use one. That diz
almost accomplished what he came for."
  Mary Ann looked at him in alarm. "You don't mean that he fired a dart at you!"
  "No. But I was nearly squashed to death under Billy, here."
  As Ron went over to the bar to take orders, there came the blat-blat-blat of a copter outside.
  Dick Samuelson took up his automatic carbine and went out through the French window
threaten it off. It wasn't anything new. Since the word had gotten out that the Deathwish Wobbly
stationed in the New Tropical Hotel penthouse, aircraft, undoubtedly hired by rubberneckers,
circled almost daily. Roy's team had decided that the threat of a commando raid on the part o
Grafs men wasn't very likely. The invaders would have been at a considerable disadvantage, now
Roy had augmented his guard to eight well-armed men. They would have been mowed down as
attempted to disembark. Besides, in the Shootout, Roy would have been able to escape, along
Mary Ann and the other noncombatants of the team.
  Taking their drinks, they paid little attention to the guard who had gone out on the roof and
shaking his weapon at the aircraft, until Ron blurted, "Jesus Christ! Dick's down!" The three gu
in the living room dropped their drinks to the floor, grabbed up their guns, and headed for the
garden on die double.
  Dick was sprawled out on the terrace in agony. He called weakly, "Sniper! On the roof oppos
His face contorted and he passed out.
  Billy and Les ran for him, grabbed him by the arms, and pulled him back toward the pentho
bending double to present as small a target as possible. Ron upended a heavy wrought-iron
table and knelt behind it, steadying his Gyrojet on its edge. He traversed the roof opposite with
fire, emptying the clip with one burst. He slapped the side of the gun so that the magazine fell a
and fumbled in a pocket of his prole jacket for another.
  Dick's two rescuers hauled him into the living room, where the others were standing to each sid
the windows out of the line of fire. Billy and Les dragged their fallen companion to a couch and
him onto it. Billy, his face pale, snapped, "He's hit bad! Doctor!"
  Mary Ann, her usual prim efficiency slipping, squealed and dashed for the phone on her desk.
banged the activating stud and screamed, "Doctor! Doctor! Immediately in the pentho
Emergency, emergency!"
  Ron, bending double as his companions had, came hurrying back from the rooftop garden. "
gone, I think," he blurted. Breathing deeply, he stared at Dick, sprawled on the couch. Roy, F
Billy, and Les were all hovering above him, trying to get his jacket off, trying to staunch the flo
blood. He said, "It must've all been a put-up. That chopper came over to draw us out. The gu
the roof was waiting. Dick's about the same size as Roy and, of course, we all dress the same."
  "Where the hell's that doctor!" Forry grated.
  One of the new guards opened the door and stuck his head in. "What the hell's going on?" he
his eyes bugging when he saw Dick. "There's a doctor out here."
  "Let him in, for Christ's sake," Roy said. "Dick's been hit. He's bleeding all over the place."
  The doctor came hurrying in. He was in a white jacket and carrying the standard physician's b
bag. He was a dignified-looking type, gray of hair, weary of face.
  As he headed for the fallen man, those gathered around Dick Samuelson made way for him.
as he crossed the room, he snapped his bag open and began to fish in it. Billy roared, "He'
damned doctor," and made a flying tackle.
  The newcomer dropped his bag and smashed into the floor, hitting full on his face. The wre
swarmed onto him, expertly, snagged an arm and pressed it behind and up the back.
  Ron scooped up the bag and stared down into it. He reached inside and brought out a s
Gyrojet hideaway gun. "Holy smog," he said, "a shooter."
   The other guards came pressing in from the corridor, guns at the ready.
   Billy hauled the fake doctor to his feet and slugged him mercilessly in the face, shattering
glasses and bringing blood.
   "Another doctor," Forry blurted at Mary Ann, who had abandoned her phone and was stan
both fists to her mouth, her eyes popping in distress. "Have the manager come, accompanying
regular hotel doctor. Goddammit, Dick's still pumping his life out."
   She got back on the phone.
   Forty said to Billy, in disgust, "How in the hell did you know he wasn't a doctor?"
   Billy Tucker, who was still manhandling his victim, aided now by Les, who was no gentler, lo
slightly embarrassed. "I don't know," he admitted. "Just instinct, I guess."
   They all looked at him. The wrestler said uncomfortably, "He got here too soon. Besides
looked too much like a doctor."
   Forry closed his eyes in weariness. "Give me strength," he muttered.
   Roy, who had settled down in his chair behind his desk, said emptily, "Take him down to
lobby, Billy. You go too, Les. Turn him over to the fuzzies. Same story as that photographer."
   Ferd Feldmeyer was over at the bar, pouring himself a fresh drink. He said, "We'd better cal
press boys back. This makes a bigger story."
   "To hell with publicity," Roy snapped. "Take care of poor Dick first."
   A half hour later, the place was reasonably cleaned up. The faithful guard, Dick, had taken a
wound. Happily, the slug hadn't been explosive, as was so usual these days, and had
completely through. According to the hotel doctor, there was little fear for his life—only a protra
stay in the hospital.
   Forry said, "He'll continue on the payroll like everybody else."
   Ron looked at him. "You're damn right he will."
   Ron was the only guard in the room for the time. Billy was out on the roof, on the off chance
either the copter or the sniper might make a return performance. The others were in the corrido
stationed at the entries. Everybody was uptight.
   Feldmeyer shook his head until his lardy jowls wobbled. He said, "What motivates a cloddy
that? Suppose he'd got his gun out and shot Roy? We'd all have been on him like a ton of bricks
didn't have a chance of making a getaway."
   Forry grunted. "When the Graf can't find anybody else to take a chance, there's always the
Wilkes Booth type kicking around that you can steam up to do the job. Think of all the internat
fame that would accrue to anybody who finishes the Deathwish Wobbly. Besides, one way o
other, the Graf will probably have that fake photographer and the phony doctor loose within
months. With his kind of money and muscle, you can do almost anything in this world."
   In spite of all the excitement, Roy hadn't dispelled his earlier despondency. He took a pull a
third drink, though they hadn't had lunch yet.
   He said, his voice reflecting his inner despair, "Dick might have been killed."
   The others were seated around, quiet in their own inner thoughts.
   Ron looked over at his chief quickly. He said, rejection there of the other's obvious thou
"Dick knew that. We all knew we were taking a chance when we signed up. You're the only one
taking a chance." He hesitated, before adding, "You don't have a chance, Roy, but you're in
pitching. What would you expect us to do? We're just as avid Wobblies as you are."
   Roy Cos shrugged that off. "It was a mistake," he said, deep weariness in his voice. "What go
it done? I don't see the multitudes swarming in to join the Wobblies."
  "There are some," Mary Ann said, trying to keep obvious compassion for her lover from her v
  Roy looked at Forry, rather than her. "Yes," he said. "Most of 'em are crackpots trying to get i
the act. We don't need crackpots. We need devoted militants."
  "They're not all crackpots," Ron said. "And it takes time to make a good Wobbly. A lot of st
A lot of background."
  "No, they're not all crackpots," Roy said. "Some are undoubtedly IABI men ordered to infiltra
and act as agents provocateurs. Some are probably in the pay of the Graf, getting in where they
do the most damage. What's the old Russian adage? When four men sit down to talk revolu
three are police spies and the other a damn fool." He was still looking at Forry Brown. "You
your story about Sacco and Vanzetti."
  Forry lit another cigarette from the butt of his old one. "They wanted to get over their message
being idealists.
  The American people heard their message but rejected it, which is undoubtedly what they sh
have done. Anarchy didn't fit the country's needs. All right, you wanted to have the chance of ge
over the Wobbly program. You're doing it. Now it's up to the program. If the majority of the pe
think it's good, they'll support it. If they don't, they won't. What's your beef, Roy?" His tone
sour. Roy nodded, tired still. "They haven't accepted it." Ron said, "They haven't had time,
For Chrissakes, it's only been a couple of weeks or so."
  His chief ignored that, saying, "You know what the trouble is? Always in the past when there w
fundamental change in the working, the people were driven to it, usually by hunger and despair—
French Revolution, the Russian Revolution, the Chinese before that, all the way back to the
revolts in Rome led by Spartacus. But we don't have any hunger now, in the Welfare State.
takes care of everybody. Not on a very high level, but nobody starves, nobody goes unsheltere
unclothed, and medical care is free. The proles today are largely what Marx used to call the lum
proletariat. He expected them to side with the enemy when the chips were down. And our lum
proles are lumpen indeed. Go into any autobar in the slummiest part of town and say anything ag
the government and you'll have a fight on your hands. One of the platitudes they have is their slo
it was good enough for Daddy and it's good enough for me.
  Ron said uncomfortably, not at his ease in arguing with the older man he admired so much, "
knew all that before we ever started, Roy. It's admittedly a long road, but if we're right, soon
later we'll win."
  "So far as I'm concerned, and maybe Dick, it'll be later," the Deathwish Wobbly said bitterly.
  Chapter Twenty: Jeremiah Auburn
  When Jerry Auburn awakened, it was to find Lee Garrett next to him, up on one elbow. She
frowning puzzlement.
  He grinned, his eyes glinting amusement, and said, "Did I put up a valiant enough battle fo
honor? I wouldn't want the word to get out that I was an easy lay."
  "What?"
  He said, "When you raped me last night."
  She was frowning still, ignoring his sally of humor. "I'm still wondering where I've met you be
At first I thought it was just your voice, but now I seem to find facial resemblances to someone
met somewhere. Have we?"
  He laughed. "Yes, for a short time. But not under such circumstances that I ever expected to
up in your bed, honey. In fact, I lied to you. Told you I didn't think blondes were…" He chuc
again. "Someday, maybe, I'll tell you about it. Right now, you wouldn't believe me anyway."
  "Don't be cryptic, Jerry."
  But he dropped it and his voice became serious. He said, "I'm going to be leaving today, Lee
got some things to do in the States. Besides that, I don't think I'd win high marks in a Ro
popularity contest right now. After that attempt in the restaurant, I'd rather be on my own turf."
  She nodded at that. "I heard a few rumors last night that you haven't been exactly ingrati
yourself among some elements in the World Club but then, of course, you were a little drenched
  "No," he told her definitely. "I knew what I was doing and I was doing it deliberately. I don'
the present drift of the World Club and I want to bring certain things to a decision. At any ra
want you to get in touch with Mendel Amschel and Fong Hui and let them know that if it comes
vote on a new Central Committee member to get in touch with me, through you. I'm going to
you the number of my tight beam transceiver. You're not to tell Sheila, or anyone else, about this
  "But I work for Sheila Duff-Roberts. I can't…"
  He interrupted her. "And she works for the Central Committee, and Amschel and Fong and
members of that committee, so you work for us, above and beyond your obligations to Sheila."
  "I suppose you're right." She hesitated, then said, "Jerry, what happened to Pamela McGivern
girl who preceded me?"
  "I don't know," he said grimly. "It's one of the things I intend to find out.''
  He got out of bed and went to where he had so hastily disrobed the night before. He gathere
his clothes and headed for the bathroom, Lee looking after him thoughtfully. It occurred to her
though she'd had several brief affairs, she'd never before met a man with whom she might
considered a more permanent relationship. But then she snorted in self-amusement. He was Jere
Auburn, for years the leading igniter of the Rocket Set. Obviously, if he'd gotten to his age wi
more prolonged alliances, he wasn't interested in one. She wondered, all over again, where she c
possibly have met him before—as he had now admitted.
  His decision made to return to the States, Jerry Auburn faded out of Rome as inconspicuous
he had appeared. He didn't even bother to pack a small bag. All his requirements could be met o
personal air yacht.
  He drove out the Appian Way to the International Shuttleport and directly to his king-size air
On the way, he had alerted the captain of his arrival and the fact that he wanted to be airb
immediately. A skeleton crew was always aboard, so that ordinarily he could have taken
immediately. However, the balance of the crew of eighteen, including the stewards, was undoub
quartered at the shuttleport's International Hotel and would be aboard as soon as he was.
  The flight was uneventful. He sat in the main lounge, staring unseeingly out one of the larger p
at the sea, far beneath. What he had told Lee wasn't exactly correct. It wasn't just a matter of wa
to bring things to a decision. They were coming to very basic decisions, and Jeremiah Auburn w
high-survival type. He wished to be out in front directing matters along the path he favored.
  He had a steward call ahead and have one of his limousines available when they landed, and to
customs to pass him through without the necessity of his going to the administration building. It
his standard procedure. VIPs such as Jeremiah Auburn could be met on their private aircraft and
be bothered with the inconveniences suffered by the common herd. In such respects the 21st cen
differed not at all from the centuries before it; wealth and power had their privileges.
  The limousine sped him to Manhattan and through its deserted streets, arrogantly remaining o
surface rather than taking the underground highway. They pulled up before the minor entrance o
side street behind the towering office building which was his destination. He entered the buil
fishing in his pockets for his key ring and the small silver key for his private elevator.
  The elevator sped him up to the high-level floor he used for his personal offices and living qua
while he was in residence. He emerged into the reception room and nodded at the dazzlingly sm
girl at the desk.
  "Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Auburn," she gushed, rising. "We've been expecting you, sir."
  "Wizard," he told her brusquely. "Tell Barry Wimple I'll see him in my quarters in five minutes.
  "Yes, Mr. Auburn," she simpered.
  For Christ's sake, he thought inwardly, let's not be too damned effervescent, as he pushed his
through to the office behind. It was staffed with two neatly suited accountant types and
gorgeous, efficient-looking women who could have landed Tri-Di parts portraying brisk secret
of upper-echelon corporation executives. They were all deftly at work when he entered; wh
make-work or not, he didn't know. They all stood and chorused smiled greetings, and he no
back while striding across the room.
  He had a suspicion that if he'd said, "Miss Jones, come into my apartments, I want to lay you,
one of the four would have blinked an eye and Miss Jones would have trotted after him. He h
dozen such staffs in half a dozen countries throughout the globe.
  Simmons was waiting for him in the living room, ramrod-stiff, subservient just to the correct p
not sickeningly so. "Welcome home, Mr. Auburn," he said.
  Jerry looked around the lush room. "Did you think this was home?" he growled. He headed fo
bar, adding over his shoulder, "I came without luggage. Check to see if all my needs are avail
Tell the chef—what's his name here, Henri?—that I'll probably dine in the apartment tonight. Alo
  "Yes, sir, of course. Yes, it's Henri, sir. He's anxious that you taste his new dish based on
roe."
  "Wizard," Jerry said, taking up a cognac bottle from the bar and pouring into a glass genero
The butler faded. Jerry sat down on a couch, put his feet up on a cocktail table, and took a pu
the drink.
  Barry Wimple entered from the door that led to the offices. He was the epitome of the s
executive. Jerry Auburn sometimes wondered if they took courses in grooming at New Har
Business College. He had never seen a senior executive who wasn't groomed to his teeth
suspected that the other's clothing bill was greater than his own.
  "Welcome back, Mr. Auburn," Wimple said. "Was your trip to Europe satisfactory?"
  Jerry regarded him coolly. "How did you know I went to Europe?"
  The other looked at him in distress. "Why, Mr. Auburn, Captain Wayland of your air y
recorded it in his report."
  Jerry made a note to do something about that. He didn't like anybody at all to know where he
at any given time. But obviously Wayland had to make reports on his expenditures, costs of
landing fees, and so on.
  He said, "Barry, I want you to get a few heavies in here when I'm in residence."
  "Heavies, Mr. Auburn?"
  "Hard types; guards. And I don't want you to hire them from Mercenaries, Incorporated. I've
reason to believe there might be a contract out on me. Get them from some competitor of the Gr
  His New York office head blinked at him. "A contract?
  You mean… but, sir, that's ridiculous. Who could possibly want you…"
  "Not everybody loves me like you do, Barry. So, six guards. I want them here this aftern
inconspicuously, and I want them to shake down anybody who comes to see me."
  "This afternoon?"
  "Yes, preferably. But especially tonight. Is Lester here?"
  "Yes, Mr. Auburn. And Ted Meer as well, as you instructed."
  Lester was a carbon copy of Barry Wimple, fifteen years younger. One glance marked him a
efficient, supercilious WASP who would wind up a millionaire by middle age almost without tryi
  Jerry nodded at his greeting and said, "Lester, I want you to find out who is the hea
Mercenaries, Incorporated in North America. Have him here this evening. Tell him that the meeti
confidential. I'm assuming that New York is his base of operations."
  Lester stared at him blankly, a touch of dismay there. "Mercenaries, Incorporated, sir?"
  "You heard me. If they're here, and they should be, there must be some manner of contacting t
Start earning your pay, damn it. Don't you know any upper slot news people, or someone in
IABI? Either should know."
  Wimple cleared his throat. "I have a niece who is married to a captain of detectives in
Inter-American Bureau of Investigation, Mr. Auburn."
  "That ought to do it. Anything else pressing on the agenda, Barry?"
  His senior aide said, "There's a representative from the Lagrangists waiting to see you, sir. W
the order came for your limousine, I took the liberty of informing him that you were to be here
afternoon and that you might work him into your schedule. He's on his way. Of course, if
haven't the time…"
  "Lagrangists?" Jerry said. "You mean from Lagrange Five? What does he want?"
  "He wouldn't say, sir. He wanted to discuss it with you face to face. He was upset when I told
that you had retired and seldom devoted time to business matters anymore."
  Jerry grunted. "Send him into my office when he arrives. I
  don't believe I've ever met a real space colonist before. Brief me, Barry. How much have
currently got invested in Lagrange Five and the Asteroid Belt Islands?"
  "Two hundred and twelve million and, ah, some change, Mr. Auburn. Largely in the Satellite S
Power Plants."
  Jerry grunted again. "That much? All right, you two, get going. I'll see the Lagrangist in my o
and the Mercenaries, Incorporated bastard here in my quarters, both as soon as they've arrived.
remember, Barry, I want the new guards to frisk them before they see me."
  The two left. As they crossed the outer office, Lester said to his higher-up, "He's a t
sonofabitch."
  Wimple looked at him from the side of his eyes. "I'd probably be the same if I had inherited a
billion."
  Jerry Auburn was idly looking at some reports he wouldn't ordinarily have bothered with whe
man from Lagrange Five was announced. He hadn't known what he had expected; among
things, possibly an older man than this, if the other was an official representative from the s
islands.
  Ian Venner was disgustingly healthy looking. He must have been exactly the height and weight
the insurance statistics averaged out on a man of his age. He was a sun-faded blond, sharp blu
eye, with a good mouth on the wide and dry humorous side, and a strong chin. He looked as th
he either owned the place or didn't give a damn who did.
  "Sit down, Mr. Venner," Jerry said, even while sizing the other up.
  "Just Venner," the newcomer said crisply. "We don't use the term Mister in Lagrangia.''
  Jerry said, "Why not?"
  "It is derived from the word master and I don't wish to be anyone's master any more than I
someone else to be mine."
  Jerry refrained from twisting his mouth in amusement. "What can I do for you, Venner?"
  "The Space Federation is desirous of buying out your holdings in space, Auburn. I've been se
make initial contact."
  "Man, you don't waste words. What federation? I don't usually handle this sort of thing. I
aides who make business decisions in which I seldom involve myself. I didn't even know there w
federation in Lagrangia."
  The other nodded, not as though he approved of Jerry Auburn's divorcing himself from the d
of his enterprises, but as though he had already heard of the fact. He said, "Recently, a loose
organization has been formed to represent the united needs of Lagrangia and the Belt Islands."
  Jerry scowled. "United States of the Americas? Common Europe? The Soviet Complex?
Reunited Nations? Or a combination of two or more, or all of them?"
  "No. The federation represents only space colonists actually living in space. We have no
affiliations."
  "Don't be ridiculous," Jerry growled. "Every island in space is controlled by either some Earth
nation, the Reunited Nations, or by consortiums of multinational corporations."
  His visitor was shaking his head. "Times are changing. One by one, we're buying out pr
interests in Lagrangia and the Asteroids, and most of the new islands are colonized from the
islands but have no political ties to them, or to the original nations which first founded them."
  Jerry was staring at him now. This was absolutely new. There wasn't much news about the s
projects any more; they were being played down drastically, as budgets were being cut on the s
program. Still, he should have heard of this.
  He said, "You mean to tell me that up in space you people get together and build a new island
has no affiliation whatsoever to Earthside private enterprise or to any specific nation?"
  "That's correct. We're tired of misguidance from, ah, Earthworms."
  "Earthworms!"
  The Lagrangist wasn't without humor. He laughed lightly and said, "An old joke."
  Jerry said, "But buying out my interests in solar power and such. Where the hell would you ge
credits? One of my executives just informed me I have over two hundred million in investmen
space."
  The other agreed to that. "From the first, pay in space has been astronomical, compared to
Earthside. And, frankly, there is comparatively little to spend it on. We don't particularly go
ostentatious living, conspicuous consumption. We have no desire to keep up with the Jonese
have a larger house, or boat—in those islands large enough to have suitable bodies of water—
our neighbors. I don't mean that there are any rules against it, but we simply don't do it. We pi
the credits. Some of the more energetic among us began to put scientific and industrial s
developments to work for exports—artificial diamonds, for instance. Now we have enough mon
buy out Earthside interests and, uh, I believe the term you use down here is to nationalize them."
  "Why?" Jerry said blankly.
  His visitor sighed. "For one thing, you Earthworms are usually unable to identify with
problems. You send instructions that are ridiculous considering the situations that apply. Often
send directives to expand in some direction in which expansion is pure nonsense, or refuse to d
funds to some effort which is absolutely necessary. It's something like England running the Thi
Colonies from three thousand miles away. The British had no conception of the problems that f
American colonists."
  Jerry Auburn was astonished. He came to his feet and made his way over to his office bar, his
in thought. "Drink?" he said.
  The Lagrangist said, "You wouldn't have any Reman Riesling, would you? Top Earthside wine
one of the few things we haven't been able to duplicate in Lagrangia. We're working on it," he a
quickly.
  "I have some," Jerry murmured, still in his other thoughts. He filled glasses and returned to
desk, extending his visitor the dry white wine.
  After settling back into his chair and swallowing some of his brandy, he said, "So: the s
colonists are attempting to cut ties with Mother Earth."
  "Some mother," the other said wryly. "More like a stepmother."
  "How do you mean?"
  "Earth has, from the beginning, only exploited Lagrangia and the Belt Islands. Almost all the pr
are funneled back to Earth, rather than being used for continued expansion of the space program
corporation wants immediate dividends; not, uh, pie in the sky a century from now. We ha
different view. We've got a different dream."
  Jerry was becoming increasingly intrigued. "So you're having trouble with Earth. Such as?"
  The other took another sip of his wine, appreciatively. He looked at the multibillionaire and
"Almost all funds for the space programs have been cut to ribbons. It's practically impossible
top scientist or technician from whatever country to get permission to migrate to the space isla
Even ordinary folk are highly discouraged from leaving for Lagrangia or the Asteroids. Wheneve
make a scientific breakthrough in the islands we immediately rush the details Earthside, but of re
years the Earth nations do not reciprocate. They keep their discoveries to themselves."
  "Why should we do that?"
  Venner shrugged and frowned before answering. "We're not sure. Maybe we're going too fa
the islands; the Earthside powers are afraid we'll upset the boat, come up with changes that
threaten the status quo. We're contributing to future shock with a vengeance. Sooner or later, al
every Earth institution will be threatened with change as a result of developments in space."
  "Probably true." Jerry thought about it before saying, "These new developments of yours. W
kind of political system have you dreamed up?"
  "We're experimenting with a half-dozen alternatives." The other flashed a grin of depreca
"None of them very similar to anything now prevailing Earthside."
  "I'll be damned," Jerry said. Then, "Look, with emigration being deliberately discouraged, how
you populating these new islands of the Federation?"
  The other looked him straight in the eye. "Partially from natural increase. We still like kids i
space colonies. But even more so from the original islands."
  Jerry looked at him quizzically. "Wouldn't the original islands take a dim view of losing
inhabitants in that manner?"
  Ian Venner wasn't fazed. "Some of them do, especially in the Belt."
  "I'd think the Soviet Complex would send the KGB up en masse."
  "They do. And they defect. For that matter, so do the IABI men, and those from the Com
Europe Interpol, while chasing felons who've run to Lagrangia. My own—never mind," he fini
smiling to himself.
  "Jesus," Jerry muttered. "I'll have to have my people do me a brief on this. I had no idea…
scrutinized the Lagrangist again. "How are racial problems in Lagrangia and the Asteroids?"
  "What race problems?"
  Jerry was impatient. "You know: conflict between the races. Blacks, whites, yellows…"
  The man from Lagrangia was just as impatient. "Auburn," he interrupted, "when you're out in
space and something happens to your suit, you don't give a good goddamn whether the person
to you is black, yellow, or green. Death only comes in one color. In space, all humans cooperat
they die. We pay no more attention to a person's race than his religion, if he has any—which he
likely doesn't."
  Jerry said, "Come again?"
  Venner was still impatient. "That's one of the reasons we're on the shit list. The Prophet has
pulling out all the stops when it comes to space colonization. He found out about twenty years
that there wasn't a single church in Lagrange Five and demanded that he be allowed to build a U
Church mission in our Island One. Obviously, we couldn't care less, so he built it and manned it
  "But nobody came, eh?" Jerry Auburn was amused.
  "Oh, we all came. Once. In fact, some came back again for the second time… for laughs. G
grief, Auburn, any emigrants to the space colonies are screened to hell and gone, not for
competence in their line of work, but for intelligence, education, Ability Quotient. How many of
do you think can believe in the religious mythologies of the Jews, the Christians, the Moslems
Buddhists, the Shinto-ists, or any of the rest? And if we tried to teach the Genesis account, No
Ark and the rest, do you think any of them would swallow it? Sorry."
  Jerry got up and went over to the bar to refresh their drinks. He returned with them and sai
begin to see why you people are getting uptight. So you've been rather quietly acquiring all pr
investments in space that you can get your hands on, as fast as you can finance it. But why appr
me directly? Why not resort to various stock exchanges and buy up a controlling interest in Au
Space Development, Incorporated?"
  Ian Vernier said, "It's a question we debated. However, your grandfather was one of the fir
invest in Lagrange Five, and he did it with no strings attached. He didn't make quick initial profits
keep them Earthside. For two decades, he reinvested all income from space back into the proj
When he died, your father continued the policy. And he didn't use Earthworm directors. He wa
first to have sense enough to appoint experienced Lagrangists, usually second-generation colon
Nor have we had any interference from you since you have inherited the Auburn interests. So
decided, in all fairness, that we should consult you without the bullshit."
  "You did it, that's a fact," Jerry Auburn said. He thought about it for long moments during w
time the other held his peace. He sipped at his brandy until the glass was empty, then put it down
turned to one of the screens on his desk. He flicked it on, and when a face faded in, said, "B
make arrangements to sell all our interests in Auburn Space Development to the Space Federati
have a gentleman here in my office named Ian Venner, from Lagrangia. Go over the details with
You'll have to relay this to Central and to Sillitoe in London and Flaker in Berlin. But first, buy
common shares you can and add them to our holdings you turn over."
  Barry Wimple gaped, but Jerry flicked the switch again and turned back to the equally ga
Lagrangist.
  Venner said, "But look. We make a policy of paying cash, when we've accumulated enough cr
to swing our latest acquisition. This was to be the largest thus far. We don't want to be saddled
paying interest for…"
  "No interest," Jerry said flatly. "I'm turning my space properties over to your Federation.
stood and extended a hand. "Perhaps, someday, you'll be able to do a favor for me. Meanwhile,
can use those credits you've accumulated the hard way to buy up some other properties. The m
is on, Venner, to create a world government. If such elements as the United Church are in contr
that world state, you people are going to be in the soup. You'd better make yourselve
independent as possible, as soon as possible."
  The Lagrangist, still in something of a daze, shook hands. He said hesitantly, which was ou
character for him, "I don't know what motivates you, Auburn, but I assume that you've though
out. And I can assure you that the Federation is most anxious to grant that favor.''
  Jerry smiled suddenly. "No racism in space, eh?"
   The other was mystified. "That's right. There hasn't been from the beginning."
   When Ian Venner was gone, Jerry went back to his living room, got a double brandy from the
and spread himself out on a couch. He remained there for a couple of hours, staring unseeingly
the huge window which overlooked Manhattan. From time to time he got up to replenish the glas
   At one time he said aloud, "What in hell am I doing in this position?"
   And ten minutes later he answered himself. "I was born into it."
   It had grown dark outside by the time the identity screen buzzed on the door leading to the off
He sat erect and looked over. It was Lester.
   Jerry said, "Yeah?" a slight slur in his voice.
   "Mr. Luca Cellini is here, sir."
   "Send him in."
   The door opened and an alert-looking stranger entered. In his late thirties, he could have been
of Jerry's staff, so far as appearance was concerned. He was dark of complexion in the Sic
tradition, clean and handsome of features, sharp of eye. He took the room in completely in one q
sweep, then turned to its occupant.
   Jerry got up and went over to the bar for still another drink, saying over his shoulder, "Sit d
Cellini. You're the Graf's local man?"
   The newcomer seated himself in a comfort chair and crossed his legs, adjusting his beauti
tailored trousers.
   He said, "That's right, Mr. Auburn, and for both hemispheres of the Americas. What can I d
you?"
   Jerry came back, reseated himself on the couch, and viewed the other. He said finally, "W
would you take to sell out the Graf?"
   Luca Cellini stared at him for a long moment. Then he said, "First of all, nine lives, like a cat."
   Jerry said nothing, took a sip of his drink.
   Cellini leaned forward a bit. "Mr. Auburn," he said "I don't want to antagonize you. I know
you are, and I know how much weight you can throw. Even the Graf wouldn't want to antago
you. However, I've been working for Lothar Von Brandenburg for over twenty years. One o
scouts brought me off the streets when I was a kid. I've been with him ever since. He even sen
to school. Now I'm settled in the organization. The pay's good, more than I could ever
expected with my background. In short, Mr. Auburn, I owe the Graf. He's been more than a fath
me."
   Jerry took another pull at the drink, without removing his eyes from the other. He said slowly,
Grafs a has-been. Mercenaries are rapidly becoming a thing of the past, and so is selling arm
would-be revolutionists. Already Latin America, once a lucrative field of operation for you, is
part of the United States and sealed off from your operations. And that's just the beginning. W
government is on the way. When it comes, there will be little use, anywhere, for mercenaries
illicit arms sales. Hit men for the Death wish policies will be gone, since such policies will be i
with a World State. There'll be a great fall-off in bodyguarding and assassinations, since mo
them are international and there won't be any nations. The Graf is hedging his bets, trying to get
the upper hierarchy of the World Club so he'll have a place in the new scheme of things.
rank-and-file employees will largely be dropped. So, looking out for your own interests, you'd b
get out while you can."
   Luca Cellini had not worked his way up to his present standing in the Graf's organization by b
slow.
   He said, "Mind if I smoke?"
  Jerry shook his head.
  The New Yorker took out a gold cigar case and from it drew a panatela. The end had already
pierced. He brought forth a gold lighter and lit the long cigar carefully. He said, "I couldn't sel
the Graf. He'd get me no matter where I tried to hide. Just as easily as he gets those Deathwish p
suckers. Few of them last a week."
  Jerry nodded, taking back more of the drink that he didn't need. His eyes were already shinin
the characteristic way they did after a half-liter of spirits.
  He said, "Try this. We'd arrange a Shootout in which you were involved. You'd supposedly ta
couple of hits and the ambulance would haul you off to a clinic owned by a doctor on my pay
He'd operate on you, making a few impressive-looking scars and possibly taking a half inch o
out of one of your shin bones, so you'd be left with a noticeable limp. When you were released
the clinic, the doctor's report would read that you were ninety percent disabled, possibly one of
kidneys shot away, or something. My people know how to do it. You'd report to the Graf or
Windsor or whoever you report to, that you have to retire. So you go to some island paradise
Samoa, and settle down living the good life in retirement on whatever pension the Graf settle
you, and especially the sum I give you. You stay there at least until Mercenaries, Incorporate
gone from the scene—possibly Lothar von Brandenburg as well. Possibly you spend the re
your life where you're not apt to run into any of your present associates. So, the question is
what would you want to sell out the Graf?"
  Luca Cellini was staring again and breathing deeper now. He said, "Could I have a drink?"
  His host motioned with his head toward the bar. Cellini went over to it and poured himself a
from the same bottle his host had used, He swallowed part of it and returned to his chair.
  He said, "One million pseudo-dollars, tax-free and untrace-able."
  Jerry nodded in agreement. "Very well. As you leave, Lester will make arrangements with yo
deposit that amount to whatever account you prefer. I assume that you have at least one s
account in Nassau, Tangier, or wherever."
  Cellini nodded. "I know you don't welch, Mr. Auburn. I trust you. What did you want from me
  "What happened to Harold Dunninger?"
  "He was kidnapped by the Nihilists. When his wife wouldn't pony up the ransom, they hit him.
  "I know what was in the news. How did you set it up?"
  The other moistened his lips. "I was supplying his bodyguards. There were twelve of them, fou
a shift. I pulled four of them off at the crucial time, supposedly rotating them. The orders came
Windsor. The Nihilist who pulled off the kidnapping was one of ours. We've had him planted
them for years. He placed the ransom amount so high that there wasn't a chance Dunninger's
would pay it. We'd checked her out to make sure."
  "What's the name of your mole in the Nihilists?"
  "Nils Ostrander."
  "New subject: What happened to Pamela McGivern?"
  Cellini shook his head. "Never heard of her."
  Jerry thought about it for a moment, then accepted that and said, "What else has been goin
under your jurisdiction?"
  "We've diverted all our best men to hitting the Deathwish Wobbly."
  "Who?" Jerry scowled.
  "Roy Cos, a screwball radical who took out a Deathwish Policy. Instead of blowing the cr
coming to him like all the rest, he's devoted it to buying prime time so he can sound off agains
system. He's surrounded himself with a flock of guards, all devoted to him, and we haven't been
to get through. He's scheduled to show in a couple of days. All the screwball outfits are ge
together in Chicago for what they call a synthesis meeting. He's supposed to represent
Wobblies."
  "I guess I have heard about him," Jerry said, his voice deeper in its slur now, his eyes brighte
was obviously at least half drenched in booze. "What else?"
  "Nothing much. They sent over a new man from the Wolfschloss." Cellini looked up. "T
the…"
  "I know," Jerry said. "The Grafs fortress in Liechtenstein. Goon "
  "Kid named Franklin Pinell," Cellini growled. "It's not the way the organization usually oper
Windsor said to cooperate with him one hundred percent. Handle him with kid gloves. G
orders."
  Jerry eyed him. "What's he supposed to do?"
  "Hit a spade named Horace Hampton, evidently. Never heard of Hampton."
  Jerry Auburn's face froze. All of a sudden, he didn't seem quite so influenced by the drink
been putting down. "Why?" he got out.
  "Damned if I know. There's a contract on him. Why we couldn't have handled it is a myste
me. Routine stuff."
  After a moment, Jerry said, "Anything else?"
  "Can't think of anything."
  "Wizard. Go out to Lester. He'll cover you with all that we've agreed on."
  The executive came to his feet, looked at the man who had just bought him, then, without fu
words, turned and headed for the door.
  Jerry finished his drink, went over to the living room's small desk, and sat down before the sc
there. He flicked it on and said, "Ted Meer."
  When the face of his aide appeared, he said, "Check as deeply as you can on these men. Fir
Franklin Pinell. All I know about him is that he's young, has recently been in Europe, inclu
Liechtenstein, and is connected with Mercenaries, Incorporated, evidently on a high level. Sec
Roy Cos, the so-called Deathwish Wobbly. Third, a Nils Ostrander of the Nihilists, evidently on
their more militant members; possibly connected with some of their more flagrant operations.
oh yes, who are we currently using for our private investigations in Common Europe?"
  His aide said, "We're still using Pinkerton International, Mr. Auburn."
  "Very well. Get them to put all-out effort into checking a Pamela McGivern, an Irish girl, rec
employed as a secretary by the World Club, at their headquarters in the Palazzo Colonna in R
She disappeared about a week or so ago. This is crash priority, Meer. I want results immediately
  "Yes, sir."
  Jerry Auburn flicked the screen off, sighed, and went back to the bar.
  In the morning, he had a raging hangover. He went into the bathroom and got a bottl
Sober-Ups from the medicine cabinet, shuddered, and took one. Still in pajamas, he went into
living room and stretched out on the couch, after touching a button set into its armrest.
  Simmons entered, immaculately correct. He took one look at his employer and said sadly, "
sir."
  "Wipe that goddamned superior, long-suffering look off your face and bring me about a gallo
Italian Expresso."
  "Yes, sir." The butler left.
  Jerry Auburn went through the agony of the stepped-up recuperation from overindulgence. W
he at last felt semi-healthy, he groaned, took himself over to the desk, and flicked on the screen.
  Ted Meer appeared, looking weary as though he hadn't been to bed the night before.
  Jerry said nastily, "Why in the hell don't you take pep pills when you've got a siege before y
He knew that his aide had an aversion to stimulants but was in no mood to sympathize.
  "Yes, sir," the other said.
  "Well, what have you found out?"
  "We have the Dossier Complete of Roy Cos, as well as his activities of the last weeks since he
broken into the news. The material is on your desk. We have drawn a blank on Nils Ostrander.
obviously an assumed name. The IABI is on the verge of arresting him in connection with
kidnapping and death of Harold Ounninger but thus far has insufficient evidence with whic
operate. There is a vague hint that higher ups are protecting him, though that would
impossible."
  "Shit it is," Jerry muttered. "Go on."
  "Franklin Pinell was recently deported from the United States after four felony sentences, the la
which was a homicide, He was sent to Tangier but he never reported to the Moroccan police. H
the son of the late Willard Pinell, known in mercenary circles as Buck Pinell. The elder Pine
partnership with Lothar von Brandenburg, founded Mercenaries, Incorporated over twenty y
ago. Present location of Franklin Pinell is unknown."
  Jerry said, "He's here in the States. If he's a deportee, undoubtedly under an alias and with
papers. Put the Pinkertons on his trail. What about Pamela McGivern?"
  "There hasn't been sufficient time for much of a report, save that she has not returned to Ire
Her family lives in Dublin. They haven't heard from her for a month."
  Jerry thought over what he had been told for a few mo-ments, then said, "Keep at it. If any
important breaks, get in touch with me immediately. Keep digging on this Franklin Pinell and
some background on his father, Buck. Find out everything you can about him, especially
relationship with Lothar von Brandenburg." He hesitated, then went on. "I also want to check o
Lee Garrett, including all the dope you can get on her father and mother, who evidently we
married. She's currently in residence at the Palazzo Colonna in Rome and has the job formerly
by Pamela McGivern. Check for any hanky-panky there might have been in her being selected b
computers for her job there. I don't want a cursory report on this. I want deep digging. It's extre
difficult, but not impossible, to jimmy the computers or the data banks."
  "Yes, sir," Ted Meer said. "Anything else, Mr. Auburn?"
  "No. I'll get in touch, Ted." Jerry turned off the screen and ran his hand over his facial stubble.
  He thought some more, then reached for the screen again, touching the stud that would deact
the video. He dialed slowly, remembering the digits. Max Finklestein's face appeared, frowning a
fact that his own screen was blank.
  "Who is it?" he said, rubbing the end of his Armenian nose in irritation.
  "Hamp," Jerry said. "Horace Hampton."
  "How the hell do I know it's Hamp?" Max said irritably.
  "The last time I saw you we had our faces buried in the leaves behind the We Shall Overc
Motel, with Tom Horse and Joe Zavalla. Something's wrong with my damn transceiver."
  "All right," the other said. "What spins, Hamp?"
  "I'm tired of being on leave. What do you want me to do?"
  "You'll have to check with National Headquarters, Hamp. I'm not running you anymore. I've
promoted to the National Executive Committee. I'm being sent up to Chicago to represen
Anti-Racist League at the Synthesis meeting."
  Jerry blinked. This was better than he could have expected. His mind racing, he said, "I've he
little about that meeting, Max, some of it disquieting. I want in."
   Max Finklestein said, "Why?" puzzlement in his voice.
   "As muscle. Among others, Roy Cos is going to be there and so is Nils Ostrander."
   "I know about Cos, but who's Nils Ostrander?"
   "The Nihilist who engineered the kidnap killing of that multimillionaire, Harold Dunninger. Th
an off chance that the IABI might try to pick him up at the meeting."
   Max said suspiciously, "How in the name of Christ do you know?"
   "Sticking my ears out. Ever since this Roy Cos character has been sounding off, everybody
his cousin have been talking about the different radical organizations. Not just the Wobblies, b
radicals. The idea of fundamental change is in the air."
   Max considered it. He finally nodded and said, "All right. I'll check it out with the Exec
Committee but they'll undoubtedly okay it. Each organization is allowed two delegates. You mig
well be my partner. Suppose we meet there."
   "Wizard," Jerry said. "See you, Max."
   He cut the screen, then flicked on the video again and the switch for his harassed aide. Ted M
face came on.
   Jerry said, "One more thing, Ted. Plant a news story, and I mean really plant it, so that nob
who listens to the news at all could possibly miss it. The story is that Horace Hampton, an all
suspect in the recent attack on Governor Teeter, will be present representing the Anti-Racist Le
at the Synthesis meeting to be held by radical groups in Chicago."
   His aide said, "Yes, Mr. Auburn. That name again?"
   "Horace Hampton, damn it. Take some pep pills!"
   He flicked off, then immediately back on again. He dialed and almost immediately his own face
there on the screen. He said, "Hi, Jim. What spins?"
   His double grinned at him. "I still think I've got the best goddamn job in the world."
   Jerry laughed. "You probably have at that, you chronic hedonist. I do all the work, you have a
fun, and between us we're Jeremiah Auburn. Okay, Jim. You're to surface again, immediately.
time, drop the recluse bit. Go to one of the gambling resorts—Monte Carlo or Nice. Drop a hun
thousand or so at roulette, or whatever. Enough so that it'll be picked up by the news people
have society commentators asking whether Jerry Auburn is coming out of seclusion to rejoin
Rocket Set."
   "Got it," Jim said. "Great. Back to the high life. Do I need to know what it's all about?"
   "No. Not necessary." Jerry's face broke into another fond grin. "Just be sure to remembe
names of people you meet and what you did with them, especially the mopsies you might lay,
damned screwing machine. We'll have to get together again one of these days, Jim, and bend a
elbows. It's been a long time since we've sat across a table from each other and tossed back a
There's something weird about getting drenched and sitting across from you… yourself.''
   "Tell me about it," Jim said. "The last time I didn't recover for days. And it wasn't just becau
was looking at my own face."
   Jerry laughed and flicked the screen off, touched another switch. This time, Barry Wimple's
came on.
   Jerry said, "I'll be leaving town again, Barry. Dismiss the staff. You and Ted and Lester check
Central, of course. I don't know how long it'll be before I'm back this time."
   His senior executive was aghast. "But, Mr. Auburn, I've got a dozen top-priority matters…"
   "That's what I pay you for, Barry," Jerry said, brushing aside the other's complaint. "The decis
are up to you and the rest of your boys. When you start making bad ones, it's your ass. Meanwh
want the staff cleared out of here before noon."
  "Yes, sir," the old man said unhappily.
  Jerry turned him off, then slumped in his chair for a moment and took a deep breath before hea
for the master bedroom. He passed through it into the dressing room, went into the bath, and t
medical cabinet, which he opened with a small key to bring forth a hypodermic needle. Minutes
he returned to the dressing room. He sat down before the mirror, pulled out a drawer, and too
the small box containing his colored contact lenses.
  "Doc Jekyll, meet Comrade Hyde," he muttered.
  Chapter Twenty-One: Horace Hampton
  Horace Hampton looked up at the lanky, stoop-shouldered man who hovered over his table i
automated bar, grinning down at him.
  "Thought I'd find you here," Max Finklestein said. "It's the nearest bar to Assembly Halls."
  "Hi, Max," Hamp said. "Have some of this syntho-beer. How did Shakespeare put it? 'Weaker
woman's tears,' or something. They ought to stick it back in the horse."
  "Not up to your usual standards, eh?" the older man said, even as he slid into a chair opposit
black. He put his credit card in the table's payment slot and dialed for a mug of the brew.
  Hamp looked at him. "What's that supposed to mean, old chum-pal?"
  The center of the table sank down to return with the beer. Max took a drink of it, then wiped
coarse foam from his lips. "It means that usually you drink more expensive stuff than the proles
to put up with."
  The other's look turned quizzical. "How do you know?"
  "I've been checking up on you."
  "Wizard, and what've you found?"
  "That you're not exactly a down-and-out nigger subsisting on GAS." Max grinned at hi
deprecation.
  "That's the trouble with you kikes," Hamp said. "Nosy."
  Max Finklestein said, "I was sitting around one day, minding my own business, when the tho
came to me that the Anti-Racist League was in better funds than it should be. Most of
membership consists of minority elements who'd contribute a lot to the cause if they could, but
can't— they're largely on GAS. Somehow the organization never seems to lack sufficient fu
though. So purely out of curiosity, I began checking on the source of the larger donations that c
through. And guess what I found?"
  "I know what you found," Hamp said. He finished his beer and dialed another.
  Max said, "Why all the secrecy? Why not just openly donate it, in one lump sum, instead of
and there in dribbles?"
  Hamp sighed and said, "Because I'm of the opinion that a race, a nationality, or a social
should finance its own emancipation. You mustn't hand somebody freedom on a platter. Supp
came out and gave a million pseudo-dollars to the Anti-Racist League in a flat sum. Then
membership as a whole would stop their pathetically small donations, as meaningless. But it's
meaningless for a man to give up his guzzle, his sometime extravagance, or his occasional spl
for a cause he believes in. It's not meaningless for him to sacrifice. It's part of his fight for freedo
  "Quite a speech," Max said. "Where'd you get all this money, Hamp? Or is it a secret? Are y
big-time crook? That's all the organization needs in the way of publicity—one of its most a
members turning out to be a crook."
  Hamp sighed. "Come off it, Max. It's according to what you mean by crook, I supp
Yesterday, I tuned in on this Deathwish Wobbly, who we're supposed to get together with ton
According to him, the whole upper class is composed of crooks. Their wealth has been stolen
the useful workers."
  "So you're upper class."
  "I suppose so. It's a long story, Max."
  The other looked at his wrist chronometer. "We've got time."
  Hamp sighed again. "It starts with a slave down in South Carolina—Pod Hampton. I have
violin to play so I'll skip the details of the hard time he had. When he finally lit out, he took
massa's silver with him. In fact, the kind old massa was on the rich side and some of the so-c
silver was gold. Pod managed to get it, and himself, up to Boston. And there he swore a great
understand? He wasn't going to spend any of his, ah, ill-gotten gains on himself. Instead, he
going to invest it and use the proceeds to fight for freeing his people.
  "At that time there was no valid organization putting up such a fight. He thought the Abolitio
were a bunch of impractical do-gooders, a bunch of starry-eyed whiteys who, beneath it all, beli
that blacks really were inferior, and should be pampered like children by those who were goo
heart, rather than being exploited as slaves. He continued to invest the money; railroads, ma
When he died, both the securities and the dream went to his oldest son who, if anything, was
more solidly anti-racist than the old man. He managed the investments—some land in the so-c
Great American Desert really paid off—but didn't spend much of it on himself. During his life
the Civil War took place, but it didn't take any genius to see that the freed blacks weren't much b
off than they had been as slaves. And there was still no organization that seemed fit to turn
money over to. Those were the boom times of industrialization, and the money was still large
railroads. It grew. It grew still more under his son. And along here somewhere, it became obv
that not spending any of it no longer made sense. The fortune needed full-time management—o
employees and so forth. The next son dropped railroads and went into automobiles."
  Max whistled softly.
  Hamp went on, after dialing still another syntho-beer. "These sons all continued the dream.
were devoted to ending racism. They'd progressed beyond the point of fighting for black r
alone. They were also smart enough not to throw the fortune away on lost causes. They
hanging onto it until the right time and the right organization came along. The fortune was ke
secret as possible and they led very simple lives while managing it. Remember, they were smart.
by one, as new developments such as radio, the airplane, and later, electronics, came along, they
in on the ground floor. For instance, one of them helped launch IBM back in the 1920s."
  "That would explain it, without the other stuff," said Max.
  "And along in here came a new development. It wasn't practical to live like misers while hoard
fortune that would one day be used to end world racism. To manage a modern fortune, you've g
be educated in top schools, you've got to have the correct social and financial contacts, which
often the same people. In short, you've got to move in the right circles. It's all part of the
fortunes game. A Rockefeller, a Mellon, a Rothschild, can't operate out of a sleazy flat in Harlem
any rate, Max, I'm the current holder of the purse strings and the Anti-Racist League is being d
out all the funds I feel it can handle at this point."
  Max was eyeing him. "I'll be damned," he said. "That fortune must be king-size by now."
  "It is," Hamp said dryly. "And the present descendant of Pod Hampton still has the dream."
  Max said, "But for Christ's sake, you shouldn't be risking yourself carrying out ext
assignments for the organization."
  Hamp looked at him flatly. "I refuse to finance activities that I'm not willing to take on myse
Indians like Tom Horse and Chicanes like Jose Zavalla are willing to take the risks they do,
Horace Hampton."
  Max nodded acceptance of that stand. "Right," he said. "I assume you want me to keep th
myself."
  "If I thought you couldn't, I wouldn't have told you," Hamp said.
  Max looked at his wrist chronometer again. "I suppose we ought to get going. The Synt
committee has rented a small hall for the meeting. Only delegates are to be admitted— and
bodyguards."
  As they stood, Hamp looked over at him questioningly.
  Max laughed. "I assume nobody'll have bodyguards besides Roy Cos. That rule was made
him in mind. From what I hear, they average two attempts on his life a day, the poor bastard."
  They headed for the door. "Yeah," Hamp growled. "Every hit man in Mercenaries, Incorpor
has zeroed in on him."
  They went out onto the street and headed for the Assembly Halls, a commercial building dev
to a score of rentable halls ranging from a large auditorium to small lecture rooms that would
audiences of fifty or so.
  Max was eyeing his companion strangely. "How do you know?" he said.
  Hamp covered. "Just guessing. It makes sense. It's not just that insurance conglomerate that w
the Deathwish Policy now. Poor Cos has everybody and his nephew down on him—the U
Church, the government of every country in the world that fears revolutionary change, the W
Club, God knows who else. He's the sorest thumb to show up for many a year."
  Max said, frowning, "Why the World Club?"
  The black shrugged. "They want a World State, but under their wing—not the kind he's agit
for."
  As they got nearer to the building in which the meeting was to be held, the crowd began to man
itself. There were several police cars, lights flickering above them, a police ambulance, a
contingent of uniformed police stationed across the street from the entrance to the halls. There
also one Tri-Di unit mounted atop a truck, and a couple of hundred curiosity seekers, gaw
Among them were twenty-five or so teenagers of both sexes, each carrying a child's baseball
These latter were dressed identically in prole clothing—sweaters and denim shorts.
  Hamp said, "Not much of a turnout when you consider Cos is exposing himself. I'd think th
be thousands."
  Max said cynically, "The news media has been given orders to play down the Deathwish Wob
They can't ignore him entirely, news being news, and the fact that he might get burned any mi
But they're trying to ease coverage on him and especially this meeting. Every radical organiz
going, no matter how zany, is on Roy Cos's bandwagon, whether he wants them or
Everybody's beginning to have second thoughts about whether basic changes ought to be ma
the world's socioeconomic systems, even in the Soviet Complex and the People's Republi
China."
  They came up to the entry to the halls, just as two heavy limousines slid quickly to the
immediately before them.
  "Cos," Max grunted.
  Four men, Gyrojets swinging from their hips in quick-draw holsters, sprang from the first ve
and immediately dashed back to surround the second one, each of them at a corner. Their h
rested on their guns and their eyes were never still as they scanned the crowd, not excluding
police or the Tri-Di crew. Two of the doors of the second limo opened and three more gu
erupted. They immediately stationed themselves between the car and the entry, and they too had
hands on pistol butts. The teenagers with the baseball bats pressed closer, between the guards
the building entrance.
  Two more men got out of the second limo and looked up and down the street, one apprehensi
the other as though resigned.
  Max said, "Jesus, is that the Deathwish Wobbly? Colorless looking little guy, isn't he?"
  Forry Brown was saying, "Inside. Let's get inside, damn it. I don't like to be out in the open
this."
  Roy Cos grunted and they headed for the door, the guards crowding around them now.
  Roy Cos's manager hesitated and looked at one of the kids with the baseball bats. "Who the
are you?" he said.
  The boy saluted with his bat. "We're the Junior Wobblies, sir. Come to help protect Com
Cos." He wielded the bat as though it was a field marshal's baton.
  Roy Cos looked at him. "Junior Wobblies?" he said. "There is no such organization. If there w
would have heard of it."
  The boy wasn't fazed. He looked to be about seventeen— man sized, but with a teena
awkwardness. "We've organized on our own, Comrade Cos. We haven't had time to get in t
with the national organization for their approval. There's fifty of us here surrounding the buildin
any of these professional mercenaries show up, we'll give 'em hell."
  Ron grunted in disbelief and his hand tightened on his Gyrojet.
  But Forry shook his head. "Let them alone," he said. "The Graf doesn't have any teenagers i
outfit. His need is for experienced professionals." He clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Carry
kid."
  "Yes, sir."
  Hamp and Max had joined the Wobbly contingent as they entered the building, three of the gu
going ahead.
  Max said to Roy Cos, "We're the delegates from the Anti-Racist League."
  Roy shook hands. "I suppose you know my name," he said. "And this is Forrest Brown
business manager."
  "Max Finklestein and Horace Hampton," Max introduced them.
  "The meeting's on the third floor," Forry said nervously. "Let's get going."
  Ron and Les got into the elevator alone and rode up, to check out the way. The other gu
packed around Roy and Forry, waiting.
  Roy looked over at Hamp wanly and said, "A helluva way to live."
  The black nodded. The other was right. The elevator returned.
  On the third floor, Ron and Les were waiting. The whole group proceeded to a hall down
corridor from which sounds were emanating. They were evidently a bit late.
  Two members of the Synthesis committee were at the door checking credentials. Roy Cos, o
face of it, hardly needed them, but he went through the motions of proving himself a delegate
the Wobblies. Max presented a letter identifying himself and Horace Hampton.
  The meeting was a bore, doomed to failure from its inception. The Synthesis group, which
proposed it, was obviously sincere in its desire to unite all the radical elements but, as H
whispered to Max Finklestein, sincerity alone was dull as dishwater.
  There were perhaps thirty-five present, including the Synthesis committee, the bodyguards,
various delegates. The leading representatives were those from the Wobblies, the Nihilists
Luddites, and the Libertarians, in addition to the Anti-Racists. The other delegates were from sp
groups and some, splinters from splinters. There was even one representative from an organiz
evidently unknown to the others, called Technocracy, Incorporated. Going at least a century a
half back, the Technocrats opted for a world government dominated by scientists, engineers,
technicians. He wasn't quite booed down.
   A table in front of the hall acted as a rostrum and each delegation was called upon to give
program of its organization. Roy spoke for the Wobblies, Max Finklestein for the Anti-R
League, a Nils Ostrander for the Nihilists, and a blowsy woman named Bertha Holtz held forth
the Libertarians, who evidently carried high the banner of the new women's lib and that of the gay
well. After these four stars, the splinter groups each had their turn, turns that dealt almost exclus
with hair-splitting.
   Hamp and Max had seated themselves next to Roy Cos and Forry Brown, the guards b
strategically placed about the room, all standing with their backs to the walls. Hamp spotted
Ostrander, who sat next to a younger, very earnest-looking man whose suit was by far the be
any of those present. He also spotted the other person he was looking for, an athletic-looking y
fellow in his early twenties. The chairman had introduced him as the sole delegate from one o
smaller organizations back East, of which Hamp had never heard, and suspected that no one
present had either.
   By the time each organization had had its say, the chairman was looking distressed; ind
downright unhappy. He said, "Did anyone else wish to speak?"
   Hamp stood and said, "I wouldn't mind doing a little summing up."
   He was invited to the table and stood in front of it, rather than behind.
   He looked over them, sighed, and said, "This meeting is a farce and I suspect that by this
most of us realize it. It's been a farce because its purpose is unobtainable. The organizations
can't get together because they don't stand for the same things. I can't figure out what some of
do stand for. Everybody here is against something, but damn few are for anything. Cos's Wob
at least have a program, whether or not it's valid, but the Nihilists proudly announce that they hav
All they want to do is tear down the present social system without having anything definite to rep
it. The Libertarians want to reform the present Welfare State by granting more GAS for all prole
pushing through still further rights for women and gays. They aren't interested in complete cha
just reform. The Luddites want to turn the wheels of progress backwards. They want to de
modern technology and return to the days before automation and computerization, when all o
labor force was needed in production, distribution, and services. The trouble is that you
uninvent things any more than you can unscramble eggs. We of the Anti-Racist League have
one thing in common with the Luddites: our interest isn't in overthrowing
   People's Capitalism and neither is theirs. Neither is it the interest of the Libertarians. In fact, i
ranks of anti-racists are some who are wealthy and have an interest in maintaining the status
save on the racial question. You see, none of us stands for the same thing. We can't unite."
   The audience stirred, some muttering among themselves.
   Nils Ostrander, the delegate from the Nihilists, was on his feet angrily. "That's defeatism! Qu
few of us stand for the complete dismemberment of the welfare state. We ought to get togeth
pull this rotten system down."
   More mutterings and still more agitation. The saturnine Max Finklestein was looking a
companion in amusement.
   Hamp said deliberately, "I've done a lot of wondering about the Nihilists. You are a continuatio
the terrorists of the late 20th century, such as the Symbiosis Army here in the States, and
Sekigun, the so-called Red Army of Japan, and similar groups in Germany and
Anti-establishment, but pro-what? And, given the viewpoint of those who opt for the status quo,
serve a very definite need. Whether you want to be or not, you serve as agents provocateurs.
assassinations and kidnappings laid at your door serve to turn sincere people of good will away
any movement that proclaims the need for fundamental change. People are repelled by what yo
in the name of radicalism, which puts a chip on their shoulders about all revolutionary grou
including the Wobblies, who foreswear force and violence and want to make their changes thr
legal means. In short, you're the kiss of death to all the movements represented here tonight. If
was no such organization as the Nihilists, it would be to the interest of such outfits as the U
Church, the IABI, the World Club and, for that matter, Mercenaries, Incorporated, to start one.
use you to louse up the image of anybody advocating change."
  "That's a lie!" Ostrander yelled in indignation.
  "Is it?" the black said emptily. "Let me give an example. Recently, the multimillionaire World
man, Harold Dunninger, managed to get himself on the shitlist of the United Church, as well as i
bad graces of some of the higher-echelon members of the World Club. Names? Harrington Ch
Moyer of the IABI, and Lothar von Brandenburg, the Graf, who was anxious to take the p
scheduled for
  Dunninger in the top ranks of the World Club. Obviously it wouldn't do for Dunninger t
eliminated by one of the Graf's men. So the job was delegated to the Nihilists and the blame pu
them."
  "That's a lie, you bastard!"
  "I$o, it isn't, Ostrander. You engineered it yourself. You're a mole in the Nihilists, an agent o
Graf."
  The Nihilist delegate was gaping at him, his face white, only partially in anger. His you
companion seated next to him was eyeing him strangely.
  Hamp shrugged in contempt. "You pretended it was a kidnapping to raise funds for
organization but you put the ransom so high there was no chance of it being met. Then you k
him, per orders of the Graf. I don't have the proof with me here tonight, but now that I've mad
charge, I have no doubt that your fellow Nihilists will look into the matter."
  The black flicked a hand at the chairman to indicate that he was through and returned to his cha
  Forty Brown looked at him, amusement on his wizened face. "You really throw the shit in the
don't you?"
  Roy Cos was looking thoughtful. "You know," he said, "I think you're right, Hamp. I've
wondered about what motivates those Nihilists. They're just too far around the bend to be true."
  Hamp's talk had been the finish of the meeting. It broke up into squabbles, everybody standin
they argued.
  Max said mildly, "What happened to our friend, Nils Ostrander?"
  Billy Tucker had come up, worried about the way the gathering was now milling around. He sai
just saw him light out, arguing with that kid with him. Shouldn't we get out of here?"
  Hamp said to Roy, "I'd like to talk to you a little more. Could it be arranged?"
  Roy Cos said, "We're staying in a suite at the Drake, just for the night. Why don't you come
with us?"
  "Right," Hamp told him. "But just a minute. I want to say something to someone here."
  "Hurry it up," Forry Brown told him, scowling. "I don't like Roy to be exposed to so many pe
for so long, and we've still got to ran the gauntlet in the street. By this time the word's prob
gotten around that the Deathwish Wobbly is inside this building and there might be a few thou
rubberneckers out there, with a few of the Graf's men sprinkled among them."
  Hamp made his way across the room and confronted one of the delegates, who looked as th
he was preparing to leave.
  Hamp said, looking directly into the man's eyes, "Hello, Pinell. I understand you're looking for
  The other was too young to be very adept at covering but he tried. He said, "The name's Me
and I represent…"
  "Your name's Franklin Pinell," Jerry interrupted flatly, "and you were sent by the Graf and
Windsor to hit me. You're the son of the late Buck Pinell, co-founder of Mercenaries, Incorpor
who has an account amounting to some forty-five million pseudo-dollars in a bank in Berne."
  Frank Pinell's eyebrows went up in shock. He said, "How the hell would you know a thing
that?"
  "I own the bank," Hamp said. "Now, look, I want to talk to you but I have something else on
fire right now. Where are you staying?"
  "At the Drake, but…"
  "Wizard. That's where I'm going right now. In fact, maybe I'll register myself. I'll see you
tonight. What name did you say you were going under?"
  "Merson," Frank said weakly.
  "See you later," Hamp returned to where Roy and Forry and the bodyguards were waiting.
  Forry, ever suspicious, said, "Who the hell was that?"
  Hamp granted amusement. "A guy the Graf sent to finish me off. Maybe I'll tell you abo
someday."
  Some of the delegates were still arguing out in the hall as the group of them headed for the elev
Max said to Hamp, "I've got some things to do tonight, including a report to the Exec
Committee. I'll meet you in the morning."
  "Great," Hamp told him. "I'll register at the Drake."
  The guards took over again at the elevator. Billy and Ron went down first to check out the lo
When the elevator returned the five remaining guards, plus Roy, Forry, Hamp, and Max, all crow
in. So did several of the other dele-gates, two of them still arguing. Forry began to remonstrate a
their coming along in this elevator load, but Roy shook his head wearily and the little ex-news
shrugged it off.
  Halfway down, Roy's business manager gave a startled cough. Max darted a look at him.
Christ's sake," he blurted. "What's wrong?"
  The small man's face was wet and shiny and gray of color. He had both of his fists clamped
against his chest. His jaw was going up and down as if he was trying to say something that wou
come. Les blurted, "He's having a heart attack!" Two of the guards grabbed the stricken man b
arms, supporting him. The elevator came to a halt at the ground floor and the group emerged, ha
Forry Brown with them. They headed for a chair.
  Hamp yelled at the top of his voice, "A doctor! Get a doctor from that police ambulance ac
the street!"
  Forry Brown's eyebrows were high, his eyes bulging as though in surprise. His jaw continue
move, soundlessly. And even as they lowered him into the chair, he passed out. Two white-jack
young men, Red Cross bands around their arms, came hurrying in with a stretcher. They exp
snaked the stricken man onto it and trotted from the lobby with him.
  Ron said, "I'll go along," and followed after. Les was the first to recover from surprised confu
He said to Roy, "Let's get out of here. They'll take him to the hospital. There's nothing we ca
and meanwhile, for all we know, there are a couple of the Graf's boys waiting outside."
  Roy nodded dumbly.
  Hamp said, "Under the circumstances, we'll have to call off our get-together."
  But the Wobbly organizer shook his head. "No, if we've got anything to say to each other
might as well do it. There's no guarantee I'll last the night."
  The six remaining guards stationed themselves around Hamp and their charge as the body of
moved out the door and made a beeline for the limousines. Roy, Hamp, and Billy got into the re
one, two of the guards into the front. Then the three remaining got into the lead car. Hamp lo
out the window. The crowd had grown considerably larger and the teenage kids with their bas
bats held it back, very businesslike. A half-drunk prole waved one hand high and yelled, " 'Ray
Deathwish Wobbly!"
  "Yeah," Roy muttered as they took off.
  Tbe bodyguards of the Wobbly national organizer had their parts down pat by this time.
moved with precision and cool efficiency. The limousines smoothed up to an entry in the area o
Drake Hotel. The three in the lead vehicle popped out and scouted the vicinity, two of them g
into the hotel. Then the three returned to the second limousine and stood alert while its occup
emerged. Then all moved into the hotel and took the service elevator.
  All of Cos's basic crew were accommodated in one large suite, Hamp was introduced to Mary
Elwyn and Ferd Feldmeyer, and Roy went over to the bar while Les told the secretary and sp
writer what had happened.
  "Damn," Feldmeyer said, his plump little mouth looking petulant. "Those cigarettes. How bad d
look?"
  "Bad," Billy said in disgust. "He passed out. But the medics were there immediately. Nowa
they ought to be able to do something. A man no older than Forry usually doesn't die from his
heart attack."
  Roy had knocked back a first drink. He said, looking at Ferd, "Had he ever had one before?"
  "Not as far as I know. I've known him for years and he never mentioned any heart trouble."
  When the drinks had been distributed, Roy Cos looked over at the black. He said, "Well
should hear about Forry within the hour. Meanwhile, what did you have in mind, Hampton?"
  Hamp half emptied his glass. He said, "As you know, I'm from the Anti-Racist League. That'
prime interest. I wondered what you thought of the World Club. The story is beginning to su
that they're in favor of establishing a World State. They're behind bringing all of Latin America
the United States, and now Australia and New Zealand. I suspect that the Common Europe coun
will be next and I also suspect that such nations as Spain, Portugal, and Italy will line up overn
and the rest soon after. Hell, even commie countries, beginning with Cuba and Yugoslavia, wou
be far behind."
  Roy said, "And?"
  The black regarded him questioningly. "It would seem to me that under a World State ra
would disappear."
  Roy shook his head very emphatically. "Why? Suppose we had a United States of the W
Why would that end racism? It hasn't been ended in the United States, so far. Sure, if it was a w
government under the Wobbly program, there'd be no reason for racism. But under the status
Suppose the World Club took over and made the United Church the state religion. The Prophet
precious little to hide his anti-semitism. That reactionary Harrington Chase is hand in glove with
The Jews aren't about to join up with the United Church, like so many other smaller religions
Most of them, these days, are agnostics or atheists and won't support any organized religion. T
who are still Orthodox cling to the faith that's held them together for three thousand years. So
Prophet's down on them, and if his outfit ever becomes the state religion, Jews will be in trouble.
  Hamp didn't like that but he accepted it. He said, "That's only the Jews."
  Roy made a gesture of contempt. "It'd be a lot of others, too. Racism isn't an accident
deliberately fostered in a class society. When there aren't enough good jobs to go around, the
handy for a ruling class to have the proles fight among themselves. Supposedly the reason the bl
can't get decent jobs is because the whites take them all, and whites say they can't get jobs bec
the blacks are moving in on them, or the Chicanes, or the Orientals, or whoever. Divide and
Keep the proles at each other's throats so they'll never sit down and figure out that they ha
common enemy."
  Hamp said in disgust, "You people have one-track minds. Whatever's wrong, you blame it on
socioeconomic system."
  "That's where the blame usually is," Roy said, obviously too soulweary to want to argue.
proles go out to fight their war, division by division. One division carries a banner inscribed Pac
, another Women's Lib, another All Power to the Worker's Councils, another Down with Rac
another Clean Up the Environment, End Pollution, and on and on.
  None of them seem to see that basically it's the same war and that if they unite their divisions th
have an army, instead of going out separately—and down to defeat."
  Hamp said, "Probably a good simile. But now we get to the real reason I came up here ton
That Deathwish Policy of yours. Are there any provisions restricting your travel?"
  Roy looked at him and shook his head. "None at all. I can go anywhere in the world that I wan
  "I wasn't thinking about the world. I was thinking about Lagrange Five, or, better still, the Aste
Belt Islands."
  All of them were gaping at him now.
  Hamp said to Roy, "Look, basically you've done what you started out to do. You've broug
the attention of the whole world the program of the Wobblies. People are digesting it. Whether o
they'll buy it is another thing. I'm inclined to doubt it. As it stands now, your time is probably lim
to hours. The Graf's hit men are the most experienced on Earth and now, I believe, they'r
concentrated on you—all of them in this country, at least. So you take off from the S
Shuttleport in New Mexico for Space Station Goddard. There you transfer to a shuttle headed
Island One of the La-grange Five Project. From there you take the next ore freighter to the Aste
Belt, select an Island most suited to your needs, and spend the rest of your life there, prob
bankrupting whatever damned company signed that Deathwish Policy of yours."
  Billy said doubtfully, though liking it, "Okay. But then he doesn't get the message over."
  Hamp glowered at him. "Damn it, he's already got the message over. But he can continue spou
his propaganda from the Belt! All he has to do is tape his talks and beam them back Earthsid
broadcasting. Besides that, he'd have lots of time on his hands. He wouldn't be leading the life
hunted animal. He could write a book about the Wobbly program. He could turn out a ra
pamphlets and articles."
  "Good grief," Mary Ann said, her eyes wide. She looked at her lover, who was still staring a
black man. There was hope in her face.
  Hamp said, urgency in his voice, "Don't you see? You'd be safe out there. Among other th
there are no hit men flitting around on the Islands. It takes all the clearance in the world to get
space at all. And it takes a full year for a spacecraft to get from Lagrange Five to the Asteroid
which is halfway to Jupiter. If one of the Grafs men tried to get through to you, they'd have
spotted months before he ever arrived. And he'd be well aware of the fact that even if he did
through and did you in, there'd be no way he could get safely back. Lagrangists are a rough
ready lot."
  Billy said, "If Roy goes, Les and I go too, and probably Ron, just to be sure."
  Mary Ann nodded. "And so do I."
  Roy took a deep, tired breath and said, "None of us goes." He turned his eyes to Hamp. "Th
for the good intentions but the restrictions on going into space are endless. You've got to have s
ability that they need out there. You've got to be a scientist, or some kind of technician or h
experienced worker in construction, or electronics, or whatever. I don't have any such ability, a
doubt if any of the rest of us here do. One of their strictest requirements is that you have an I.Q
at least 130. I don't. You have to have a far above average Ability Quotient. I don't. I'd be a par
out there, even if they'd let me come, which they wouldn't."
  All eyes went back to Hamp. Mary Ann's were sick, as though he had overfed a false hope.
  "That's where I come in," Hamp said. He brought forth his pocket transceiver, activated it,
said, "Information? Put me through to Ian Venner of the Lagrangia Asteroid Belt Federation. H
now in New York as their representative."
  He waited long moments for the connection to be put through. Silence permeated the suite's l
room.
  There came a tiny voice from the transceiver and Hamp said, "Venner? This is Auburn. I'm ca
you about that favor sooner than I had expected."
  He paused, then said, "Good. I am in the company of Roy Cos. Perhaps you have heard o
Deathwish Wobbly. Yes, that's him. I want him, and several of his friends, to become s
colonists in the Belt. They won't meet your usual requirements. They will undoubtedly remain fo
rest of their lives, unless some very basic changes take place here Earthside."
  He listened for long moments, then said, "Wizard. Oh, Venner? I consider your obligation to
now terminated. Thanks and goodbye."
  He switched off the communicator and looked back at Roy. He said softly, "If you can make
the Shuttleport, Venner's people will take over there."
  The Wobbly organizer's lips were pale.
  It was then the phone screen buzzed. Mary Ann, in a daze, went to it. She said blankly, "It's
at the hospital."
  Billy got it out first. "How's Forry?"
  But Mary Ann was listening, shaking her head as though in disbelief. Finally, she switched
screen off.
  She turned back to them and said simply, "He—didn't make it. And then, "It wasn't a heart at
It was murder."
  "It couldn't have been," Roy blurted. "I was right there!"
  Mary Ann said emptily, "Something long, very thin, very sharp. Something like an antique wom
hatpin. Stuck up through the diaphragm, perforating the heart and flooding it with blood."
  "He would have yelled," Les said in utter disbelief.
  She said, "Maybe. But from what the doctors told Ron, at first he'd only feel mild discomfort,
especially if he had any lung or stomach or digestive disorders, he wouldn't particularly have no
the pain. But then the pressure would slow the heart down until it stopped. He'd feel faint, breath
dizzy, as though he'd had a small aortal attack. He'd be dead in five minutes."
  Roy said emptily, "It was meant for me."
  Hamp stood up and looked at the Wobbly organizer. "No. It was meant for Forrest Brown.
guards were too tight around you. It's gotten to the point where the Graf's men are out to
anybody associated with you, anybody helping you." He looked at Roy Cos's secretary. "Inclu
Ms. Elwyn. That's why you'd better make a beeline for that shuttleport in New Mexico, Cos."
  Roy Cos stood too, and said, "What's all this to you, Hampton? I don't even know you. Certa
you're no Wobbly. But you've gone far out of your way to extend a life I'd given up."
  Hamp tossed his head, brushing it off. "You're a man, Cos, and I believe in a man having a ch
to have his say.
  What was the quote of Voltaire? 'I disagree with what you say but will defend with my life
right to say it.' A lot of your program doesn't come through to me. For one thing, I think you're
of the times. Maybe, up there in the Belt, you'll learn some things and update what you stand
And maybe—just maybe—they'll learn some things from you."
  Chapter Twenty-Two: Jeremiah Auburn_____
  Hamp stood before the identity screen on the hotel door and looked at it sardonically. The
buzzed open and he entered. The room was on the small, austere side considering that this wa
age-old prestigious Drake.
  Frank Pinell was seated, watching a news commentator. Now he took in the chocolate feature
the newcomer without expression. Without waiting for an invitation, Hamp went over to the aut
and dialed himself a double brandy. He brought the snifter glass back and settled himself into
room's second chair.
  Frank reached over to click the screen off but Hamp said, "No, just a minute. What's he saying
  The commentator was saying, "… and if the victim's identification is genuine, the notorious
Cellini, long suspected by the IABI to be Lothar von Brandenburg's top representative in
Americas, has been shot to death on the streets of New York."
  "I'll be damned," Hamp said. "Peter Windsor is even more efficient than I thought."
  The younger man had been staring bug-eyed at the commentator. Now he shakily reached out
turned down the audio. He sucked in air before saying to the black, "You know Peter Windsor?"
  "Yes. One of the most competent snakes this side of the Garden of Eden. How he learned
Cellini had sold out, I'll probably never know."
  "Sold out?" Frank said. "I… I was just talking to him a few days ago."
  "Yes, I know," Hamp said, taking an appreciative sip of his cognac. "He was how I found out
Windsor and the Graf had sent you to finish me off."
  Frank said, a touch of irritation in his voice, "If you knew that, why in the devil have you c
here? Aren't you afraid I'll carry out the assignment?"
  "No," Hamp said. "Why did they send you?"
  "I'm not too clear about the details. Evidently, it was more or less a standard assignm
Somebody in the World Club wanted you eliminated."
  Hamp stared at him. "The World Club! Wanted Horace Hampton eliminated?"
  "Yes. If I understand correctly, they're becoming increasingly conscious of the part the Anti-R
League might play when the World State begins to embrace third-world countries."
  "But why me? I'm not even a member of the Executive Committee. Just a field worker."
  "If I have it right, there are some strange angles to your Dossier Complete. You're kind
mystery figure. You're also said to be the Anti-Racist League's most efficient man. Someb
figured that if half a dozen of your key members were eliminated, it would be considerably easi
control the organization."
  "I'll be damned," Hamp said thoughtfully. He finished his brandy, went back to the autobar
dialed another. He looked at his reluctant host. "Want a drink? It's a pleasure for me to be knoc
back guzzle that the Graf will eventually pay for."
  "Beer," Frank said.
  Hamp dialed the brew, brought it over, and resumed his own place.
  Frank said cautiously, "Why did you think I wasn't a danger to you?"
  "Because you're a fake. When I told you I own the bank your father used in Berne, I wasn't jo
I own controlling interests in various other banks as well. When Cellini told me you'd been sent t
me, I had you checked out and then your father as well."
  "All right, great. But why do you say I'm a fake?"
  "You were deported, picking Tangier. Tangier is the biggest base of Mercenaries, Incorpor
outside Liechtenstein. Anybody wanting to make contact with the organization couldn't do b
than to go there. You were deported because you had supposedly committed four felonies and
legal computers automatically ordered your deportation."
  "What do you mean supposedly?" Frank said, his voice flat.
  "The first two felonies, well, they were probably genuine. Certainly the first one, back when
were a kid. Kind of a kid's prank which turned sour. But the third one and the fourth? Nope;
faked them. The murder, the crime that made it definite that you'd be deported, you didn't com
You confessed to it, but you didn't do it. The way my agents reconstructed the thing, you
around in the most rugged area of Detroit, possibly the toughest big city in the country, during
most dangerous time of night, for a period of weeks. Eventually, you found what you were loo
for, a fresh corpse. You set the stage for getting the blame and you got it, guaranteeing deportat
Hamp took another pull at his brandy. "You're no killer, Pinell. It was all a scheme to get next t
Graf and it evidently worked out even better than you must have hoped."
  Frank glared at him. "Why would I do that?"
  Hamp shrugged. "It would seem obvious that you want to get your hands on that money
father left. Forty-five million pseudo-dollars isn't chicken feed—not a poultry sum, as the expres
goes."
  The younger man ignored the pun and said sullenly, "I had no idea it was that much."
  "It wasn't originally, but it's been sitting there in Berne for almost twenty years, invested in S
gilt-edged securities."
  "It's my money," Frank said. "I didn't even know about it until my mother told me on her death
She hated the very thought of the stuff but she hated the Graf even more and didn't want him t
his hands on it. I'm my father's only living relative. My mother suspected, but had no proof, tha
father was killed by the Graf. The last time she saw him, he hinted that they were on the outs
each other. My father, it would seem, didn't like some of the new fields into which Brandenburg
expanding. My father was a soldier of fortune, not a hit man."
  The black eyed him questioningly. "Why didn't you just go to Switzerland and demand
inheritance?"
  "It's tied up in some complicated way I don't understand.
  Evidently, my father was on the way to change that when he was killed. I'm not sure abou
details but I suspect that the Graf is part of the complication."
  "If Lothar von Brandenburg could get his hands on that money, he would. The sonofabitch is
about bankrupt now. His overhead is astronomical. With your father's money he could retire, o
just about anything else he wanted to do."
  "That's what I've suspected, damn it. I think there must be some kind of requirement that bo
us must appear, or sign something, before either can get his hands on the amount."
  "So what the hell are you doing tailing me around? By the way, didn't Windsor tell you
supposed to be a little on the dangerous side? You're a bit inexperienced when it comes to takin
on."
  "I don't think Peter Windsor is in on it. I don't think the Graf has told anybody about it, not
Margit Krebs, his secretarial thinking machine." Frank finished his beer and put the glass down.
Graf put on a big show of friendship. Welcomed me with open arms as the son of his best fr
The implication is that I'm now one of the inner circle and they're breaking me in to the working
the organization."
  "And this is your first, uh, assignment, eh?"
  "Not exactly. They sent me along with one of their top operatives to see a competitor named R
in Paris. He was invited to join up, or else. He turned down the offer, mentioning in passing th
thought the Graf was responsible for my father's death."
  "What happened?"
  "It would seem that Windsor, or somebody, had bribed all of Rivas's people out from under
His bodyguard knifed him to death."
  Hamp looked at him in surprise. "And you participated in a thing like that?" His tone tu
sardonic. "A nice clean-cut boy like you?"
  Frank flushed. "Listen," he said. "I'm not as much of a milksop as you seem to think. As far a
concerned, Rivas was no better than Nat Fraser, the hit man who arranged his death. Nor
Windsor, the Graf, nor any of the others. I didn't mind seeing him killed at all. Not at all! He w
professional dealer in death. He was the type of man that I
  would have no moral reserves about seeing killed—or given the circumstances, doing it myself
  Hamp pursed his lips and chuckled before getting up and heading for the bar again. "An
beer?" he said.
  "No thanks," Frank said nastily. "And you act as though you're half drenched already."
  "The complaint has been made before," Hamp told him, dialing another double brandy. "But I
still operate."
  "And I've heard that story before," the younger man told him in sarcasm. "Sometimes from dr
who explain that they can drive better when they have a couple of drinks in them. Famous last w
before they plow into a tree. You're on the death list of the most dangerous people in the world
here you are getting drenched. Hell, even I could take you and, as you so nicely explained
inexperienced."
  "Don't try it," Hamp said mildly, taking a pull at the double brandy. "But now we get to
nitty-gritty. What were you doing at the Synthesis meeting if you're not really interested in d
chores for the Graf?"
  "I had to go through the motions," Frank said, all fed up with the conversation. "I had to loo
though I was trying to get to you. For all I know, some of Peter Windsor's other people were the
  "They were," Hamp told him. "What the hell did you mink you were going to do to put over
act?''
  "I don't know," the other said. "I was trying to play it by ear, hoping something would com
that would enable me to report back, admitting failure but for some good reason. I have to stay i
game, supposedly in the Graf's good graces, until I can find out what's going on. I haven'
vaguest idea, so far, what kind of hold he has on my father's fortune."
  Hamp thought about it some more. He said finally, "The reason the Graf was willing to send
after me was that he wanted to get something to hold over you. Some lever that would help
persuade you to do whatever has to be done to get his hands on your father's fortune. If you'd k
me, as ordered, then he'd have had his lever." He knocked back the remaining brandy in one
and added, "I just dropped in to let you know I was onto you and to warn you to stay off my b
So now I'll… what the hell was that?"
  "What was what?"
  "That news commentator. What did he say?"
  "I haven't been listening."
  "Play it back. The last couple of minutes."
  "All right." Frank shrugged, pressed the replay buttons, and turned up the volume.
  He missed the first sentence or so. The commentator was saying, "… the famous rocket-set le
of recent years turned recluse. Indications are, his sports car left the road, either forced o
suggested by the French authorities, or out of control as a result of overindulgence in alcoho
narcotics at a party he had just left. Executives of the far-flung Auburn empire have thus far is
no statement. Wall Street in the City, London, and the Common Europe Bourse are expecte
react heavily in the morning."
  Horace Hampton, staring unseeingly, staggered to his feet and headed for the autobar
demanded of the other, "Play that back again, from the beginning."
  Frank Pinell, his expression denoting complete lack of comprehension, obeyed.
  The commentator said, "Flash from the French Riviera. The multibillionaire playboy of
century, Jeremiah Auburn, died today in a car accident near Nice when…"
  "Switch it off," Hamp yelled.
  Frank obeyed, staring blankly.
  The black sank back into his chair. He swallowed the drink in one gulp. "Jim," he
meaninglessly, so far as the other was concerned.
  "What the hell's the matter?" Frank said.
  "Shut up." The black sat there, staring unseeingly. "Jim," he muttered. "Oh, hell, Jim. Why w
such an asshole? I laid you wide open to that murderous bastard Windsor."
  "What the devil are you talking about?" Frank said.
  "Shut up."
  Frank Pinell twisted his mouth in resignation and got up to get himself another beer. He hadn
vaguest idea what had floored his visitor. Evidently, some bigshot playboy had a traffic accide
southern France. So what? He didn't follow the social news by any means but he had vaguely h
of Jeremiah Auburn, one of those upper-class characters who would spend five thousand on a b
of wine laid down during the time of DeGaulle. Frank had never paid more than five dollars in hi
for a bottle of wine, and then he was splurging.
  At long last Hamp shook his head, as though in despair, and got up and went over to the ro
small desk. He sat down in front of the phone screen and deactivated the video before dialing.
  The face that faded in on the screen looked as though it had recently received a great shock.
  Hamp said, "Barry, this is Auburn."
  The eyes widened in absolute disbelief. "But… but… on the news I just…"
  "I know, I know. So did I. A case of mistaken identity, undoubtedly. Now, this is what I want
to do: refuse any comment to the news media whatsoever. For the time being, above all, don't
get out that I am still alive. To nobody, understand?"
  "Well, yes sir." And then, a touch of suspicion there. "How do I know this is really you?"
  "Damn it, you know my voice. Besides, who else has access to this phone number?"
  "I… yes, sir." There was relief in the tone now.
  "Wizard. Now, I want you to send Captain Wayland and the plane to pick up two men here a
Chicago North Side Airport. He is to fly them to Europe and the crew is to take their order
though they were my own. The men's names are Horace Hampton and Franklin Pinell. They
make only one stop, in New York. Mr. Hampton will leave the aircraft just long enough to go int
city and acquire some, uh, equipment at my headquarters there. Have a limousine waiting for h
the airport. Is that clear?"
  "Yes, sir. A Mr. Hampton and a Mr. Pinell."
  "That's all, Barry. I'll get in touch with you shortly. Meanwhile, mum's the word." He flicked of
phone and turned back to Frank. "Pack your luggage," he said.
  The other had been completely flabbergasted by the phone talk. He hadn't any idea whateve
what had gone on. He said, "Why?"
  Hamp went back to the bar and dialed another drink. He said, "We're going to Liechtenstein to
the Graf and my old chum-pal Peter Windsor."
  The younger man ogled him. "Are you out of your mind?"
  "Probably, but your orders were to get Horace Hampton. Wizard; you've got him. He's going
to the Wolfschloss with you." The autobar delivered a full liter of French cognac. Hamp took the
off and applied the bottle directly to his mouth. He then retopped it and handed it to Frank. "Pu
in your bag. I won't be taking any luggage."
  Frank was still gaping at him. "Bringing you back to the Wolfschloss! Now I know y
completely around the bend, Hampton. That place is a fort. You can't get in carrying any kind
weapon and once in there's no way of getting out. The Graf will have you by the balls. And prob
me as well."
  Hamp shook his head. "No. Your story is that I had something interesting to tell you and wante
relay it to Brandenburg himself. And I'll have the most powerful weapon in the world to take into
fort."
  "What? I tell you, they search you all ways from Tuesday, both electronically and physically."
  "My weapon comes in a checkbook. Come on, let's get out of here. Wayland will be at the ai
by the time we arrive."
  The pilot checked their identities with care, obviously somewhat taken aback by this assignm
However, there was nothing to fault them. He handed back the International Credit Cards, sa
with a frown to Hamp, "Haven't I seen you somewhere before?"
  "I doubt it," Hamp said laconically. "I've never been there."
  "Yes, sir," Wayland said, touching the visor of his cap in an informal salute. "What are
orders, aside from the stop-over in New York?"
  "Fly to the airport nearest to Vaduz, in Liechtenstein."
  "Yes, sir. That'll probably be in Austria."
  "And while we're on the way, call ahead and have a vehicle waiting for us, with any clearance
might be required to enter Liechtenstein."
  "Yes, sir. I'll check that out. Gentlemen, shall we go aboard?"
  To Frank Pinell's absolute surprise, the black seemed to drink himself sober on the flight acros
Atlantic. The bar on the huge aircraft was more elaborate than any Frank had seen anywhere and
presided over by a uniformed bartender and two stewards to serve. Hamp kept them earning
pay.
  Frank found himself a stateroom and slept almost all of the way to Austria. He had a suspicion
he was going to need all the rest he could get. He didn't like the prospects for the morrow. Whe
rejoined his companion, it was to find him sitting in the same chair in the main lounge. Wheth
not he had gotten any sleep at all, Frank couldn't tell. If anything, he looked less under the influ
of the liquor he had been drinking than he had back in the room at the Drake. There was a new
of bartender and waiters waiting on him.
  Even as Frank seated himself, the chief steward entered and said respectfully, "We shall be lan
within the hour, gentlemen."
  Hamp looked down at himself. "I suppose I ought to have a change of clothing," he said. He
dressed in a cheap suit, just above prole quality.
  The chief steward said, "But, sir, we didn't pick up any luggage for you. The other gentleman,
But you came aboard without any bags at all."
  The black came to his feet. He said sourly, "I suspect that Mr. Auburn's things will fit me."
  The steward goggled. "Mr. Auburn's things?"
  Hamp eyed him. "Weren't your orders to take my instructions as though they were those of
employer himself?"
  "Why… yes, sir."
  "Wizard. I'll go and check out his clothes." Hamp started for the corridor which led down to
aircraft's staterooms.
  The chief steward, still looking distressed, called after him, "The master suite is at the far end o
  "Yeah, yeah," Hamp muttered.
  At Feldkirch it was found that there were no difficulties involved in driving the sports hover-car
was waiting to take them into the tiny principality. They took off, Frank driving, Hamp next to
with brandy bottle in hand, taking an occasional nip from it.
  When they reached Vaduz and began driving out the road to the Wolfschloss which loomed be
them on the mountain top, Hamp said, "You'd better call ahead and tell them we're coming. F
what I've heard about this place, you run a chance of getting your ass shot off if you appr
unannounced."
  "Don't you know it," Frank told him, bringing out his transceiver. He went through the routin
dialing the special number Peter Windsor had given him.
  When the Englishman's easygoing face appeared on the tiny screen, it was to express surp
"Frank!" he said. "I say, this isn't an overseas call. Where are you?"
  "Coming up on the schloss," Frank told him.
  "Then… well, you completed your mission?"
  "In a way," Frank said. "I've got Hampton with me."
  That made Peter Windsor blink.
  Frank redirected the transceiver so that the face of Hamp was shown to Windsor. He said d
"Peter Windsor, meet Horace Hampton." And then, before either of the others could speak,
coming down the road toward the cable car terminal, Peter. Do you want to clear me through?"
  "Of course, dear boy. Come immediately to my office in the keep. Be seeing you, old c
Cheers." His face faded, still expressing bewilderment.
  "First hurdle," Hamp muttered. He put the half-empty bottle in the glove compartment. "Res
supply," he said. "We might need it later."
  "If there is a later," Frank said glumly. They were approaching the first roadblock, a con
pillbox with three armed men before it. Frank began to pull up but they smiled and waved him on
  Hamp said, "This inner circle you mentioned that you're now being admitted to: who's in it be
the Graf and Windsor?"
  "The only one I've met, if there are any others, is Margit Krebs, the Graf's secretary and
bank."
  Hamp looked over at him.
  Frank said, "She's got complete recall and keeps most of his secrets in her head."
  "Nobody else is in this inner circle?"
  "Not that I know of. When they're having a conference, the butler, Sepp, is sometimes around
they don't seem to care. He told me my father once saved his life—and warned me about all thre
them."
  "Sounds like quite a chummy crew," Hamp said. "How long before we start talking to the Graf
  "If they see us right on through, possibly twenty minutes or so."
  "Wizard," the black said and reached into his jacket. He brought forth a container which lo
something like a cigarette case, opened it, and took out a hypodermic while Frank looked at hi
dismay. Wordlessly, Hamp rolled up his left sleeve and expertly took the contents of the hypode
into his arm. He then threw the syringe out the window.
  Frank said bitterly, "Fer chrissakes, Hampton, isn't all that guzzle enough?"
  "Thanks for reminding me," the other told him and opened the glove compartment for a pull a
bottle there.
  They pulled up before the cable car terminal and got out of the vehicle, met immediately
smiling officer.
  He saluted and said, "Welcome back to the Wolfschloss, Mr. Pinell. I'm Lieutenant Lugos.
Windsor has instructed me to see you to the donjon.'' He looked Hamp up and down.
  Frank said, "This is Mr. Hampton. My luggage is in the back. There's a gun in it."
  "Yes, sir. We'll take care of it." The lieutenant turned and led the way.
  Horace Hampton seemed only mildly interested in the routine of being admitted to the Wolfsch
the identity checks, the searches, the cable car ride. And didn't even seem particularly inter
when they entered the enceinte in the direction of the towering keep.
  Lieutenant Lugos was walking ahead and Frank said, from the side of his mouth, "You a
though you've been here before."
  The other shook his head. "No, but I had some of my agents check it out once. They got g
video sequences."
  "Even inside the keep?"
  "On the lower floors. Not up in the living quarters of the Graf. One tried and didn't make it."
  The younger man stared, "What happened to him?"
  "Peter Windsor happened to him. He was caught, tortured, put under scopolamine and, of co
spilled his guts."
  "How do you know?"
  "Windsor dropped a hint to me the next time I saw him. Happily, the others had gotten a
before the captured one could inform on them. Our chum-pal, Peter, evidently was more amuse
my curiosity than anything else. I suppose the Wolfschloss has been infiltrated before."
  They had no more difficulty in entering the donjon than they'd had at the cable car terminal.
minutes after Lieutenant Lugos surrendered them to the guard at the keep's massive door, they
entered the office of Peter Windsor.
  The Graf's right-hand man was, characteristically, lounging in well-worn sports clothes behin
desk, his feet up on its surface. He grinned affably and said as he stood, "I say, Pinell, you're fu
surprises." He looked at Hamp and frowned slightly. "Haven't I seen you before, somewhere?"
  "People keep asking me that," Hamp said. "I must look like some celebrity."
  Peter Windsor shrugged. "No point in mucking around, Hampton. What was your idea in co
here? Doesn't make much sense, really."
  "I thought I'd explain that directly to the Graf," Hamp told him. His eyes went around the room
curiosity, not missing the submachine gun on the wall.
  "I dare say that's a good idea," Windsor said, lazily coming to his feet. "Come along, you ch
Lothar is expecting us."
  He led the way down the winding corridor to the Grafs office.
  When they entered the spacious office of Lothar von Brandenburg, it was to find the Graf
Margit Krebs seated in the same chairs as during Frank's original interview. To top it, after offha
introductions, during which no one made any pretense of desire to shake hands, Peter Win
slumped into the chair he had utilized on the first occasion Frank had met the inner circle. Frank
Hamp sat too, on the same couch but at opposite ends.
  For a few moments all was silent as Hamp took in the three of them and they returned
compliment.
  The Graf said finally, "To be candid, this confrontation surprises me. I haven't the vaguest
what you had in mind, Franklin." He turned smoky, expressionless eyes to the black. "Nor you
Will one of you explain?" He looked back at Frank and added, "Not, of course, that I distrust
judgment and discretion, my boy."
  "Of course not," Peter said dryly.
  Hamp said, "I came to make a deal."
  The gray-flecked, uncanny irises turned back to him. "Indeed? Please develop it. I am al
interested in deals."
  "Wizard," Hamp said. His dark eyes took in the short elderly mercenary and they were almo
unreadable as the old man's. "Brandenburg," he went on finally, "you've got a tiger by the
You've built up an empire and now you can't abdicate. You're just on the verge of being dead b
and you can't get out from under. The upkeep on this pile of rock alone must be astronomical
that's not counting your other establishments scattered around the world, and it doesn't coun
compensations and pensions you're under obligation to keep up. One of these days, you're goin
miss a payroll. When you do—well, the people on your payroll are the most dangerous killers i
world."
  "What rot," Peter drawled.
  "Silence, Peter," the Graf told him without looking in his direction. He said to Hamp, "S
nothing that is said in this room this morning will ever go beyond its walls, we might as we
completely free. What has given you cause to believe me less than—ah, solvent? My interest
widespread."
  "So are mine," Hamp said flatly. "I have sources and I have my common sense besides. Merce
use has been declining for decades. So have clandestine sales of arms. The citizens of sm
nations are in revolt against their governments so far as military purchases are concerned. The
had a bellyful of it for a century or so. They're also getting a bellyful of assassinations and terro
All sorts of inquiries are going out about you and your activities. And this Roy Cos affair is al
sure to wind up with Deathwish Policies declared illegal on a worldwide basis, especially if and w
the United States becomes the United States of the World. To sum it up, your business is me
away, Brandenburg."
  "I see," the Graf nodded agreeably. "I am amazed at your interest in my affairs. But let us d
into it a bit further. Would it surprise you to learn that my plans include joining the upper echelon
the World Club and participating, along with my organization, in the World State?" The G
emotionless voice held a touch of smugness.
  Hamp shook his head definitely. "No. Not after last night. And not on top of Harold Dunninger
  The old man's voice was now ice. "What about Harold Dunninger?"
  "It's come out that you were behind his kidnapping and death. That you wished this cand
eliminated so that you would be able to assume Central Committee membership. But last night
went too far."
  The Graf looked over at Margit Krebs, scowling. "What happened last night?"
  Peter said quickly, "I was going to bring that up at our morning meeting, Lothar." He cleare
throat. "I fancied that you'd be surprised. Jeremiah Auburn has been reported killed in a ve
crackup on the French Riviera. An accident, I imagine."
  "No accident," Hamp said. "And the Central Committee isn't going to stand for one of its mem
being coldly murdered for opposing you. Your name will be mud in the World Club, Brandenbu
  The old man hadn't taken his eyes from his top aide. "Why wasn't I informed about this?
demanded.
  "I told you, Chief. I was going to bring it up this morning, don't you know? A bit of bad
wasn't it?" Windsor's eyes went from his employer to Hamp and then quickly back again. "Y
not taking this bloody fool's word against mine, are you? He's obviously up to something, bu
silly ass has put himself into our hands. We'll show him what the drill is around here. A b
scopolamine and we'll find out what he's all about."
  "You must think me a dolt, Peter," the Graf said coldly.
  All his languid pretenses were gone. Peter Windsor shot to his feet, his face in a fury. He turned
and stalked from the room.
  The Graf said to Margit, who had been sitting quietly through all of this, "Our Peter seems
impetuous these days, Fraulein."
  "I'd noticed it," she said without inflection.
  The Graf turned back to Hamp. "You mentioned a deal. I
  confess I haven't the vaguest idea of what you might have in mind."
  Hamp said, "Frank, here, was left a sizeable estate by his father. It's in the hands of a Berne b
almost forty-five million pseudo-dollars in the form of immediately convertible securities. First,
will cooperate in securing the inheritance for him."
  The Graf gave one of his humorless chuckles. "I have never heard of such a thing." He turne
Margit. "Have you, Fraulein?"
  But Margit failed to take the cue. "Yes," she said deliberately. Her eyes seemed to glaze slig
"Its provisions are that the fortune be turned over to Franklin Pinell when he reaches the age of th
Until that time, he would be able to acquire it only with your permission. Both of you would hav
appear in Berne to testify. If he should die before reaching thirty, the fortune goes to va
American charities. If you should die before he reaches thirty, then the fortune reverts to him
soon as he has reached twenty-one—which, of course, he already has done."
  For once, the Graf lost his aplomb. He glared at her, started to speak, and then stopped him
He turned back to Hamp and said firmly, "That doesn't sound like a deal to me, Herr Hampton."
  Hamp said, "That's just the beginning. Is there a drink around here?"
  Frank groaned low protest but continued to hold his peace. He was almost completely at sea.
  Somehow, the Graf must have signalled, since Sepp materialized at a door leading to the back
bowed and said, "Bine, Herr Graf!"
  The mercenary head looked at Hamp, who said, "Cognac, preferably."
  Frank sucked breath in and groaned again.
  The Graf said, "A bottle of the Grand Champagne cognac, the V.V.S.O.P., Sepp, and a glas
  "Bitte." The servant bowed and turned, his limp barely perceptible.
  "He won't need the goddamn glass," Frank muttered.
  While Sepp was gone, Margit looked at Hamp strangely.
  She said, "For some reason, I get the impression that your complexion is lighter than I had at
thought."
  Hamp said, offhandedly, "Few American blacks are full-blooded. We have been interbreeding
centuries. One of my grandmothers was a Scot. Before that, I have no idea how many of
ancestors were at least partly white."
  "But—your skin," she said, frowning.
  "That will be all, Fraulein," the Graf growled.
  Sepp entered with an ancient squat bottle and a glass centered on a gold tray. He set the tray o
end table next to the couch on which Hamp sat. The cork had already been removed. Hamp po
with satisfaction. Sepp bowed and withdrew.
  Hamp sampled the aged cognac with his nose and sighed. "Damn good brandy," he said, sippi
  Frank rolled his eyes upward in appeal to greater powers.
  Lothar von Brandenburg said coldly, "And now, sir, we come to the balance of your deal."
  It was then that Peter Windsor re-entered the room. He carried his submachine gun. With all
upon him, he took a chair, one that dominated the room.
  "That would hardly seem necessary, Peter," the Graf said.
  "I jolly well hope not, Chief, but I don't like these two."
  The Graf shrugged it off and looked back at Hamp. "Well.sir?"
  Hamp said, "When Frank receives his inheritance, I will turn over to you fifty m
pseudo-dollars. With it, you can settle down in Switzerland, or wherever else you choose,
announce the, ah, bankruptcy of Mercenaries, Incorporated and your retirement. I would sugges
you take along a dozen or so of your best men, although in Switzerland you should be quite
For centuries, avidly sought politicians and others have retired there in high-security villas and
their lives out in safety."
  "Fifty million pseudo-dollars!"
  "Take it or leave it," Hamp said, pouring more brandy.
  The mercenary head scoffed. "I have never even heard of a black, anywhere in the world,
commanded that amount of credit."
  Peter looked at Hamp and said, "You look paler," as though unbelieving. "And I still think you
like some-body I've met before. And your voice, too…" He let the sentence dribble away.
  The Graf said, "Please, Peter, do be quiet. Well, sir?" This last to Hamp.
  Hamp reached into his pocket, brought forth a folder, and tossed it to Margit's lap. "A numb
account in the Grundsbank, in Geneva. Check the balance."
  Margit, her face unrevealing as usual while on duty, went to a set of drawers against the wall
opened one of the top ones. Her back was to them. There seemed to be no question but tha
Graf was in a position to check the balance of even a numbered account.
  After a few minutes of pregnant silence, she turned and said, "The account is considerably h
than the amount mentioned."
  The Graf, much of his commanding presence erased, said, breathing deeply, "What
Confound it, I know there is something else!"
  "Oh, yes," Hamp told him, putting down his glass. He bent forward and removed his co
lenses. His eyes, which he directed at Peter Windsor, were a dark blue. "Surprise, surprise," he
"Show me a bathroom and I'll get the black out of this hair. It looks even prettier, reddish."
  The Englishman goggled. "Jeremiah Auburn!" he croaked.
  They were all staring now. His complexion was that of a tanned southern European. He fishe
into his nose with the nails of his little fingers and brought forth two oval spreaders of metal, his
losing its broadness.
  "But… the news broadcasts and the reports from my operatives…" Windsor got out.
  The Graf roared, "What in the name of God is going on!"
  Jerry looked at him with all the emptiness of death in his eyes. He took up the brandy bott
though to pour again, but before he did he said, "The man who was murdered on the Riviera
night was my brother, James Auburn. You asked me what else; this is what else. I want the man
ordered the death of my twin."
  Peter Windsor was on his feet. He sneered, "Are you out of your bloody mind?" He flicked
safety stud on the gun and held it at the ready, but now he turned to his employer of many y
"You would have taken him up, wouldn't you?
  You would have sold us all out for his fifty million! Well, thank you very much, but I'm taking
You'll be washed up with the World Club, but that won't reflect on me. There's still Chase
Moyer who'll back me. And Sheila Duff-Roberts, who has more say about what goes on in
Central Committee than anyone else. It was she who got together with Harrington Chase
suggested the elimination of that McGivern girl and then Auburn, here. She's with me. If I fini
you off now, Lothar, I can blame it on Auburn and Pinell and the organization won't question it."
  His eyes left the red face of the enraged Graf and went to Margit, who had been sitting throu
all, her face noncommittal. "Where do you stand, Fraulein? With me, or with this has-been so
can use you in taking over."
  Margit cleared her throat softly. "Very dramatic, Peter, and ordinarily I'd have to think abo
perhaps. But as things stand that gun is inoperative."
  He chopped out a vicious laugh. "An old trick, Margit old thing, but it won't work. It's loade
right. I check that out every day or two. I checked again just before I came back in here. Yo
taken your stand, you bloody fool."
  Margit said mildly, "I didn't say it wasn't loaded. I said it wasn't operative. I didn't like to se
thing around, so I had Sepp take out the firing pin, some time ago."
  Peter Windsor swore and pulled the trigger. And then stared down in dismay at the unrespon
weapon.
  The Graf was on his feet, spry for his age. He turned and dashed for a small cabinet set up ag
the huge window which dominated the whole side of the room. He grabbed for the top drawer.
  But Peter, tennis-trim, bounded after him and, even as he went, reversed the gun. The Graf sp
small Gyro-jet pistol in hand. Too late. Windsor crashed the gun butt into his solar plexus, sen
him reeling backward and into the window and, screaming shrilly, through it in a shower of sh
His thin screams, unbecoming to one of the Grafs image, continued as he plunged downward.
  Sepp came into the room quietly, an antique 9mm Luger in his right hand. He took in the scene
Germanic face politely questioning, still playing the obsequious butler.
  Peter snapped, "Sepp, cover these two!" He waved his disabled submachine gun at Frank
Jerry.
  Sepp turned to Margit Krebs and his eyebrows went up. "Fraulein?" he said.
  "Shoot him," she said flatly. "He just killed the Graf. He'll do the same to us, given the chance.
  Peter Windsor yelled, "No!" even as Sepp brought up the automatic and shot him exactly on
the middle of the chest.
  Frank, walking like a robot, went over to the window through which Lothar von Brandenburg
plunged. For the briefest of moments he looked out over the superb view of mountain peaks
river. Then his eyes went down.
  He shook his head in nausea, pulled in air deeply, and said, "He's splattered all over the side o
swimming pool. Five feet farther out and he would have landed in the water.''
  Jerry Auburn still bore the brandy bottle in his right hand.
  Margit Krebs, efficient as always, went to a wall and pushed back a curtain. Behind it w
microphone. She reached up and touched a switch.
  She said, very crisply, "Now hear this. Now hear this. Margit Krebs speaking. The Graf is d
Those of you near the swimming pool can see his body. Peter Windsor is also dead. They k
each other. Now hear this. Now hear this. The Graf, for reasons of his own, has had
Wolfschloss mined. Within the hour, the schloss will go up. He has thrown the switch. Time is s
but with discipline and complete following of my instructions, we can all be saved. The cable c
totally inadequate for evacuation in such short order. It will be utilized only by the guards and
who have been in control of it. All others will descend into the bomb shelters and then through
tunnels to the countryside. Women and the more elderly will use the elevators to the bomb she
All in good physical trim will use the stairs. The hospital will be evacuated; all patients and me
staff will use the freight chopper to escape. The small jet will be reserved for the senior staff. Th
all. Remember, cooperation and discipline will enable us to evacuate completely. Any deviation
my instructions will mean disaster. We will rendezvous in Vaduz for final severance pay
distribution of other funds coming to you. Carry on!" She turned back to the others.
  Jerry looked at her thoughtfully. "Are there such bombs?"
  "No. But I had to clear them out of here before they got the idea of looting."
  "Will they believe you?"
  "Yes," she said. "I've been in this job for ten years and I have never lied to any member. I've
up an impeccable record of confidence. Now I'm calling on it. They'll be shocked when I don't
up at that rendezvous in Vaduz." She looked at Sepp. "You'd better start packing our, ah, lugg
we're heading for Tangier. No extradition there and Interpol will be after us by tomorrow. We sh
be able to take eight large bags. We four can carry two apiece down to the jet. We're not in
much of a hurry. We want everyone else cleared out of the schloss before we cross the enc
carrying those bags. You might start with that gold tray with the brandy, Sepp. For God's
don't forget any of the paintings small enough to go into the bags; forget the others, no matter
valuable. I'll go to the Grafs private rooms and to the wall safe. I know the combination."
  The impassive Sepp stuck his gun back into his clothing and, taking up the gold tray, left the ro
  Jerry said to her, "How do you know that any of us can fly a jet?"
  She was unperturbed. "Frank, here, told us that he had studied to be a pilot."
  Jerry was looking at her in puzzlement. He said, "Why did you make the choices you did?"
  She shrugged. "It was all falling apart. You were right, the Graf was all but bankrupt. I found
very early in my relationship with Lothar that in this organization one looks out for oneself. Very
I have looked out for myself. Had your offer gone through, I might have gone along. The Graf w
probably have taken me into retirement with him. As it turned out, when Peter went berserk, I ha
play it by ear."
  She turned and left.
  Frank glared at Jerry Auburn. "You damn fool, suppose that gun hadn't been jimmied? We'd a
dead."
  The other grinned at him, a glint in his blue eyes. "Sometimes you have to take chances. Wh
saw that gun on his wall, I decided that it was useless. Sooner or later, here in the san
sanctorum of the Graf, somebody would have done something to it. Besides, in narrow quarters
this, you can often take a man with a gun before he can finish you off. Why did you think I aske
this bottle of guzzle?" He grinned again. "I'm a crack shot throwing a bottle."
  Frank Pinell took a deep breath. "All right," he said. "How did you pull off that skin-color chan
  The other shrugged. "For a long time we've had chemicals that can change complexion, e
lighter or darker. I've known blacks who passed that way, and I once knew a white news rep
who circulated among blacks getting inside information hard for a white man to acquire. He tu
himself darker. No big thing."
   Frank said, "All right," again. Then, "Windsor got what was coming to him. So did the Graf.
my inheritance. Margit and Sepp get to loot this place, which should enable them to retire, I supp
What is there for you, Jerry?"
   The other shrugged it off. "For me, there's always the brandy bottle," he said, reaching down f
   Aftermath
   When Jerry Auburn stopped off at Lee Garrett's suite in the Palazzo Colonna, she was gath
her things preparatory to a Central Committee meeting.
   She flashed him a smile and said, "Hello, darling. So you're back. Sheila was afraid you wou
make it. Where have you been?"
   He smiled back at her, which would have been difficult not to do. Lee Garrett, as always,
radiant. He said, "I was just checking out a few things. A few things like the American National
Banks. Honey, you still make a lousy agent provocateur, spy, or whatever."
   She stiffened and then stared at him, at first uncompre-hendingly, then slowly it dawned. "W
why, you're that… what was his name? Hamp. Hamp, something or other, of the Anti-Racist Lea
But he was a black and you're white!" She was completely confused.
   He grinned at her. "Actually, I'm kind of gray," he said. "Over the generations, I've becom
racially mixed I don't know what I am, except that I'm rabidly anti-racist. But to get back to
National Data Banks. It seems that you had a boyfriend. A pretty close boyfriend, which makes
little jealous of course, since I've been planning on a permanent relationship with you, Lee. A
seems that he had a ranking job in the data banks."
   "Why, I don't know what you're talking about."
   "Like hell you don't, girl of my dreams. The fact is that you've got a nicely high I.Q. ,and A
Quotient but not quite that high."
   She stared at him, dismayed.
   He said, "Your boyfriend jollied around with the equipment so that you were a cinch to be
here to Rome for a job with the World Club. I doubt if even you expected it to be quite as go
job as this, though. Now, come on, honey, what are you really doing here and who was it that
were really reporting to? And don't tell me your mother."
   She was defiant. "It was my mother. She's as opposed to the World Club's meddling as I am
as strongly as my father was. He fought it all of his life and neither my mother nor I am sati
about the way he died."
   That took the smile from his face. "They were at it that far back, eh? So what was his case ag
us?"
   "He wasn't entirely against eventual world government but he was opposed to it being u
control of a handful of Western billionaires, plus a high-ranking police bureaucrat, and a relig
fakir. He was of the opinion that such a government would stifle healthy competition, which i
source of much progress. He was absolutely appalled that a State Church was being considered
to speak of Mercenaries, Incorporated as a possible world police. At any rate, mother a
schemed to have me infiltrated into the World Club to keep an eye on developments and pos
help expose them."
   Jerry ran the back of a hand over his mouth ruefully. "Maybe we're not as far apart as all that
said.
   She was still confused. "But you were a member of the Anti-Racist League."
   "Still am, honey. However, some time ago it seemed to me that the World Club might of
quicker way to end racism, so I got into it, too. As a matter of fact, I belong to various other ou
One of them is African-based. They're fighting racism there—against whites. There's quite a b
anti-white bullshit going on in parts of Africa." Then he murmured something that made no sen
her. "Pod Hampton, I wonder if you ever dreamed what the hell you started when you ripped off
silver." He looked at his wrist chronometer. "But we'd better go to the meeting."
  As they walked the corridor to the conference room, he looked over at her and said, "How wa
news of my supposed accident on the Riviera received?"
  "At first, we were upset," she told him. "We were all aghast—" she hesitated—"except pos
Sheila, Chase, and Moyer. But then, of course, your announcement came through that it was
case of mistaken identity."
  He grunted. They reached the Central Committee's conference chamber and a page opened
door for them.
  Inside, all the rest were already seated around the heavy oaken table. They were chattering am
themselves, two or three more heatedly.
  Sheila Duff-Roberts looked up from her papers and said tartly, "Well, Jerry, late as usual, I see
  Jerry Auburn slid into his chair, while Lee took her place next to the committee's secretary. He
"This will be the last time that will irritate you, Ms. Duff-Roberts."
  The majestically proportioned woman looked at him, frowning. "What do you mean by that?"
  The buzz about the table fell off as the committee members turned their attention to the two.
  Jerry said evenly, "The body of Pamela McGivern has been discovered. After you fired her
began motoring home to Dublin. She was overtaken by a car driven by professional assassins,
run over a mountainside. This type of killing seems to be the latest thing among the pros these d
At any rate, the corpse was hidden, but inadequately."
  "That's terrible," Sheila said, seemingly shocked.
  "It certainly is," Jerry told her. "It looks as though our Pamela knew too much, so she was tu
over to the mercies of Peter Windsor and his boss, the Graf."
  All eyes were on him now, a beginning of alarm in those of Harrington Chase and John War
Moyer.
  Jerry said, "Both Windsor and the Graf are now dead, and Mercenaries, Incorporated dissolv
was present and heard their last words."
  The amazon secretary's face was ashen.
  Jerry Auburn went on. "By Central Committee rules, any three members of the committee
remove a secretary. Members Mendel Amschel and Fong Hui got together with me before
meeting and we duly removed Sheila Duff-Roberts."
  She was on her feet in fury. She turned blazing eyes to Chase and Moyer, who sat side by
"Are you going to put up with this?" she demanded.
  The big Southwesterner was glaring at Jerry. "It seems precipitous! The rest of us have not
consulted."
  Jerry said, completely at ease, "The case of Pamela McGivern is not unique. Harold Dunnin
kidnap death was also engineered by Peter Windsor's men, and that attempt on me which result
the death of my brother. In short, ladies and gentlemen, we have narrowly missed imposin
Mother Earth a World Police State, a state more ruthless than any in history, if only because o
universal scope."
  Mendel Amschel said quietly to Sheila Duff-Roberts, "And now, if you will leave? If any cha
are made in our actions involving you, you will immediately be informed."
  She stormed from the room.
  The international banker turned his eyes back to Jerry Auburn. "And now, if you will go into
various matters you discussed with Mr. Fong and me earlier today?"
  Jerry made himself still more comfortable in his chair. He looked around at the committee mem
one by one. "If you will excuse the youngest member of this body taking so much time, I will ex
myself by pointing out my recent escape from planned assassination, because I was oppose
certain tendencies recently developing in the World Club. I was also, ah, active in removing the
Lothar von Brandenburg, and it was my agents who discovered what happened to Pa
McGivern."
  "Go on," Nils Norden, the Swedish industrialist, said impatiently.
  Jerry said, "It has been pointed out that the Central Committee is composed almost exclusive
males, of whites, of westerners, especially Americans, and totally of the wealthy."
  "That's as it should be!" Chase boomed, his voice belligerent.
  "Is it?" Jerry looked at him. "We meet today to elect a new member to replace G
Cabot-Hudson. I suggest that we replace not one but four of our membership. I am of the op
that our goals have shifted from the founding days of our organization and that we should retu
them. A world state I think desirable, but not under the domination of the World Club. We sh
return to investigating the possibilities of the future and even making recommendations, but fors
any attempt to come to power ourselves."
  "That's nonsense," the usually taciturn Moyer blurted.
  "Who could be more capable than ourselves to govern a world state?"
  "Who are we to say?" the Chinese murmured softly.
  "I propose," Jerry said, "that we invite a representative of the Space Federation of Lagrangia
the Asteroid Belt Islands to join the Central Committee. It is ridiculous to divorce them
Earthside affairs. Secondly, I suggest that we invite a member of the Wobblies, preferably a wo
since we are so short of female members."
  "The Wobblies," Chase boomed. "Those subversives! Those half-assed radicals! They're ag
everything we stand for."
  "That's why we ought to invite them in—to get opinions other than our usual conserva
Thirdly, I think we should have a representative from the Anti-Racist League. We are talking abo
world social order, and surely the so-called colored races are in the overwhelming majority."
  "Now I know you've blown a fuse, Auburn," Chase shouted. "A representative from
Anti-Racist League! He'd undoubtedly be a black. We've already got a kike and a chink on
committee and that's too much! Now you'd invite a nigger!"
  That ran across the grain with even the usually conservative Nils Norden. "You can be repu
when you really try, Chase," said Norden.
  "Fourth," Jerry pressed on, "we should have another woman representing women's rights. Th
still a great deal to be done in that direction, especially in the more backward countries that
eventually be part of the new world society."
  The chunky Moyer said, his voice reasonable, "Central Committee rules allow for only
members on the Central Committee so that it doesn't become unwieldly. Only one is resigning—
respected Grace Cabot-Hudson. Where is the space for all these nominees of yours, Auburn?"
  "I propose that three of us resign."
  "Who?" Chase blurted, still red of face. "I suppose you are thinking of me! Well, think again!"
  Jerry was cool. "I propose that the three be Harrington Chase, John Moyer, and myself. If
resignations are not immediately forthcoming, I shall go further into the details of the death
Harold Dunninger, Pamela McGivern, and the attempt to assassinate me."
  Silence fell. And continued for long moments.
  Finally, the heavyset Chase pushed himself to his feet. He growled to Moyer, "Done! Come
John, let's get the hell out of this madhouse. They've gone completely around the bend."
  When they were gone, there was still long silence.
  But then, "Why you, Jeremiah?" It was Fong Hui, his voice typically gentle. "I have always tho
of you as. a dependable younger member of the committee. Too many of us are elderly."
  Jerry looked over at the aged Chinese. "Because, my honorable friend, had I not offered my
resignation, then undoubtedly Chase and Moyer would have fought, and then everything would
broken into the open and possibly the new World Club would never have seen the light of
Indeed, the oJd one would have probably gone under." He looked off info an unseen distance
added, his voice low, "Frankly, I'm a mixed-up sonofabitch. And you want to know something
I suspect so is everybody else. That is, everybody who's trying to make rhyme or reason out of
world we've got on our hands today."
  Meyer Amschel said, "It is with regret that I accept your resignation, Jeremiah. However, it oc
to me that perhaps you have some suggestions on those replacements for our suddenly dep
members."
  Jerry nodded at that and came to his feet. "I strongly suggest that Ms. Lee Garrett, though wi
for such a short time, be appointed secretary to replace Duff-Roberts. She seems to have
qualifications."
  Lee sucked in breath in surprise.
  "Further," Jerry went on, "to represent the Space Federation, Ian Venner, who is at present in
York. I have no suggestion for the representative from the Wobblies, since I am not very
acquainted with their organization. And, of course, I can hardly recommend a representative
women's rights, though I suggest she be an Oriental."
  Fong said, "And the representative of the Anti-Racist League?"
  Jerry Auburn said, "From them I would strongly suggest a certain Horace Hampton."