IT WAS MUCH later that same day, and Reuben Barclay was not at all nervous. Barclay and his two companions had made it safely to the new hideout in the pre-firstdawn hours; no one had seen, and no one had followed them.
Several hours ago, Max had called on the shielded line to say that their quarry had been contacted and had agreed to Barclay's terms, all as Barclay had planned; it had not been necessary to kill him, or even to threaten to do so. It was going well. Max and Dave would stay in town to keep an eye on things; they did not know where Barclay and his friends were now, anyway. The address of this second refuge was a secret, and would remain so until early the next day—when, if all continued to go well, Max and Dave would be informed of the new address and would rejoin Barclay and the other two men.
(The address was doubly secret because the late owner of the property had been in New Athens on the day of the explosion. But he'd been a good League member, and had given his sector chief a spare set of keys for use if and when the need arose.)
Well, with any luck at all, they would be out of this hole by tomorrow. And there had already been plenty of luck: A later news report had identified the nuked starship as the U.S.S. Enterprise, commanded by one James Kirk—and had added that the ship had survived the blast and that the captain would confer with the new president and his top advisers on the current situation.
As one of the authors of the "current situation," Barclay could not help but smirk. He'd use Kirk, just as he'd used all of them. It was good, very good, that it was Kirk who'd come. A quick background check of the captain had turned up an interesting fact about him: He knew the man Max and Dave had contacted this morning. He knew him very well indeed.
That was an edge. Barclay was used to riding the edge—and he never, ever lost his balance. It was one of the many qualities of leadership and human purity for which Barclay would, one day, be recognized on worlds not yet numbered.
All that would start once Barclay and his two friends left this dismal planet. That fool Holtzman had nearly destroyed the League—but, then again, Holtzman had removed all pretenders to League leadership in one stroke. He'd also done incredible, incalculable damage to the current order. That in itself was invaluable. Barclay could plan a return to Centaurus a few years from now—and be acclaimed as leader. It was as if it had all been … planned. Well, perhaps it had been. Barclay did not automatically dismiss the existence of Providence, as long as it served him.
On that glorious day when Barclay would finally become leader, and his leadership was extended to other worlds, perhaps he could install Holtzman as a martyr to the cause. The League could use a martyr or two. (Never mind that Holtzman was a total fool who didn't know when to cut his losses and who mixed misguided loyalty with his pragmatism. Barclay was pragmatic enough for ten men, and he'd be writing the history tapes. He knew Holtzman was an idiot who would dynamite a high-rise building to kill a sandbug in one of the closets, but he could use Holtzman anyway. All he had to do was lie about him. Extensively.)
Barclay looked again at his watch. Nearly the midhour; it wouldn't be long now. The rendezvous would be the next morning. That was when it would all begin.