Deathwish World

A roly-poly little man entered from a side door, the traditional black bag of the physician in his right hand. He was a fussbudget, pink of rounded face and wearing old-fashioned pince-nez glasses on a bulbous little nose.

The colonel made introductions. "Dr. Fuchs, Mr. Pinell. Mr. Pinell has been the victim of street 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. He wound up very pleased with both himself and his patient. AH was well. He gave Frank four pills with instructions for taking them, assured all that Frank was in good repair, then shook hands all around, said goodnight, and left.

While this had been going on, the colonel had gone to a bar along one wall and, when the doctor had gone, returned with three tall glasses containing the most excellent Scotch Frank had ever tasted.

As he handed the glasses around, the colonel said, "I prescribe this as even more effective, under 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-dollars? I understood from what our good Nat said that you had but landed this afternoon. Surely you have not already gone through eight hundred pseudo-dollars. Doesn't your, ah, former government issue each deportee a full thousand?"

Frank said bitterly, "My IABI escorts decided that such a sum would be wasted on me. They handed over two hundred. It seems that on their way back to the States they intended to lay over in 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 out 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, "And what else?"

Frank shrugged it off. "The customs officer took a rather valuable camera that had been left me by 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 Panikkar, in Tangier. Tonight there should be two IABI agents in Chicote's. They've shaken down one of the boys for eight hundred pseudo-dollars." He looked up from the screen and over at Frank. "What 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 eight hundred back here by morning. I also want them taught a small lesson. Not to be overdone, you 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 going too far. I do not wish Tangier to get the reputation of being wide open for extortion. If you wish to 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, since he said, "Samir? I am speaking in my capacity as Tangier representative of the Graf. One of your drivers this afternoon stole two suitcases from a passenger from the airport. I make this perfectly clear, Samir. I want those two bags here, with all contents, before the night is out. No, I do not know 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, Frank. Tangier is possibly the most extensive center of the Grafs operations. We have no intention of 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 didn't 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, it is your own choice, of course. We have no intention of coercing you. Nat, would you see to refills for our glasses?"

"Too right," Nat said, heading for the bar. The colonel said wryly, "And Nat, dear boy, where in the world do you get those hats?"

The Aussie grinned back at him over his shoulder and touched the bush hat, which it seemed he never removed, even indoors. "Me titfer?" he said. "Had it shipped from Sydney. A bloke's got to keep up appearances, that's wot I say." He returned to the others with an imperial quart of whiskey and poured for all.

The colonel snorted but turned back to Frank. "I am rather surprised. It would seem, under the circumstances, that you would welcome employment."

Frank said unhappily, "It's not that I don't appreciate your kindness, Colonel. But I heard Nat out 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 not limited to mercenary matters, Frank. Let me give you some background. In the very old days, such as when Xenophon led his 10,000 Greek mercenaries to fight for Cyrus of Persia, such matters were handled on a large and efficient scale. But of recent centuries wars have largely been conducted by national governments with citizen armies, along with such related matters as weapons procurement and so forth. Mercenary activities have been hit and miss. Professional soldiers of fortune would apply singly or in small groups for employment. Seldom were more than a few hundred involved. Often, those that were found themselves, ah, holding the bag when the war was over and their side had lost. They could only whistle for their hard-earned pay. We are changing that. For one thing, modern weapons are not easily mastered by uneducated peasants. A Congo bushman does not fly a rocket fighter plane."

Frank nodded at that.

"So today, in the occasional wars that develop, it is necessary for large numbers of professionals to be at hand in the underdeveloped countries. Would it surprise you to know that the Graf can handle a complete action without going outside his own organization? He can field a full disciplined division within a month, and arm them completely, including air cover. From espionage preceding the actual conflict, to getting money out for the officials of collapsing governments, washing it, depositing it in Nassau or Swiss banks, and then spiriting absconding officials to safety to enjoy their, ah, loot. Or, another service might be the—removal?—of other politicians. All of this is on contract, so arranged that the Grafs organization is always guaranteed its pay, bonuses, and insurance in case of death or disability. The Graf takes care of his own." He grimaced in amusement 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. He 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 spotted about the world, such as my operation here in Tangier. Senior executives such as myself, office workers, and so on. He also has on retainer, between actual contracts, a cadre of officers who can spring to duty within hours; all experienced veterans. He then has, on call, thousands of available infantrymen, pilots, tank men, logistics specialists, and so on, ready to enlist at any time for any duration. They are not on the permanent crew. They usually exist on GAS, or its equivalent in the 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 only twenty men. One of our best officers, a Major Shannon, and nineteen veteran non-coms.It seems that there was a half-mad dictator on one of the smaller Caribbean islands. His people overwhelmingly wished to join the United States but he, understandably, refused. He and his family were vampires upon that island's population. However, funds were raised, and the commando detachment was sent to take him out."

"Then you actually do individual assassinations." The Aussie chuckled again but stuck to his drink, rather than joining into the conversation.

The colonel shrugged. "On occasion. We see little difference, morally speaking, between entering into a full-fledged war or killing an individual. But see here, you are an educated young man. You must have read of Genghis Khan, one of the great military men of all time. He rose from being a simple chieftain of a small nomadic tribe in Central Asia to conquer the largest empire the world had ever seen. He destroyed whole civilizations. He slaughtered millions of sedentary peoples so their lands could be devoted to his flocks. Only one thing stopped his hordes from engulfing Europe: he died. Now, tell me, my good Frank, what would the world have been saved had our Genghis Khan 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 suitably guarded against assassination. What would have been the difference if this good man had lived on to 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 Dhu, 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, he is to return as the world is about to end, unite all believers, and destroy those who are evil. It is a most primitive aspect of Islam. The last major leader who proclaimed himself the Mahdi was Mohammed Ahmed in the Anglo-Egyptian Sudan in the 19th Century. He called for a holy war and in a few years his followers overwhelmed an area half the size of Europe, slaughtering hundreds of 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 the United Church, while many Islamic sects are joining. If he continues, millions of uneducated blacks and Arabs will die. If he should be, ah, removed, their lives will be spared and, with the help of 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 for homicide. What's the buggering difference? You knock off some cove on your own, or you do it for the Graf for mucking good pay. And you don't have to take a contract if you don't like it. Strewth, 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 position appropriate to your abilities, seeing that you're a most personable and a reasonably educated young man." He looked at his wrist chronometer. "But you must be tired after all your troubles today. And you must be hungry." He looked at the Australian. "Nat, I suggest that you see that Frank gets a good meal and then put him up for the night in one of the dormitories. I'd suggest the non-com 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 returned to the papers on his desk without further words.

Next morning, driven to his hotel by Nat Fraser, Frank found not only his suitcases and the personal things that had been stolen from him by the muggers, but a pile of Swiss francs and Moroccan dirhams atop the rickety dresser. They totalled a full equivalent of a thousand pseudo-dollars, slightly more than he had been robbed of. After all, he had owed the cab driver five dirhams and had paid Luigi ten dirhams for room rent, and had bought a round of drinks at Paul's 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 had 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 deep in their thoughts that Roy Cos didn't even bother to stare out the heavy glass ports at the sea and islets below. Obviously, he was having second thoughts about this whole project. How had he ever 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 was in Roy's mind; he even had a twinge of guilt about it. But, the whole thing was now irreversible. He 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 goal, there's a better one beckoning. No science is more in a condition of continual change than socioeconomics. Utopian? Our revolutionary forefathers in 1776 thought they were creating a 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 one in which no meat will be eaten. Prohibitionists expect the end of booze but a good Italian radical would be aghast at the idea that wine and good food, including meat, would be taboo. Nudists expect nudism, puritans expect purity—in petticoats, at that. Serious straight-laced Wobblies expect the world of the future to be very serious and very efficient, but the easygoing ones look forward to a frivolous, bang-up time for everybody. And the differences on the sex question are going to be wild! I'll bet the march toward complete promiscuity will continue but I've noted that most of the Wobblies I've met are on the conservative side."

Roy sighed once again and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Wobblies don't believe that establishing our social system will solve all problems. We only contend that it will solve a good many of the most pressing problems."

Forry grunted and rubbed along his wisp of a mustache with a thumbnail. "I wish I could smoke in this flying sardine can," he said. "What the hell ever happened to socialism? I don't believe I've even heard the word for years."

"Scientific socialism stopped being scientific about a century and a half ago," Roy told him. "It got to the point where everybody was called socialist, from Roosevelt to Hitler. Sweden was socialist. So was Russia, not to speak of England, which still had a royal family left over from feudalism. It stopped making sense. The only group in the States that would have been called socialists are the 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 system. They want more GAS for everybody, better education, better everything. They're reformers, not revolutionaries." He looked out the small porthole. "Hey, we're coming in." Then, in a lower voice: "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 customs hall. Customs was the merest of formalities; the twelve packs of illegal cigarettes went through unseen.

Passed by customs, they headed for the exit and were immediately accosted by two young men, one in prole garments, the other in a fairly presentable sportsman's garb. The prole was big and square and on the rugged side, the other was trimmer. Both were in their early twenties and both wore grim expressions.

Forry looked at them warily but Roy said, smiling and extending his hand, "Hi, Ron. Hi, Les. I 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 Bates, 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 until tomorrow morning."

Forry said, "It starts at midnight. But meanwhile they'll be wanting to know where Roy is going, 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 you to land. Just follow me."

Mystified, Roy and Forry let the other two lead the way. They walked to the far end of the shuttleport's administration building, then entered a narrow alley between it and a huge hangar. The drab narrowness gave the passage a sinister quality.

The little ex-newsman said in protest, "What the hell?" He looked at their two guides suspiciously 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 was the unknown who had tailed them from the time they had left the c^ices of Oliver Brett-James in Nassau. The other was a stranger. They were pretending to be in deep discussion, as if unaware of the four ahead of them in the narrow alleyway.

Les, Ron, Roy, and Forry continued on their course, the newsman nervous about their followers.

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 expectantly as though ready to return.

The need didn't materialize. The action that took place was brutal and brief. One of the new arrivals had a short truncheon in his right hand; the other seemed to have something metallic over the knuckles of his right fist. With no prelimi-naries whatever, they attacked. In fifteen seconds, the two who had been following Roy Cos were down on the alley floor, arms over their heads in a futile attempt to protect themselves. The newcomers lashed into them with heavy shoes, kicking at ribs, 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 though embarrassed.

The first one said, "If either of those bastards are out of the hospital in less than two weeks, I'll turn 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-footers, both around two hundred pounds. They greeted Roy Cos warmly after they shook hands with the little newsman.

"Holy smog," Forry muttered. "If all you Wobblies are like this, why didn't you put over your 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, saying, "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 into the back seat instead. "Get out on the highway and turn right, Les." He said to Billy, "I saw you give 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 to be found by the police with an unlicensed gun. If they coop Roy up in some banger, the Graf's men will figure out how to get to him within hours. If any of the rest of your boys are heeled, think about that."

They looked at him respectfully even as Les, obviously expert at the wheel, took them out onto the highway. Dick Samuelson said, "Yes, sir," meek as a mouse, and brought out a compact black 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 with a Gyrojet pistol. "It's a beauty," he said with regret. "Whoever those cloddies were, they didn't skimp 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 that 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 said. "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. For 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 to be heeled."

Shaking their pursuers was child's play for Lester Bates. He was not only a racing driver but a very 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 Forry. "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 what's happened by this time? Whoever was following us has noted our license number and relayed it to either the police or some of their own organization. So we switch. I have a car stashed here; the 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 men are working him over?"

"No, not then," Forry admitted, drawing deeply on his cigarette. "But Ted doesn't know enough to tell them anything. His instructions are to give them the truth. We left a hovercar here and later picked it up, leaving this one in its place."

They pulled up beside the vehicle he indicated. Les looked at it questioningly. He said, "It has no license plates. That'll make it conspicuous."

Forry nodded. "On purpose. Ted couldn't tell anybody what the numbers were, even if he wanted 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 their destination. It was an old house on the beach to the south of Miami, fairly well isolated. Undoubtedly, it had once been the winter home of a wealthy northerner. Forry had Les Bates back 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. Roy 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 saved up. We won't use your million a day until after we've made our initial play. We don't want them to 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 want to 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 tongue thoughtfully over his gray lower lip, and said, "The question becomes, how do Roy and I know we can trust you? I think his idea of getting Wobbly members to act as his bodyguard, rather than professionals, was a good one. In the past, Deathwish Policyholders have hired professionals. Often they wound up getting hit by their own guards, who were either bribed by the Graf's men, or were already on his payroll. No offense intended, but how can we know that one of you can't be gotten to, if the bribe's big enough?"

Silence. When Roy spoke, his voice carried rock-solid confidence. "Forry," he said, "it's a thing you wouldn't know about. All of these boys are at least third-generation Wobblies. They got their 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 personal friends. When I was Billy's age, I lived next door to his folks. I've changed his diapers. You see, Forry, being a radical becomes a way of life. Practically all of your family's friends are Wobblies. You play with the children of other Wobbly families. Your fun is mostly picnics or dances or other entertainments thrown to raise funds for the movement. You attend meetings with your parents before you're old enough to understand what the hell that sweaty, sincere guy with the microphone is talking about. When you're old enough to notice girls, the ones you can approach easiest are Wobblies themselves, probably one of the girls you grew up with. If you have children, they're raised in the same tradition, a sort of political ghetto. The radical movement in the United States started in 1877 with the socialistic Labor Party. The Wobbly movement got going in 1905, mostly with 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. And sometimes Wobblies drop out and stay out. But largely our membership consists of people raised in the radical tradition. Forry," he chuckled, "I'm beginning to suspect we're starting to breed true. Young fellows like these four are born Wobblies."

"There goes your credibility," Forry growled. "Just kidding, of course. But I selected these four because they're third-or-more-generation revolutionists and all personal friends of mine, like their 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 expressions of faint embarrassment, with pride shining through.

Roy said, "Now I've got a question. Back in Nassau, you asked Oliver Brett-James how big the benefits to his company were when I die, and how much the daily premiums he had to pay were. Why did you want to know?"

Forry brought a pack of his smuggled cigarettes from a pocket and took his time lighting up. He said finally, "I wanted to know how much time we had before his company started hurting. As of midnight tonight, I start earning my way. Your publicity starts tomorrow. I've already gotten in touch with my contacts in Tri-Di news. They're all going to broadcast the story of the Wobbly who took out a Deathwish Policy so that he'd acquire the credit needed to spread his message. Oh yes, tomorrow I start earning my ten thousand pseudo-dollars a day. The longer I keep you alive, the longer I keep my job. It stops the moment you do." Les blurted, "Ten thousand a day!" Forry spread his hands. "Why not? There's a personal risk. Suppose I get into the line of fire when somebody takes a shot at Roy? Or suppose somebody heaves a bomb that gets all of us? Besides, what is ten thousand to Roy? He has a million on tap every day. He can afford to keep his hired help 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 want any pay."

Roy Cos shook his head at that. He said, "No. Forry's right, Dick. There's nothing in that contract that says I can't have a bodyguard and pay him as much as he's worth. I'm not allowed to make donations to organizations—political, religious, or whatever. But you can squirrel your wages away. When I've finally had it, you boys can contribute as much to the movement as you like. If I last long enough, you'll be rich. I don't believe I've ever known a rich Wobbly. You'll be in a position to make 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 before this. How about one of you fellows going up onto the roof? Make your own arrangements; I'd 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 the screen. He seemed to be satisfied.

The woman who came through looked every inch the office worker. A little on the plain side, though with a comfortably nice figure, she was neatly efficient in appearance, conservatively dressed, 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 hectic 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 agency without any difficulty."

"This is Ron Ellison," he told her. "One of the team. He'll get your bags and you can pick out a 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 stood 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 Wobbly organizer, "I've known Mary Ann Elwyn for years. She's a damn good secretary. Her pay will be the same as everybody else's—ten thousand a day." He smiled a small smile as she gasped. "Enough to keep her honest, we'll hope. If we last the week out, she'll have enough to retire. Seventy thousand pseudo-dollars, on top of her GAS, could equal a nice standard of living. If you last for more than a 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?" He 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 handle 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 to me and my duties. I'm not too keen on the physical danger, but—well, ten thousand pseudo-dollars a 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 scheme. I suppose he knows what he's doing."

Billy Tucker came hurrying into the room. His eyes swept quickly over the new secretary but then 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. "We don't really have to start worrying until after midnight, Billy. Then this guard duty becomes serious." 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 those guns."

"We'll see about that soonest," the ex-newsman said over his shoulder. "As soon as the publicity starts, we'll put in a demand for gun permits through our law firm. We've got a law firm on retainer, too, Roy. If they refuse to issue gun permits for the bodyguard of the Deathwish Wobbly, a howl 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 ale, 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, Ms. 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 maybe not so temporary, with you. I looked your organization up in the National Data Banks but I'm afraid 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-model 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. But Forry took over, first sending Les for drinks for the newcomers and then for refills for the rest of them.

When all were seated again, he said, "Jet Peters is your publicity man, Roy. He used to work for one of the big cosmocorps, a multinational corporation specializing in uranium. But he was spelled 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 tired and cynical. He was sloppily dressed, a bit bleary of eye, a tremor in his hands. A drinker, the 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 it all. Jet's an old pro. He'll come up with dozens of ideas that wouldn't occur to me. He's got a lot of contacts, too. He'll earn his ten thousand."

All eyes went to the second of the two newcomers, who had been introduced as Ferd Feldmeyer. He was not just overweight, but almost obscenely fat. Like many fat men, he bought his clothes too small so that he bulged in them. He was pale of face, thin of dirt-blond hair, and his small mouth 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, usually off the cuff. Why, this guy isn't even a Wobbly, so far as I know. How could he write my speeches, even if I wanted him to?"

Ferd Feldmeyer might not have been much for looks but his voice was deep and had a ring of sincerity. He said, "Since Forry approached me on this, I've been reading up on your movement day and night—including your own publications, not just the material in the National Data Banks. I'll tell you something about political organizations and religions, or philosophies, for that matter. You should be able to sum yours up in two hundred words. If you can't, something's wrong with your movement. Right now, I could sit down and tear off a speech for you that would give the Wobbly position— maybe better than you've ever presented it. On top of that, I'd drop in a little humor, some good quotations, and wind it up with a blockbuster of a gimmick ending that'd have them 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 cuff on Tri-Di, Roy. They've got to be written out, and you're going to have too many to write yourself. You're not only going to speak often on Tri-Di, TV, and even radio, but we're going to line you up for personal appearances, lectures, and so forth. Ferd and Jet are also going to double for you as 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 this publicity hits the way I think it will, there'll be calls for articles from all sorts of periodicals from all over the world. Maybe we'll even do a book." He squinted his eyes and said thoughtfully, "That 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 hands in her lap. She had refused the drink Les offered. Forry said, "Make a note, Mary Ann. We need 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 scribbled away.

Jet said, "How about Russian and Mandarin?"

Forry thought about that but then shook his head. "Not yet. For the time being, the Wobbly movement is aimed at the West. Maybe later, if I understand the program correctly, it might spread 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 of his hands. The ineffective-looking little Forrest Brown was taking over with a vengeance. Thus far, Roy 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 definite plans. Like I said, we start the publicity tomorrow. We also wrap up the arrangements for the first Tri-Di talk, nationwide, beamed worldwide from satellites. When Roy's made that first speech, the publicity will really hit. He'll be big news. Everybody in the country will be on the edge of their chairs waiting for the Deathwish Wobbly…" He broke off and looked at Jet Peters. "I think we ought to use that bit of business in our publicity. The Deathwish Wobbly. The revolutionist so sincere that he's willing to die for the chance of spreading it." He looked back to Roy and the others. "They'll be sitting on the edges of their chairs, waiting to see how long it'll take for the Grafs men to get to you."

He ground out his current cigarette and took up the drink sitting on the cocktail table before him. "Until the first Tri-Di broadcast, we won't show. We'll not leave this house. Nobody here will use their credit cards, on the off chance that the enemy might have connected one of us with Roy. I'll pay all expenses, as I did for renting this place, with my card. It's an unnumbered account and they won't be able to trace me with it. The moment we make that broadcast, Roy will begin to use the million pseudo-dollars a day available to him on his Swiss International Credit Card. And from then on we're on the defensive. But the more this pyramids, the more publicity Roy gets, the better his chances are of avoiding the Graf's hit men. There'll be mobs wherever he goes, making it difficult for assassins to get through to him. I hope. A good many of those people are going to be on Roy's side. He's the underdog, and fighting against terrible odds. They'll be out to get any assassins who turn up. And these men of the Graf's are pros, not fanatics. They're not interested in making martyrs out 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 surface vehicles. It wouldn't, at least not in the older areas of town, originally settled by Romulus and his tribesmen, glorified by Augustus, later made the center of the world's most powerful religion. It couldn't because old Rome was a museum of three thousand years' standing. It would have been impossible to dig metros and underground highways. The archeological world would have been up in arms. Excavations would have destroyed a multitude of buried ancient temples, tombs, arenas, and fortifications going back as far as the Etruscans. These all lay ten to fifty feet below the surface, someday to be dug out with loving care. Even the pressures of modern transport could not threaten to destroy the remnants of a tiny synagogue where once, perhaps, Paul had given sermons; a governmental building where Caesar had issued his edicts; an aqueduct which once supplied the water for the baths of Diocletian.

However, private vehicles were discouraged to the point where only the most powerful, through wealth or governmental position, were allowed their personal conveyances. Otherwise, traffic was limited to emergency vehicles and to public cabs and buses. It still amounted to considerably more 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 small taxi. It had been some years since she had been in this wondrous city, and she recognized a score of landmarks with a thrill.

"Destinatio, Signorina?" the admiring cabby had asked her, his eyes indicating appreciation of her fine blond hair, piled high on her head, of her very un-Italian blue eyes, not to speak of her svelte figure.

The Roman way of the male toward any girl with the least pretensions of pulchritude returned to her and she smiled, remembering. "Number 17, Via della Pilotta," she told him in impeccable Italian.

He looked over his shoulder again. "But Signorina, the Palazzo Colonna is no longer open to the 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 artist element, with its medieval Fontana dil Barcaccia by Bernini still watered by a Roman aqueduct. And with its famed Scala di Spagna, known as the Spanish Steps by many tourists. Lee Garrett smiled.

A church here, a palace there, a monument to some long-dead emperor farther on. They sped through the Piazza di Trevi, with its baroque fountain where visitors threw coins to guarantee that one day they would return. And shortly they pulled up before the huge complex that was the Palazzo Colonna, once the most sumptuous of the patrician houses of Rome. Lee brought her International 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 like the Swiss guards at the Vatican and bearing, of all things, halberds, shafted weapons of the 15th century with axlike cutting blades, beaks, and terrible spikes. Lee, amused, remembered reading somewhere that the unlikely looking devices had been designed as can openers against armored horsemen. She wondered if there was presently a horse in all Rome, not to speak of a man in armor.

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-Roberts. Meanwhile, I am not sure where I'll be staying tonight. Could you get my bags and hold them for me 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 in the Palazzo Colonna!

Without doubt there would be a small plaque on the door reading Lucretia Borgia Slept Here, or some such.

Inside the entrance were four more young men, in outfits of pages, complete to satin berets with tassels atop. They had been lounging, idly talking among themselves, but now one advanced for a 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 awaits you."

She followed him up the impressive stone stairway to the vestibule. Years ago, her father had brought her here to see the famed home of what had once been the most powerful family in Rome. Popes had been born here, and cardinals without number, and kings, queens, dukes, duchesses. In 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 Great Hall, and then up another stairway almost as magnificent as that at the entrance to the palace. The priceless treasures of the palace might have been expressed in tonnage. Then followed a series of coldly superb chambers, each a museum of murals, marbles, and tapestries. Why would anyone choose to live in such a place? But then they arrived at the spacious salon of Sheila Duff-Roberts.

There was no identity screen set into the magnificent carved door; that would have been a desecration. Her guide knocked softly and then, without waiting for a response, opened the door and closed it behind her.

On her visit as a youngster, Lee hadn't been in this part of the rambling building. In those days it had still been occupied by descendants of the Colonna family and visitors had been excluded from the private quarters. This room had obviously once been one of the minor salons, now converted into a baroque office. The furniture was of the fifteenth or sixteenth century, with all the stiffly uncomfortable appearance of that era.

Sheila Duff-Roberts arose from her chair behind the desk. She was a large woman physically, but was built in handsome proportion. She enjoyed the long limbs and proud carriage of an Olympic champion. Her face was classical and she knew how to bring out her best features. Her hairdo, cosmetics, and jewelry were the products of experts. Basically, hers was a severe face, brightly intelligent rather than friendly, and her smile was cool. A cigarette dangled from the side of her mouth, man-style. She was dressed in a slack suit which Lee recognized as the latest style in Common Europe. She approached Lee briskly, hand outstretched. It proved to be a warm, firm hand, somehow projecting a caressing quality.

Sheila Duff-Roberts said throatily, "Well, my dear, in spite of your photographs, I didn't expect 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 said, "Marvelous."

It was done in sandalwood and was adorned with lapis lazuli, amethysts, and other semi-precious stones. In the front it had twelve small amethyst columns, and at the top, gilt statuettes representing 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; had it moved in from the Room of the Desks. One of the others there is possibly even worse. It's done in ebony with twenty-eight ivory bas reliefs, and the central relief is a copy of Michelangelo's Last Judgment. A real monstrosity. We'll get it for your office, if you'd like. But do sit down, darling. 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 said, "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 chair, and touched a sheaf of papers before her. "I've been going over your qualifications. Very impressive, my dear."

Lee said, "What qualifications? I haven't the slightest idea what my duties are. Mr. McBride only 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 never 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 you 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 box and lit it with a modern gold desk lighter. "One of your qualifications is that you don't need the job. 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 born with such resources, we make them available. In short, none of us is motivated by desire for money. 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. It's been dreamed before, throughout history. For limited periods it has even been achieved, here and there—in Egypt for centuries; in Mexico by the Mayans; in China, at least to a certain degree, before 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, unchanging 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 nonprofit think-factory seeking solutions to current problems, but I had no idea its scope was so all-embracing. Frankly, I'm having second thoughts. It sounds—well, impossible. It's true that I want 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 GAS in the United States of the Americas?"

"I think so. I can't think of any other manner of dealing with mass unemployment brought on by automation."

"And do you approve of the United States taking in any North or South American country that 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 is to maintain the status quo in society, based on what now prevails in America and Common Europe. However, we are not really a conservative organization, certainly not a reactionary one. The World Club is quite revolutionary, in the broadest sense of the word. It aims at a stable, desirable world for the overwhelming majority. It cannot be all things to all people, but it can aim at making a stable society for the average person. To do this we must align ourselves against subversive elements: nihilist terrorists, the Wobblies in the States, Eurocommunists in Common Europe, even the 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 Club thinks it can solve?"

The handsome Amazon shrugged. "Bringing all religions together under the leadership of the United Church, perhaps. A universal language based on Esperanto. We already have a committee working on this. Meanwhile, English is the nearest to a universal language that we now have. Elimination of 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 spoke Mandarin."

Sheila chuckled in her humorless manner. "Touche," she said. "But most all of them are in China. The problem of assimilating China into our world society will have to be held in abeyance for the 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 in all 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 our shoulder to ridiculous extremes. It's like the contention that blacks are the same as whites in all respects. Nonsense. One has a darker complexion than the other. So far as women are concerned—well, there has never been a female heavyweight champion of the world. A second-rate male pro would flatten the best female fighter who ever lived; they simply have more upper-body strength! On the other hand, I've always thought the first astronauts should have been women. We're generally smaller and take up less space, use less food and oxygen, and on an average, we're more deft with our hands. We seem to have more endurance under stress. I wonder how the average man 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—the 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 much to me, even before I've consented to take the position. You've told me that most workers for the World 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 realize that our computers selected you above all others. The computers seldom make mistakes in these things. We are assured that you are the best person for the position and the computers are of the 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 position you will be privy to many of their innermost decisions. The committee is now in session and will be for the rest of this month. Most of them are now in residence. These regular sessions are held twice a year. They're informal, and consist largely of their sitting around, two by two or in larger groups, and discussing developments of the program. Not all are present at this session. Grace Cabot-Hudson, who is rather old and infirm, remained at her residence in North America." Sheila Duff-Roberts looked at her timepiece. "But now, my dear, you must be tired, and will wish to see your suite and freshen up. And I have duties, of course." Her eyes shifted slightly. "By the way, there is to be apanous tonight. Would you be interested?" Lee shook her head. She wasn't shocked, not in this age, but she was somewhat surprised. She said, "No, I'm not interested in group sex." The Amazon's brows went up. "Lesbian?"

"No."

"Pity," Sheila said. "However, perhaps in time you'll change your mind. Which reminds me. We have a staff of half a dozen office girls." She took her lower lip in her perfect teeth. "Some of them are quite darling."

There was a knock at the door and a man with the look of a well-tanned European, somewhere in his mid-thirties sauntered through. He wore his red hair in a young athlete's crew cut and his dark blue eyes seemed out of place in his dark complexion. There was an easygoing sardonic quality in his smile. "Sheila," he said, "you are looking particularly Brunhildic today. Have you been butchering male chauvinists with your broadsword again?"

The secretary of the Central Committee snorted at that and said, "Where the hell have you been, 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 wealthiest 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, Mr. Jeremiah Auburn. Mr. Auburn is a member of the Central Committee; its youngest, by the way. How 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, as he 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 meet? 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 people 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, 'Wizard, we meet again,' just to be sure." He headed for an elaborate Florentine cabinet, which turned out to be a disguised bar.

"How good of you, Jerry," Sheila said sarcastically. "It must be distressing to be such a ladykiller."

"A distress you'd love to share," he said over his shoulder. And then, "Hmmm, perhaps you do."

"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't be considered a morning lush."

Sheila asked for Scotch but Lee shook her head, still uneasy. Somehow, this man seemed familiar; possibly it was his voice, but she knew that she'd never seen him. There wasn't a woman in the world who could meet Jerry Auburn and forget about it. The leading light of the rocket set for a decade, he had suddenly reversed his engines and disappeared from sight, in the tradition of Howard Hughes. From time to time he would pop up in the news but largely he was, as he had said, a recluse. Lee 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 said, "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 certainly pick them, Sheila."

Sheila didn't disguise her impatience at that. "Attractiveness and poise are requirements of employees who must meet the public, the news media, and so forth, Mr. Auburn. As you very well know."

He finished the drink in one fell swoop and looked at his chronometer. "This is as good an opportunity as any for me to become acquainted with our beauteous Ms. Garrett. Are you available 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 this evening, if you change your mind."

Out in the hall, as they walked toward the staircase, Jerry Auburn grinned and said, "Has Sheila 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 cup of tea. I love ladies one at a time and I don't like boys at all. And I'll leave the building of horizontal 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 might misinterpret that.

He chuckled and took her arm as they began to descend the stairs without saying anything further on the subject of sex.

The pages at the door came hurriedly to attention as Jeremiah Auburn approached, as did the guards with their halberds.

There was a beautiful sportster at the curb, one of the extreme models from Bucharest. Lee was moderately surprised when he ushered her to it and saw her seated on the passenger side. "You have permission to drive your own car in Rome?" she said.

"Ranking members of the World Club have their prerogatives, Lee. Having our central headquarters here is a feather in the caps of the city fathers. They turned over the Palazzo Colonna to us about ten 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 restaurant in 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 that was the monument to Vittorio Emanuele.

As they passed it, Lee shook her head. "Imagine leveling several acres of the Roman forum to erect that thing."

"My sentiments exactly," he said. "So, you're to be Sheila's new secretary. Did she give you her song and dance about the dream?"

Lee looked over at him in some surprise. "She made rather a moving appeal for the goals of the 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 her cups and she begins to point out that women predominate numerically in the world but for all practical purposes are ignored in its governing. For instance, we've never had a female president of the United States. I suspect that Sheila wouldn't object to taking the job." He grinned again. "I can just see a whole cabinet of lesbians."

Lee said, confused, "But what does motivate the Central Committee, if not what Sheila calls the dream?"

He shot a look over at her, even as he maneuvered through the narrow streets. "Did our good 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 possibly 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. Good 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 matter, which sometimes drives poor Harrington up the wall."

"The Viennese banker? He's another one that's sometimes called the richest man. Why should Mr. Chase object to him?"

"If you count his whole family, Mendel may control more wealth than anyone else. The irony is that 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 Auburn asked the maitre d' for a private dining room and they were immediately escorted to the second floor.

"Sorry," Jerry said to Lee. "There are still some who remember my face, especially women. Unfortunately, I'm seldom mentioned without that 'most eligible bachelor' label being hung around my neck, as though anybody bothered to get married anymore. But even in a place like this, it can be a hazard. Especially when radicals sometimes send a nut case to nice joints on the off chance that 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 luxurious private room.

The maitre d' turned them over to a captain and bowed himself out. The captain gave them menus 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 for a 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—those 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 don't 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 the 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, Mr. Auburn?"

He smiled mockingly at her and said with deliberate pomposity, "Ms. Garrett, the greater part of my investments are in multinational corporations. Almost all corporations of any size are multinationals these days, staffed by the most competent people the computers can locate. But we still have our Cubas to deal with. Americans owned practically everything in basic Cuban industry until Castro took it over. No buy-out, nothing; lady, the investors took some lumps. Why d'you think the CIA financed the Bay of Pigs invasion? To let us get 'our' Cuba back! We feared Allende, in Chile, might take the Castro route, so Allende was murdered and a military junta took over, demolishing what was left of democracy in Chile. However, we could never be sure that our properties were safe. Now, Ms. Garrett, with the establishment of the United States of the Americas, they are safe. And so are all the raw materials of Latin America, in return for a comparatively small 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 of the majority of people. It was to the personal interest of Washington, Jefferson, John Hancock, and Franklin to win independence from England. They were all rich men. But it was also a good thing for 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 States, the multinationals didn't exactly lose money. Oh, in some of the poorer countries and islands, we drew blanks temporarily. But how do we know what riches might lie under the jungles of, say, Paraguay? Just imagine taking over such nations as Brazil, potentially almost as rich as the original United States. Not to speak of Mexico, Venezuela, and Bolivia, with all their unexploited raw materials. We get contracts for high-rise apartments for all the new recipients of GAS. And somebody has to get richer building roads, public transportation, communications systems, power distribution systems. Believe me, Lee, the multi-nationals did not lose money when the States invited Latin America to join our union."

She said, still arguing, "But the expense of putting all of those millions on GAS. Your taxes have skyrocketed. It surely must have counterbalanced…"

He was smiling still. "No. You'd be amazed how cheaply a prole can be maintained from the cradle to the grave. Planned obsolescence has disappeared, so far as the prole is concerned. Everything he consumes has been produced by the most advanced automated equipment. He wears textiles that last damn near forever. He lives in prefab buildings that can be erected overnight. He eats mass-produced foods manufactured largely in factories: His entertainment is canned. His medical care is computerized and automated, as is the pitiful education he wants. I repeat: it costs practically 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 waiter's movements.

Suddenly, Jerry Auburn knocked back his chair and spun. His foot lashed out and upward with the grace of a ballet dancer and kicked the small automatic in the hand of the slim, now snarling, Italian 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 for something in his clothing.

Jerry reversed himself, his back to the other, and lashed out with his foot again, high. The shoe connected with the chin and mouth of the attacker, who was slammed back viciously against the wall 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 toy of a country, Liechtenstein, the last remnant of the Holy Roman Empire and, save for Switzerland, the only nation in western Europe still aloof from the loose confederation called Common Europe. It boasts a population of some 22,000 and an area of 62 square miles, supposedly still a monarchy under His Highness Prince Johann Alois Heinrich Benediktus Gerhardus von und zu Liechtenstein und Duke von Troppau und Jaegerndorf. The prince had gone bankrupt a quarter of a century earlier and these days lived a rocket-set existence on the proceeds of the outright sale of his country. The buyer was Graf Lothar von Brandenburg, who now resided in the Wolfschloss. The schloss, once a robber-baron stronghold, had been built in the 13th century, burned in the Swabian Wars of 1499, then last overhauled in the late 20th century. The Wolfschloss was a forty-minute climb by path northeast of Vaduz, the tiny capital of Liechtenstein, or a few minutes by modern road ending in a cablecar terminal which provided access to the castle. The climb was forbidden to such tourists as still came to the country, and the road was private—unbelievably well patrolled. There were various roadblocks along it.

Liechtenstein had once owed its prosperity to tourism, the winter sport industry, and its many editions of colorful stamps. Since its acquisition by Graf Lothar von Brandenburg it was no longer prosperous, save for Vaduz, whose working population was largely employed by the Graf himself. Tourism was barely tolerated, certainly not encouraged, and the ski resorts were either closed down or sparsely patronized. The once-famous art collection of the Vaduz Museum was now largely to be found in the Wolfschloss.

The office of the Graf contained no desk, and had precious little else to resemble a business office. One whole wall was of glass and looked out on an unsurpassed view of the Rhine Valley over part of the castle's ward. There was but one article of decoration, a Franz Hals, which dominated another 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 hunted his extensive game preserves. He also made a point of swimming thirty laps of the large swimming pool he'd had installed in the courtyard of a schloss so extensive that a regiment of cavalry could have paraded there. He was only five feet four but had a lean, athletic build. His short hair, once blond, was now a platinum white. It was his eyes that were most remarkable. The irises were of flecked smoky grey and they had no expression. Whatever went on behind the smokescreen, nothing came through. With few exceptions, people newly introduced to Lothar von Brandenburg were uncomfortable about his eyes. He dressed during the day in formal business wear, complete with dark cravat, although ties had seldom been worn for half a century. His suits were invariably 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 served as second in command, he was fresh of face, lime green of eye, handsome in the English aristocrat manner. Over six feet tall, his lank body gave an impression of indolence if not downright laziness, he being inclined to sprawl rather than sit. From this graceful indolence, one could easily reach a wrong impression. Peter Windsor, which was not the name with which he had been christened, had come to the attention of the Graf some twenty-five years in the past when the pink-cheeked lad gained a field promotion to brigade commander in a desperately close-fought action in East Africa. Most of the senior mercenary officers were casualties. The Graf had immediately drawn Windsor 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 trust of the Graf. Her hair was black, unlikely for a Dane, and her face was not Scandinavian, but broad with a wide chin and Magyar cheekbones— the kind of face that aged slowly. Indeed, she could have passed for anywhere between thirty and fifty. She invariably dressed in British tweeds during 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 two underlings. "Margit, Peter," he said, even as he pressed a button set into the side of the chair's arm.

"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 Germanic court and bore a tray with coffee things. All were of gold save the Dresden cups. The servant, 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 flog 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 off 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 zo, Peter: the day's crises?"

The tall Englishman, dressed with all-out informality in sweatshirt, slacks, and tennis shoes, had a clipboard beside him. He took it up saying, "No real crises this morning, Chief." He looked at the top sheet on the clipboard. "A contract has come through to have Senator Miles Deillon hit. One of his business competitors."

"Ah, the American agricultural tycoon? Why bring it to my attention? Couldn't you have handled such a routine matter? A senator, eh, and a major landowner at that. It would be a double-A contract, 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 worse by the American Nihilists, you know. We supply his bodyguard. Three men per shift on a round-the-clock basis—nine men in all."

"Yes? And the complication?" The Graf sipped his coffee, holding the cup in a small womanish hand.

His British subordinate blinked. "I say, we can't be hired both to assassinate a man and guard him 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 the guards. If he fails in protecting the senator, it will be a mark against his reputation in the organization. I assume your hit men will come from the ranks of Jacques's Corsicans. They're the best. Very well, if they are unsuccessful in their attempt, Jacques will be shamed. Luca and Jacques are good organization men but we cannot put up with incompetence. Too many contracts inefficiently carried out would lead to a bad image and our competitors would take advantage. I would dislike seeing either of these men go, but business is business. There are many young men with us who are anxious 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 back to 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 Rivas, in Paris, is again taking measures to undersell us and provide a mercenary group for some chief in Mali who wishes to overthrow a neighbor. Approach the colonel once more with a suggestion that he join with us."

Peter said, after making his note, "There's one small item that might be of interest. One of these 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 seemed 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 the International Credit Card Brett-James issued him nor, for that matter, his own American card. The 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 eventually cost us quite a bit." He looked over at Margit, who sat quietly, hands in her lap. "Refresh me on our position in this regard, my dear Fraulein."

Margit said, "If the subject is liquidated within the first week of the contract, we receive half a million pseudo-dollars. However, this amount is lowered to a quarter million if he is not liquidated within the following week. If three weeks elapse before he is eliminated, instead of being 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 have 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 founded in 1903 by American unionists, anarchists, and socialists, under the name Industrial Workers of the World, or I.W.W. Their program involved organizing workers into one Big Union which would take charge of the world's economy by legal means. For a time they grew rapidly but their anarchists began to advocate sabotage and violence around 1908, and the government was able to legally crush them. By the 1930s, they had all but disappeared.

"But not quite completely. Their goals and methods have changed until now they have few similarities to the old I.W.W. They contend that the means of production, distribution, and so forth, should be democratically owned and operated by the people as a whole rather than being private property or in the hands of the State. They believe that this would give rise to full employment and a new surge of progress."

Peter snorted. "Full employment? With all the automation available? They're heading for the bend, if they're not already around it.''

Margit opened her eyes. "They seem to believe that the present-day proles, now on GAS, should 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 connection 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 you know? The news media are making quite a story of it. Before, these Wobblies were seldom heard of."

His superior snapped to Margit, "Get through to Luca Cellini in New York and have him put his 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 these 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 six 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 hours, with crews."

Peter shook his head. "Where does the beggar get the funds for a contract of this size? One would 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 latest on Mahem Dhu? I had an indignant call from the Prophet's man last night. This fanatic's movement is 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 best cover-builder and analyzer. Spyros concluded that hitting the so-called Mahdi wouldn't be overly difficult; he's out in public constantly, for all practical purposes without guards, as befits a holy man. But Spyros sees no possibility of a successful hit. I fancied that our only possibility was to locate a gull—a patsy, as the Yanks call it. One's turned up from the States. Chap named Franklin Pinell, a deportee. Guilty of a homicide romp. He was duped into selecting Tangier for his refuge and that Aussie Nat Fraser took over. Pinell was stripped of everything and then convincingly taken under the wing of Ram Panikkar, with his usual efficiency. A bit of a swine, Ram, but unbeatable at this sort of thing. Pinell is grateful to Ram and agreed to take the Mahdi assignment. His cover will be as a media man, which will guarantee his access to Mahem Dhu. He'll perform the hit." Peter sighed. "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 frowned. "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 name of Buck Pinell's son? Remember? Buck was always proudly bringing forth his wallet and insisting we 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 time, Fraulein, but get me his dossier and that of this Franklin Pinell." He looked back at Peter Windsor. "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 it the 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. My 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 order the required dossiers. Now her eyes seemed to film and she recited, "Lee Christmas, most notable of the pre-World War One American mercenaries, operated in South and Central America. Almost singlehanded he was successful in several revolutions and military revolts, especially in Honduras. He would attain high rank in the new administration but inevitably step on the wrong toes and be dismissed, often to flee for his life. Later he might return and participate in the overthrow of the government he had brought to power. A lone soldier of fortune who owned a Maxim or Vickers machine gun, could gather a handful of followers and defeat a Central American army. He was considered unique among the other mercenaries because he refused to fight on the side he thought in the wrong.''

The Graf laughed softly, which brought Peter Windsor's eyebrows up. The other wasn't prone to 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 Furstensteig path along the high ridge dividing the Rhine and Samina valleys. The peaks reached six to seven 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 and quickly scanned them. She said, "You were correct, Herr Graf. Franklin Pinell is the son of Willard 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." The revelation didn't faze Margit Krebs.

The Graf turned and faced Peter Windsor, who was already eyeing his superior in concern. He 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! We can't afford to flub it, don't you know? The Prophet would be incensed. This Pinell chap seems to 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 of the 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 Pinell to Paris. Have him remonstrate with Colonel Rivas, who seems to be getting too big for his britches, as Buck would have put it. Let him accompany Nat Fraser on the assignment. The Australian is an old hand; he can report how Franklin Pinell reacts to being blooded. I'll want a full report from him and 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 clipboard. "Now: this Dave Carlton chap in New Jersey has been poaching on our military surplus enterprises. Last week he sold one hundred Skoda assault rifles to Chavez, that guerrilla in Colombia who is attempting to arouse the Colombians to throw off their affiliations with the United States of the Americas."

Chapter Twelve: The Nihilists

Rick Flavelle looked over at his sole surviving companion, who leaned against the steel wall near 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 fucked. 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 your 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 was nothing to be seen.

The steel pillbox in which they were making their ultimate stand was beautifully camouflaged in almost the exact center of the Dunninger Mountain resort home, in a beautiful patio garden. Beautiful, but on the shot-up and bombed-out side right now. From the exterior, as they well knew, the pillbox looked like an innocent rock garden. One had to scramble about it quite carefully to find the 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 gently, 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 bastards might be gone?"

The other laughed bitterly. "You think the fucking sun will rise in the west tomorrow? Why should they be gone? We've had it. Whatever they want, it's sitting in their laps now. I haven't heard any fire 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 came in. 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. You 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. "The ammo wouldn't fit either of our gyros."

Alfredo snarled, ' 'Use your goddamned head. Get his rifle, and when you've used up your rocket 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 the fallen body. There was little chance of enemy fire penetrating the two small gunports but he moved in a crouch, instinctively. The wound in his side wasn't helping any. He could have taken a syrette to localize it but he wasn't sure of the effect. He couldn't afford to have his whole right side paralyzed.

The inert Cliff had no spare clips. That stupid bastard Dunninger had insisted that their uniforms be neat and presentable. He didn't want them distracting the family and visitors with bandoliers of ammunition and grenades dangling from their belts. So, aside from the clips they'd had in their weapons, the bodyguards had at most two spares. They had largely used them up in the first moments of the assault on the Dunninger home. And from then on, they'd had insufficient firepower to keep the attackers at bay. It had been a balls-up from the start. Nobody had time to make his way to the little armory for more ammo.

Rick worked his way back to his gunport, trailing the assault rifle behind him. His side was feeling worse by the minute.

He peered through the small port again. He said, trying to keep down their mutual fear and 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 guys off, we would've had a chance. But eight of us weren't enough, especially with one shift sacked out when the sons of bitches hit."

Rick said, "Cellini was rotating them. Another four guards were supposed to show up for replacements."

"Yeah?" the other sneered. "Bullshit. It's too much of a coincidence. Old man Dunninger's family leaves him alone here, four of his bodyguards are relieved, and next thing we know, we're all in the dill. There must be twenty of the bastards out there. They knocked off the dogs and three of the boys before we got wise. We're lucky we made it to this overgrown tin can with me covering for that fat cat Dunninger. Listen, there's not enough money in the country to pay for holding down a job like this."

Rick said wanly, "You should have thought of that during the two years we've been on this cushy assignment."

"Yeah, great, but I wish Luca Cellini was here with us right now. Or, better still, the Graf himself. You know what we oughta do, Rick? Call out and tell 'em we're willing to surrender if they won't kill 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 spend the rest of our lives on the run from the Graf. He doesn't like his boys to surrender. And what happens if we do? Not only are we on the run but that's the end of any compensation, any pension, any further credits from him at all. We'd be back on GAS and, so far as I'm concerned, I've got two kids I want to get through a good school, two kids I want to leave a few shares of U.S. Variable 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, I'm not that far around the bend, Rick. I don't have any kids. I'm on my own. Those guys out there'll let us go. They want the big shot hiding down in the bomb shelter, not us. Screw the Graf. We'll worry 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 going on in the house. What a sonofabitch of a pickled situation. If the attackers were smart enough to just wait it out another hour, he and Alfredo would have stiffened up to the point that they couldn't resist anyway.

There came a heavy explosion up against the door that threw him to the steel floor of the small pillbox. He landed, agonizingly, on his wounded side. He lay there, breathing deeply, not sure he 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. That 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 in the 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 rear." 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 holding the fucking sack."

The next explosion blew the heavy door off its hinges, sent it crashing to the floor, barely missing the fallen Rick Flavelle.

"Here they come," Alfredo snarled.

Two prole-garbed fighters popped through the blasted en-tryway and jumped immediately to each 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 at the 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 wide with excitement and exertion, he was a good-looking young fellow in his late teens, looking more like a student than a gunman. He kicked Rick's weapon even farther to one side and shot a quick look at 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. We want that plutocrat, Dunninger. You're just a couple of working men, doing the best you can to make 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 one left and he's wounded. Where's the doc?"

A newcomer entered the breached pillbox and looked about, making a face at the carnage. He was 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 in the 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. Rick, undoubtedly, wasn't the only combat victim he had treated in the past hour of action. He shot his 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, and 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 and that might wind up plastering you around the walls… No, we won't kill you. Not yet. Not if your family ponies up the ransom… Don't be a dizzard, Dunninger. Of course we can get you out of there. We're here in the pillbox, aren't we? Stop trying to stall, nobody's coming to your assistance. This house is too far away from any other for the ruckus to have been heard, and we have a 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 steel trap door to the bomb shelter below.

Two more civilian-clad, armed men had crowded into the small compartment. They looked down 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 boys 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 rise. The three remaining gunmen trained their weapons on it. The commander reached down and grasped the steel door and pulled it completely back. On the steel ladder below stood an apprehensive man in 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 and put his hands high over his head. He saw the two bodies and winced. The commander jerked his 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 door. Everywhere were signs of the short battle that had been waged so recently, including two bodies in uniforms similar to those of Rick and Alfredo.

Outside, a copter had landed on the extensive lawn. The two gunmen who had carried Rick out were hoisting him up into it. More armed men in prole clothing were streaming from the house, two of them with bandaged wounds. They were in high good humor, calling back and forth to each other banteringly.

The commander said, "One of you boys go back and get some clothes for this character. Cozzini, 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 commander, seated next to the pilot, said evenly, "Get out of here soonest. It won't be long before one of those damned servants gets himself untied. Shouldn't be much more than an hour before the IABI is after us."

"Right," the pilot said.

Still blindfolded, Harold Dunninger, now in better command of himself and making an effort to control his trembling, was pushed down on a hard seat in the copter. At least, thank God, Betty and 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—ever since she had found out about that ridiculous little harem he'd been keeping down in the city. The group sex thing. Betty was of the old school, had even insisted on marriage. But now they had been planning divorce, and Betty would have the reins of his fortune when it came to the ransom. What was to prevent her from taking an uncompromising stand against the kidnappers, refusing to meet their demands? On his death, she would inherit the whole fortune, one of the largest on the continent. Damn!

Betty had let him know, in no uncertain terms, that she hated him for what she called her betrayal. The bitch didn't realize that she'd lost what appeal she had possessed as a young woman. Now, though pushing sixty, he still had the sexual drives of a man in his thirties. Those bimbos he kept were only for occasional orgies, nothing important. As for the family, he loved the two boys and had grown used to Betty. He hadn't wanted the divorce; was still arguing with her about it. But she was adamant. Oh, God, Betty! Would she meet the kidnappers' demands? After all, it was only money. 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. Now he was in some kind of a building, perhaps a dwelling. Nor did his captors utilize an elevator. Instead, he was marched up stairs, down a hall, then pushed into a room. A door slammed behind him.

Harold Dunninger stood there a while, his eyes still bandaged but his hands free. Finally, hesitantly, 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. But no, not even his servants lived in quarters as drab as these. Two chairs, a table, a dresser, a bed, an open door to a small bath. On the bed lay some of his clothes, including shoes. Whoever had snatched up the things had forgotten socks and handkerchiefs. On the table was a plate of sandwiches which looked less than appetizing and a half-liter plastic of beer. The furniture was less than new, the rug on the floor well-worn. There was one window, but what looked like tar paper had been taped over it on the outside so that he couldn't have looked out without breaking the glass, and he assumed that this would bring punishment.

For lack of anything else to do, he donned shirt, slacks, and shoes. They hadn't even brought him 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 again. Before he could respond, a stranger entered.

None of the kidnappers he had thus far seen had looked like desperadoes. They had been dressed 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 wasn't younger. He had what only could be described as a hesitant face. Polite, well bred, fresh-faced, as though he hadn't been shaving very long, and far from aggressive. His expression was almost apologetic. He was well-dressed in sports clothing and wouldn't have looked out of place with a 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 or a 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, somehow gaining courage from the appearance of this inoffensive youngster. He himself took one of the chairs 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 do to make me comfortable?"

"Anything within reason—something to read, something to eat besides those sandwiches? Perhaps, 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 would you prefer a United Church brother to talk to?"

"Those ignorant bigots? There's never been such a corrupt, stupid religious movement in the 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 said, "What do you mean, would I like a priest?"

Young Spaulding said, "I am not superstitious myself, sir, but I have no prejudice against those who are. I thought… I thought it was the custom of your faith to make peace with your God before…" He let the sentence dribble away.

The older man stared at him, cold fingers walking down his spine. Finally, he got out, "You're going to shoot me. That leader of yours, that one who talked me out of the bomb shelter. He said you wouldn't kill me."

"Comrade Ostrander knew you wouldn't be killed if the ransom was paid. But I doubt if he promised anything more. You have twenty-four hours, sir. If the fifty million pseudo-dollars is not 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 into a special numbered account in Tangier. And there must be guarantees that no attempt will be made to 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 sum to escape her hands. Yes, it was available. But she would never… not Betty. In spite of the fact that she had been bom into luxury, and certainly had lived in luxury, Betty was a compulsive pennypincher. She made a point of prowling the kitchen, enraged if the servants opened a bottle of wine for themselves. The allowance she doled out to the boys was a farce. Harold Dunninger augmented it secretly each week. Her pennypinching was proverbial. Fifty million pseudo-dollars? 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 out, 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 hours. Was this kid armed? If so, was there any way to take his gun, and get through the guard which they obviously would have posted? He closed his eyes and groaned. Harold Dunninger was no muscle-bound hero. He'd let himself go to pot over the years. He'd never been much for sports, even as a youngster. And even if he was able to overwhelm Spaulding, there would be more of them beyond, downstairs—Men trained and experienced with guns, while he hardly knew enough to fire 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 the captive.

Dunninger shakily took off the bottle's cap and poured. It was a bottle of his own prehistoric whiskey. It would seem that his kidnappers weren't above looting. He knocked back the spirits with a 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 and French army days of the late 18th century. All officers were gentlemen; they came from good families—aristocrats. If one was to be shot in the morning, a fellow officer was assigned to stay with him in his cell and, well, be with him. Take messages to his family or sweetheart, help him make out his will, if necessary. Talk with him. Possibly read the Bible with him. That sort of thing. Just, well, 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 the 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 now. Tommy Spaulding. I haven't seen you since you were about ten or eleven. A thin little fellow, always 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, Tommy, I've got to get out of here. My wife'll never pay that ransom—never in a million years. We've got to 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 know 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 opposed to 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 them again and said desperately, "See here, boy. That sum your Comrade Ostrander demanded is 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 out of here, I'll give you five million pseudo-dollars, all tax-free. All deposited to your account, no 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't—it wouldn't interest me. I'm a devoted member of the Nihilists, and though I'm sorry that you are in this position, I'm dedicated to ending this social system. I'm willing to participate in the liquidating of 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 race is 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 ourselves. We're basically anti-organization, if you can comprehend that. We're against the status quo, but we don't offer a definitive alternative system. We believe production should be democratically owned 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 you're doing? You assassinate people, especially rich or powerful people. You commit arson and sabotage. 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. Most people never consider the possibility of a basic change in their own system. The system tells them that what prevails has always been and will always be. They fail to realize that nothing changes as 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 individuals. In the East, it is in the hands of the State. To the rank-and-file citizen, it makes comparatively little 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 pulled a trigger, but the blood on the hands of your social system is unbelievable. Millions have died due to pollution and disease brought about by your rampaging industry. Millions have died from poisonous foods and drugs that were continued because they made a profit. Why has cancer erupted geometrically over the last century and a half? Mr. Dunninger, you don't even know how many deaths you've caused."

Dunninger tipped up the whiskey bottle once again. The boy was a wild-eyed unthinking fanatic. Given time, he might have been able to get through to him, convince him how wrong he was, how 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 on a couch before the Tri-Di screen in the luxurious winter villa of some absent northerner. The variable-image Tri-Di screen was set into the wall of the living room. At the moment, it was just large enough so that the people on lens were life-size. There were some uncanny attributes. Though the trio had been exposed to Tri-Di projections all their lives, the illusion was as though they could have 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-friendly.

Mary Ann frowned, her plain face impatient. She said, "You've got the wrong station, Ferd. That's 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 enough to still the characteristic tremor of his hands. He said, "Ken is Roy's announcer. Forry ponied up fifty thousand to get him for just a few minutes. Nothing but the best for Roy Cos. That Brit shyster in Nassau will be sweating thirty-eight caliber turdlets at the rate Forry goes through that million pseudo-dollars a day. Christ only knows what we're paying for fifteen minutes of prime time on an international hookup."

The life-size figure seated behind the desk said, "Folks, this is Ken Butterworth, yours truly. Tonight, I have a surprise for you. If you follow the news at all, you know that Roy Cos has gained instant fame as the Deathwish Wobbly. Roy Cos, a dedicated idealist, is risking his life—perhaps sacrificing it—to bring you the message of the Industrial Workers of the World—the Wobblies. Mr. Cos is unsusal for a man with a message. He doesn't insist that you subscribe to his admittedly radical view—only that he be granted the opportunity to say it and allow you to make your own decisions.

"Roy Cos's life has been insured for an unbelievable sum. So long as he lives, he has a very large credit line. Unlike others who sign Deathwish Policies, Roy Cos is devoting his credits to spreading his message. His life expectancy might be measured in hours. But tonight he will bring you his program of basic changes to our social system. He plans further broad casts…"the news commentator paused dramatically "… if he survives. Folks, I present Mr. Roy Cos, the Deathwish Wobbly."

Ken Butterworth faded out and Roy came on lens, sitting at i similar desk. Flanking him and behind 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 little studio in one of the smaller Tri-Di stations about fifty miles from here. I don't know where. There's not a chance that anybody knows where they are, and even if they did, they couldn't get into that 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. He needs to cut a sympathetic figure. Kind of romantic."

Roy was reading his speech somewhat stiffly. He'd never appeared on the airwaves before. The three watching had heard the speech a dozen times before and had all had a hand in its final 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 pointers." 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 others at 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 said in his fat man's voice. "Now we come out from cover and start spending that money. Do you realize we've already made seventy thousand apiece? We've been on the payroll a week and Forty hasn't 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 about the 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 rendezvous, except me. Only one of us needs to know. The fewer people who know, the less chance there is for an accidental leak."

Roy Cos finished his talk and Forry Brown took over, seated in Ken Butterworth's place, lending him a spurious celebrity. The scrawny little newsman was more at home on lens than Roy. He said, squinting his faded gray eyes, "Thanks to all you people for listening. As Ken Butterworth said, Roy will have more to say—if he survives. It's rumored that the contract for his death—his murder—is in the hands of the legendary Graf Lothar von Brandenburg, of Mercenaries, Incorporated. In short, it's just a matter of time now. Roy Cos and his staff are on the run. But I'm going to let you listeners in on something: we are not going to give advance notice of Roy's broadcasts. Instead, we're going to spring them at just about any time, any place. You might even keep your video recorders taping. Tomorrow or the next day, just by chance, you might come onto another Wobbly broadcast. If and when you do, phone three of your friends who might be interested, and tell them that the Deathwish Wobbly is again hurrying through one of his talks before the Grafs killers can catch up to him." A one-beat pause before Forry delivered his clincher: "They just might catch him while he's on camera."

Jet came to his feet and said, "I'll finish packing my bags. Got some things I've got to cram into 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 Bureau of Investigation for protection and were ignored. The only guards Roy has are four friends, fellow Wobblies. They are unarmed. They applied for permits to carry weapons but were denied. I suggest that any listener who is indignant over this get in touch with his congressman and senator. Demand that Roy's guards be allowed weapons! The Grafs gunmen will be armed to the teeth. Of course, most of you do not yet support the Wobbly cause. I, Roy Cos's manager, am not a Wobbly. But we all subscribe to the American tradition of fair play. We all believe that this dedicated man must be heard, before his inevitable fate overtakes him. Good night, fellow members of the human race. If 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 Peter's 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 mouth. His habitually bleary eyes widened, and for the briefest of split seconds it looked as though he was 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—where 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 side 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 was already packed. His excuse for leaving while we were still listening to the broadcast wasn't valid. And now I caught him phoning somebody."

Ferd looked at the publicity man wearily. "What the hell's the matter, Jet? Wasn't ten thousand a 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-four hours—especially after that broadcast roasting the contracting corporation and the Graf. You two ought to come in with me. I was offered a quarter of a million pseudo-dollars, tax free, just for 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 you were a square guy in a sloppy sort of way, Peters. You and Forty and I have known each other for a long time. You shouldn't have sold Forry out. You undoubtedly contacted the Graf's people on your own. They wouldn't have known how to get in touch with you, or even that you were working for Roy."

The other said in a quick rage, "Poor Cos is going to get it anyway! What difference does a few days make? We'll collect our ten thousand a day as long as he lasts and then, when they get to him, we'll get a bonus of maybe another half million from the Graf when they burn him. The Graf never 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 younger. Do you really wanta try me?"

Jet glared but finally dipped a hand into his side pocket and brought forth the communications device. The speechwriter took it, dropped it to the floor, and ground it under his heel. "You stupid, greedy bastard," he said. "You not only don't get the seventy thousand pseudo-dollars, but you won't get anything from the Graf's outfit, either." He turned to Mary Ann. "Let's go. We don't want to keep them waiting."

Carrying their bags, Mary Ann and Ferd piled into the car parked in the driveway. In actuality, it 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 Graf's boys finally polished off Roy, some of us might go, too? They might just toss a grenade, getting us all. Then the Graf wouldn't have to renege on the quarter of a million he promised Jet. There wouldn't 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 efficient in their rotten business."

The corner where they were scheduled to rendezvous wasn't far. The small Tri-Di station couldn't 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 was at 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 of the limousine. Ferd crowded into the front with Forry and Les; Mary Ann got into the back with Roy 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, he'd 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 we're sure that the Graf's gang won't be there waiting for us. Anybody have any ideas? One thing, from now on we have to be more out in the open. We've got to have as much security as possible, but with Roy available to the media. He's got to give interviews, issue statements, keep in the public eye. 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 and 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 miss all 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 meet the demand."

"They won't have to," Forry said. "But never fear, profit-making publishers will get into the act. If there's a market, before the next week is out, you'll see more material on the Wobbly program than 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 penthouse.

"I worked there once," Ron told him. "I know the place. It wouldn't take much to secure it. There's only one private elevator, with a steel door. And there's another steel door at the only stairway. The place was originally built with the idea of attracting South American politicians who'd taken off with their country's treasure, or Syndicate men, or maybe Tri-Di stars who wanted to get away from their fans."

Forry said sourly, "There are quite a few places in southern Florida of that type. Anything special about this one?"

"Well, yes," Ron said. "When I was working there, there were three or four other Wobblies besides me. Hotels are automated to hell and gone, these days, but you've always got to have some staff."

"I get it," Roy said. "Having our own people planted in the hotel means that much more security. 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 hotel. Suppose one of the Graf's men turned up claiming to be from the phone company and wanting to get into the penthouse for repairs. The hotel electrician, a chum-pal of mine named Larry, would spot him in a minute. Either that or he'd tag along with him, just to be sure, as long as he was in the hotel."

"I'm sold," Forry said. "Ron, get on your transceiver and find out if that penthouse is available. If so, rent it in your name. Don't mention anything about Roy or me. Say you'll pay in advance daily 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 penthouse arrangement, there'll be a private entrance, probably at the rear of the hotel. Ron will know. We'll go in that way. You and I will have scarves around our heads, on the off chance that somebody who saw the broadcast might spot us. We want to be organized in that place before our coming-out party 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 his voice, "I don't know. Probably longer than anybody thinks. There are some aspects of this one that the Grafs boys haven't run into before. In the past, the suckers who signed the Deathwish Policies to have their fun and spend their credits did it in public—nightclubs, restaurants, bars, shops, theatres. 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 private entrance by the manager. Monsieur Pierre Boucherer was a product of the best Swiss hotel management school, therefore, a whiz at fawning.

He fawned. He welcomed their party of eight with pure enthusiasm. He saw nothing untoward in the heads of two men swathed in scarves. He saw nothing untoward in the party insisting on taking up their own luggage to their extrav-agantly expensive skytop rental. He would have seen nothing untoward if they'd all had live coral snakes for neckties. He alone accompanied them to the penthouse.

It took two trips in view of their number, the amount of luggage, and the fact that the elevator was 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 luxury hotel apartment.

Monsieur Boucherer fawned, even as he rubbed his gloved hands together. "And now, how may I serve you?"

Forry, still masked like a Moslem virgin, looked over at the bar. He then sent his eyes around to his 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 said.

"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 sherry, Scotch, bourbon, and cognac, and ten cases of Pilsner Urquell. All of the best quality the hotel cellars provide."

The manager gaped at him blankly. He said, "But sir, the bar is automated, either for individual drinks or by the bottle…"

"Send up the cases," Forry said. "This penthouse has a kitchen, of course, and a large pantry, deep-freeze and all?"

"Of course, sir."

"I want it completely stocked within a couple of hours, from your stocks on hand, with enough 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 mouth to protest, to declare the abilities of the hotel's chefs, but then closed it again. "Yes, sir," he fawned. "And what else?"

Forry said, "This room is going to be converted into, uh, something of an office. We'll want a half dozen desks and the standard equipment to go with them—TV phones, voco-typers, library 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 here. I want the door at the other end kept closed and two hotel security men posted at it twenty-four hours a day. They are to pass no one."

That, evidently, was not an unknown desire on the part of guests registered in the penthouse. 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 outside 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 this. It 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 Cos did the same. Forry sent Ron and Dick to double check the doors. Les Bates made a beeline for the bar, 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 know we're here. But after tomorrow morning, when we let it out where we are, nobody in this team is to drink or eat anything that doesn't come from our private stock. Don't dial for drinks on the autobar, don't have any food sent up from the kitchens. From now on, we're poison-conscious. Also 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 could 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 protection? 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 the toughness of the spot you're in. At that stage, it was just as well the IABI didn't know where we were, even if they did want to guard us. They're undoubtedly infiltrated by the Graf's organization, and we'd have put ourselves on the spot. And asking for gun permits for them would have revealed the fact that Ron, Billy, Les, and Rick were lined up with you and that might have led to tracking us 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 of the past few days.

Forry said, taking out the last pack of cigarettes he had bought in Nassau, "I hope that soapy manager can come up with tobacco as well. I'll have to order that, too, before the night is out. That's 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 and decide what rooms each of us should have. Give Roy the most strategically located one—you know, 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 was an extensive garden, largely of potted plants, a swimming pool, a sun deck, tables, and folding chairs. He said, "What's to prevent a chopper from settling down out there with a few of the Grafs 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 your 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 we're not all young, unattached, strongarm types. And probably a lot of the membership don't even agree with what I'm doing."

"All right," Forry said sourly. "But we need at least four more guards, preferably familiar with guns."

"Guns? What guns?" Dick said bitterly. "Just one of the Graf's pros with a shooter could blow the asses off us all."

Forry looked at him. "By tomorrow we'll have guns. You can buy anything in this country if you have enough credit, and as of tomorrow, we'll be openly spending Roy's million a day. As an 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 turned to 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 presentation 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 should've thought of that. There're injections these days that can darken his complexion, or we could use a sunlamp. And we can have him massaged and dieted down to the point where he doesn't look so lardy."

"Hey," Roy said in protest.

They ignored him.

"There's another thing," Ferd Feldmeyer said. "That first speech was good enough, perhaps. It summed up the Wobbly program. But we can't just repeat it over and over again. We've got to have fresh material."

"Like what?" Dick asked, in rejection. "I thought it was swell. Gave the movement's stand exactly. 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 a flat statement of what you want. You've got to come up with new, exciting stuff; something to keep them 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 anything 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 diseases. First the sulfas. They were tremendously effective when first discovered, but in a few years, new strains of gonoccocci had developed that were immune to sulfa. Then the antibiotics like streptomycin came along, but the germs adapted to them and eventually thrived. Well, suppose we put our scientists to work on a whole series of new antibiotics. Then, on D-Day, everybody in the country would take the new antibiotic, whether or not they had ever had any venereal disease. Every man, woman, and child, including the president and Roman Catholic cardinals. Later, one of the other new antibiotics would be given everybody, to nail the germs missed that first time. And from then on, nobody would be allowed into the United States of the Americas until they'd had their antibiotics. This is a half-assed description of an idea some researcher wrote, and I may have some 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 done under any system."

"But the thing is," Ferd said patiently, "to get to the people, you've got to participate, take a strong stand on everything from pollution and depletion of natural resources to ending war, women's rights, race problems, and all the rest. Your stand should sound more sensible than anybody else's, or else more Godly. And you've got to sound off about it, louder and more insistently than anybody else. If 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'll go 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 sneaking suspicion that tomorrow'll be a busy day." He paused and added in deprecation, "I've got a 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 back in bed in his pajamas, hands under his head, staring at the ceiling. Beside him, on the night table, was a 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 carried a half-empty bottle of Scotch. Her hair had been combed out and her face glowed as if freshly washed—or freshly made up.

Roy said, his tired hazel eyes puzzled, "Hello, Mary Ann. Something up?" He came to one elbow.

"That should be my question," she smiled, and closed the door behind her. Her face had a flush which, Roy decided to his surprise, brought a wistful beauty to her ordinary plainness. Mary Ann Elwyn would never be thought of as a pretty girl but her femininity was there, now that she had discarded her brisk office efficiency.

She brought her eyes up and to his and the flush deepened. "I thought you might be lonesome," she said, her voice low.

Roy stared at her. Plain, Mary Ann might be, but even the dreary nightclothes she wore couldn't disguise the healthy womanly body. Her breasts were high, her waist taut, her legs surprisingly long. Roy hadn't noticed those legs before. It seldom occurred to men to scrutinize the Mary Ann equipment.

For a moment, he couldn't remember when last he had bedded a woman. It had probably been one 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 up 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 four 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, after tossing her bathrobe to the foot of the bed and kicking off her slippers. "I'm not interested in boys. I'm interested in a loving man." She flicked off the night table light. "And you're the most loving man 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. As in practically all large cities these days, vehicular traffic in Paris was at a minimum though pedestrians and bicycles occupied the streets even at this time of night in Left Bank, still the home of artists and Sorbonne students.

Nat Fraser looked over at his younger companion approvingly. He said, "Cobber, you look like a 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 enough credits to outfit me."

"Nothing's too good for a cove working for the bloody Graf." Nat looked up at a street sign. "Rue 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 had a contract there with some fifty commandos and a few hundred ragheads. Too bloody-minded by far 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 civilians, looting—old Boris gets his lollies out of it. Bad business. If the situation pickles, you might have to depend on those women and old coves. Hide you, feed you, if they're lucky enough as to have 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 centuries or more in age. Hotel Balcon.

"This is it, cobber. Just follow me bloody lead. Rivas is competition to the Graf. This is his last bloody chance. He comes in with the mucking organization, or the barstid's had it, and that's the dinkum oil."

"You mean we, uh, shoot him?"

The other grinned cheerfully. "More likely he'd shoot us first, cobber. But we're here under a 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 long 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-timer 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 hotels before. At each landing he pushed a button in the wall which turned on a low wattage bulb just long enough for them to reach the next landing. The management of the Hotel Balcon did not waste electrical power.

On the fifth floor, the pressing of the light button gave them just enough time to find room 505. Nat 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 shoulder, deeper of chest. He was the blackest man Frank Pinell had ever seen—actually ebony in complexion—yet his face was more nearly European than Bantu. He was a beautiful physical 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 small suite. Since doors were open, it could be seen that there were two bedchambers and a bath. The place was better furnished, more comfortable than would have been expected of the Hotel Balcon.

The room they had entered was filled with chairs, a table, files, piles of papers, maps, and correspondence. Behind an old metal desk sat Colonel Boris Rivas. Rivas sat straight in his chair, his posture military. His face was dark and somewhat oily, so that he looked more like a Greek or Turk than a Frenchman. His black hair was streaked with gray and looked as though it could use a 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 looked at Frank, sent his eyes over to Nat again, but then brought them back to Frank, whom he took in at 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. The 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 that there be two of us and two of you. Fair dinkum. This is Frank Pinell, one of the Grafs newest boys. Frank, our cheeky cove behind the desk is Colonel Boris Rivas. Who bloody well promoted him to colonel, nobody seems to know."

"That's enough provocative talk, Fraser," the colonel snapped. "And this is Sergeant Sengor, long ago of the Senegalese Airborne Commandos, my right-hand man—and bodyguard." The colonel brought his eyes back to Frank and said, "You wouldn't be related to the late Buck Pinell, would 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 little about him."

"If you're the son of Buck Pinell, I'm surprised to see you in the employ of Brandenburg. Pinell 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 responsible for Buck Pinell's death."

"Pull your head in," the big Australian growled. "A fine bloke you are to throw such narky nonsense around. You're crazy as a kookaburra if you think the Graf did Buck in. They cobbered up with each other when they were both no older than joeys." He looked over at Frank. "I never met Buck Pinell meself; before me time, gawdstrewth. But if he was your father, he was a wowser, from all they say."

The colonel hit his desk a double rap in impatience. "Shall we get on with it?" he said. "You contacted me for a meeting. Very well, what do you have to say? I warn you, I will not be intimidated by Brandenburg's cheap threats."

Nat Fraser grinned at him. "The Graf wouldn't spend his bloody time on a cheeky zany like you, Rivas. Peter Windsor sent us, strewth. The mucking message is simple enough for a dingo to get it through his block. The mercenary business is too bloody small for any competition. So Windsor says this is your last mucking chance. You and your whole bloody outfit are invited to join up with 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 part of Common Europe. I shall continue to be. I am not afraid of the Graf. His organization hasn't handled a sizeable mercenary operation for years. His contracts these days are almost all individual hit jobs which, of course, are more in keeping with his talents. Sergeant, see the gentlemen to the door!" Boris Rivas pushed out of his chair and made his way over to his improvised bar where he 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 gesture with his head to Frank. "Let's do a bunk, cobber. This bloody arse is asking for it, strike me blind if 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 Fraser, the lickspittle. That Windsor scum has his gall sending two of his gunmen to try and intimidate me. 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 many of your lads as you can assemble within a few minutes, to man my hotel. The Graf has thrown down the gauntlet. We'll have to confer. I'm getting in touch with Major Dupres and Captain Flaubert as 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 cautiously 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 think we'd better move some of the lads into the hotel, just to be sure. One doesn't know what that 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. He tolerated small organizations such as ours in the past, while recruiting our best men. But now contracts are too few and far between for him to allow competition. He's amalgamating every 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. We've both had offers from Windsor to go on the Graf's full-time retainer, with promotions. I'm afraid we're taking the offers, Boris. I suggest that you make your own peace with him. He'd probably 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 his performance of a few minutes before. He said to the impassive black, "Get a drink, Sergeant," and returned to the desk.

Sengbr went over to the bottles, poured himself a small gin, and returned with it to his place against the wall, near the door.

Rivas flicked on the phone screen again and dialed. When the face appeared, it was that of a coarse, middle-aged man who looked as though he was half drunk. In fact, even as he sat there 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. We're 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 with 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 hasn't approached me. If he doesn't by the weekend, I'll offer him my services. If he doesn't want them, it looks as though I'm retired."

The face faded and Rivas slumped back in his chair for a long moment. Finally, he got up and poured himself another drink, a smaller one this time. Carrying the glass with him, he went over to 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 side of the window and pushed back the curtain a few inches. Across the street, he could make out a figure standing in a doorway. He let the curtain back and for a moment leaned against the wall, breathing deeply. He knocked the drink back and threw the glass across the room, shattering it against the far wall. His hand went beneath his coat to emerge with a small Gyrojet, a silencer attachment on its muzzle.

"Come on, Sergeant," he muttered. "It's you and me now. We'll go to ground and start recruiting for our counterattack. That scum Brandenburg doesn't know what fighting men are. He hires lads to do his dirty work; hasn't been in action himself for decades. I just wonder how impregnable that Wolfschloss of his really is."

The sergeant opened the door, peered up and down the dark corridor, then let the colonel precede him. They hurried down the stairway, the colonel pressing the light button, as had Nat Fraser, at each landing. And at each landing they shot glances up and down the hotel corridor. The lobby was 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 through on Nat Fraser's orders. They went down a dark, narrow corridor to the portal leading out into the 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 onto the street; the other was a cul-de-sac blocked by a high brick wall. On each side, the walls were blank and tall. The only light came from the street, fifty feet away. The door through which they emerged was at pavement level. The alley was cobblestoned, going back to the days of Napoleon the Little. 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 door. Back, back the other way!"

But then he slowly, as though with great care, leaned forward and went down onto his knees. He coughed softly, then leaned forward again and put his hands on the cobblestones in front of him. The Gyrojet pistol clanged to the paving. He slowly bowed his head, as though staring in fascination at the cobbles before him. There was a splashing sound. His arms and legs seemed to give way at 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 coats. They stared down at the body. A four-inch combat knife handle protruded upward from the body of Boris Rivas. The Australian looked up at the sergeant and nodded. "Be with you in a meejum minute, Sengor."

He turned and led Frank, who had been staring at the fallen man in dread fascination, twenty feet down the alley.

Nat said, his voice unruffled and unhurried, "You do a bunk back to the hotel and get your things. I'll stay here with the wog and do the necessary. Your orders are to go to Vaduz, in Liechtenstein, and to the Wolfschloss—that's the Graf's stronghold. You're to contact Peter Windsor there. I won't be seeing you again, cobber, not this time." He stuck his right hand out. "It was bonzer getting to know you, Frank."

Frank Pinell ignored the hand and looked into the other's face coldly. He said, his voice even, "I won't shake hands with you, Fraser. You're no friend of mine. You and Panikkar had it all worked out to set me up for that Mahdi job. Anybody with a brain in his head could see that it was a one-way trip. I don't know what happened, or why, but at the last minute this Peter Windsor, or somebody else on the Graf's staff, diverted me to this instead. I played along with you for a while, Fraser, just to see what the hell was going on, but I never would have taken that Mahdi job. It was suicide."

The big Australian nodded. He took off the bush hat, reset the brim, then returned it to his head. "What you say's the dinkum oil, cobber. Sorry. It was out of my mucking hands. I have to take 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 under 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 the Liechtenstein border. The vacuum tube line crossed the tiny principality on its way to Vienna but didn't stop in Liechtenstein. There was evidently no shuttleport, nor even an airport. Frank began to get the idea of just how small and remote this country was when he had to take a surface bus to complete his journey.

There had been no customs inspection at the border; that was taken care of in Vaduz itself. He didn't spot any police but the bus station had an official look about it and there were several men lounging about clad like those stationed at Colonel Ram Panikkar's fortress-like estate in Tangier—berets, commando-type uniforms, and paratrooper boots. They carried Gyrojet carbines as naturally as though they had been bora with them in hand. None of them paid any particular 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 bags, he made his way to it. The young man there, dressed in civilian garb rather than a uniform, looked up at Frank's approach.

He frowned slightly and said in English, after taking in the newcomer's appearance, "I'm afraid you have made a mistake, sir. Liechtenstein is not a tourist country. There is nothing particular here to attract visitors. If you hurry, you can return to the bus, which makes its next stop in Feldkirch, in 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 the, 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 Panikkar in Tangier. He had wondered at the time if it was a forgery, but evidently not. He had drawn on it for credit when traveling without any difficulty. He wondered how many pseudo-dollar credits he had to his account.

An International Credit Card, as always, doubled as a passport. The customs man glanced at it and then put it in a slot. In moments, a voice from the desk screen spoke in German. The official nodded and handed it back to Frank. He must have pressed a button with either hand or foot, since one of the uniformed men came up.

The customs man said, "Escort Mr. Pinell to the Wolfschloss. He is to see Mr. Windsor at the donjon."

"Right," the other said, and took Frank in. He lifted one of the two pieces of luggage and said, "This way."

Frank followed him out to a small parking area and to one of the several jeeps there. They put the 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 have been roughly Frank's own age but had a toughness about him somewhat reminiscent of Nat Fraser.

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 answering. It would seem that questions weren't good form locally, though the Canadian had asked the first one.

It was an excellent road. They had passed out of Vaduz in moments. Frank said, "I work for the 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 they could be this large. The Wolfschloss was built atop a small mountain. Even the lower foundations were a thousand feet above the valley floor. It brought to mind an action-filled movie revival of the last century, depicting the good guys storming the Alcazar in Segovia. They had used catapults, small primitive cannon, battering rams, and finally, scaling ladders. It had been on the gruesome side, with the defenders pouring melted lead and boiling oil down on the attacking forces. The good guys had finally taken the castle by storm, but Frank had wondered ever since what sort of soldier would 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 had ever been captured in the old days. He didn't see how it could have been, before the advent of heavy artillery.

Along the road, since they had left Vaduz, they had passed guard houses and on two occasions concrete pillboxes, heavy automatic weapons projecting from their slots, but they had been stopped 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 from its 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, armed with the usual Gyrojet automatic carbines, stationed to each side of the metal door, and one who, by 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 just 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, Mr. 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 them. They were in a moderately large room, steel of walls, ceiling, and even the floor, which was, however, carpeted. Six armed men studied the newcomer.

One of the seated officers held out his hand without words and Frank handed over his International Credit Card again.

There was a faint buzzing sound, and the officer looked at him coldly. Two of the guards hurried 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 silencer. 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. Windsor armed?"

"For Christ's sake," Frank said, mildly impatient. "It was issued to me by Nat Fraser, in Tangier. 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," he 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 bags, and gone through them. Frank got the feeling that they were being electronically scanned at the same 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 proper. It looked like the waiting room of a small shuttleport. There were unupholstered benches and chairs, and a small bar at which a pretty young blonde, in a feminine version of the ever-present commando uniform, presided. There were two more guards at their ease here, and three civilian-dressed, 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 links of chain to the floor, extended through the opening. In only moments, a cable car came sliding into the room and descended into the slot built for it into the floor. One of the guards went forward and unlocked its door. Two passengers emerged, one a tall, well-dressed black carrying a very large briefcase, the other an efficient-looking, middle-aged woman who looked Spanish or Italian. They 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. The car was rectangular, with rounded corners and modest windows. By the looks of them, none of the windows could be opened, and Frank suspected that the glass was bulletproof. As Frank took a seat, the guard outside locked the door and they took off with a slight lurch, climbing at a sharp angle though the swaying gondola remained horizontal.

Frank stared out a window in fascination. Beneath them were scrubby, hardy trees and massive, jagged boulders, occasionally with wiry grass. From time to time he could spot a zigzag trail ascending the hill. It looked as though it hadn't been used for years and, from time to time, there were indications that it had once been wider—perhaps a narrow road. In the distance were spectacular snow-topped Alps.

He looked over at Colin and said, scowling puzzlement, "You mean that this cable car is the only 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 look 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 slot. Frank could see, through the windows, only a small portion of huge castle wall, partially brick, 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 left 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 one thing, there were ports in one of the walls which evidently overlooked the cable car ascent. Before each of them was mounted heavy weapons of a design Frank had never seen before, even in films. There were six guards on duty here and, once again, two officers. Their shoulder tabs looked more impressive than those the two below had worn.

He went through much the same procedure as before: he was electronically searched, and his credit card was checked out, then handed back to him. "Righto, corporal," the bored officer said. "You're cleared for the donjon."

"Yes, sir," Colin said, saluting in the offhand manner that seemed to apply to these professionals.

This part of the castle had been reconstructed recently. On the other side of the metal door through which they exited was a modem, though militarily barren corridor, which couldn't possibly have dated back to medieval times. It extended only fifty feet or so before they were confronted by 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 park devoted largely to sports. From where they entered, Frank could see an enormous swimming pool at the far end, with scores of bathers, both men and women, enjoying the place. Nearer were a dozen tennis courts, also well patronized. And nearer still, a fairly good-sized putting green, largely patronized by older types. There were also practice courts for basketball and jai alai. Between them were pleasant walks, extensive lawns neat as a golf green, fountains and gardens spotted here and there.

To the right, however, was also a copter landing pad, and on it two aircraft, one a heavy cargo carrier, the other a fighter, weapons protruding from apertures. Frank realized then what his guide had meant when he'd answered that the cable car wasn't the only manner of supplying the Wolfschloss.

One had to look about the walls, the battlements, the projecting turrets, the round towers at the corners of the walls with their conical tops, to realize that this was indeed the interior of a castle, centuries old.

"Not bad, eh?" Colin said. "The Graf must have spent a mint doing the enceinte up like this." He 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 buildings, 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, missile launchers, mortars, and machine guns. He said with a touch of sarcasm, "One small nuke and that's the end of the whole works."

Colin looked over at him as they walked. "Straight down, about half a mile, are the bomb shelters. 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. The 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 and his staff live there.''

Frank could see the keep, the highest and the largest of the towers. It was a castle within a castle and must have been one hell of a disappointment to come up against in the days when you had nothing more than a crossbow, sword, and battleaxe

He was apprehensive about what was to come in his confrontation with Peter Windsor, the Grafs front man One thing was certain: there was no line of retreat for him If something went wrong, there 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. By the time they drew up to its sole entrance, he realized that it was as large as some apartment buildings.

Before the entry were stationed four uniformed guards and an officer. Gone was the easygoing air 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 eyed 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 said, "You're expected, sir."

The ancient medieval door had long since been superseded by a massive steel one. Built into one side of it was a smaller door, just wide enough so that two persons could have walked in side by side. It now slid open. Colin said to Frank, "This is as far as I go, Mr. Pinell. I'm not cleared for the donjon. Good luck."

Frank went through the door and was again surprised, as he had been by the parklike effect of the enceinte. The basic medieval aspects of the keep had been retained. The stone walls and narrow apertures were still there. The floors were still flagstone. Otherwise, the ground floor of the keep seemed an ultramodern office building.

There were a score or so office workers in the lobby, walking briskly here or there, papers in hand. They ranged in age from Frank's early twenties to sixty or more but most, both men and women, were on the youthful side. Some were uniformed, some not. Frank approached the first of the desks, mildly surprised that it wasn't automated. Behind it sat a sharp-looking young blonde who would have done the reception room of the largest multinational corporation in Manhattan proud. She 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 him, and said perkily, "You're expected, sir. Elevator one."

The three elevators were numbered in gold. Number one seemed somewhat more ornate than the others. Frank stepped in. There was no order screen, nor any other manner that he could see of activating the compartment. He shrugged.

The door closed and started upward. And continued upward. It would seem that Mr. Peter Windsor was officed in the higher reaches of the keep. Eventually, it came to a halt, and he emerged into an office containing four desks and four very busy workers. It was quite the swankest office Frank had ever been in, including that of Ram Panikkar in Tangier. It was difficult to realize that he 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 same pert manner as the receptionist below. She was dressed in what Frank thought must be the latest from Paris. She said brightly, "Fraulein Krebs is expecting you, Mr. Pinell. If you'll just come this 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 Krebs in 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," and stepped back.

The office inside was luxurious to a point that Frank had never witnessed even in the most lavish Tri-Di shows. Withal, it managed to project a touch of femininity. It could never have been taken for a man's room. Above all, it radiated wealth. Frank was no art expert, but recognized Impressionist paintings when he saw them. There were two on the walls. He had no doubt whatever that they were originals.

Behind one desk sat a serious, studious-looking young man and a woman of, say, thirty-five behind the other. Her strikingly handsome face was difficult to estimate. She had beautifully dark hair, wore 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. He had a feeling new to him. It was usually the man who looked at a woman in such a way as to mentally undress her, estimate her capabilities in bed. Now he felt as though positions were reversed. Did 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 hand 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 world would a bigshot in Mercenaries, Incorporated want to see him? Surely there wouldn't be anyone in the organization lower on the totem pole than Frank Pinell. He had been astonished at the reception 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 you think of the Wolfschloss?"

He managed a small grin and said, "Flabbergasted. I had no idea of the size of these European 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 spent a 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 yesterday on 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. You see, some items involving Mercenaries, Incorporated can't be written down. With me on hand, 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 not sure why."

"Margit," she told him. "In the inner circles, we're informal. I'll take you to Peter right now. He's expecting you and is rather on the curious side." She turned and headed for a door opposite the one by which he had entered.

For a moment, he looked at her blankly. Inner circles? Was the competent, efficient, handsome Fraulein Krebs suggesting that Frank Pinell belonged to the inner circles of Mercenaries, Incorporated? She obviously had made some mistake. But how could anybody as sharp as the secretary of the Graf be that far off? And why should the notorious Peter Windsor be curious about meeting Frank Pinell?

He shook his head and followed her. They went down a short corridor and, without knocking, she 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 one desk, and the feminine element was missing. The wall decorations were of a military nature, including paintings of war scenes and a flag which was holed in various places by what looked suspiciously like gunfire, and including a submachine gun which was racked in the manner that sportsmen display their shotguns or rifles.

Behind a somewhat battered and littered desk sprawled a lanky man, a report of some kind in his hand. He wore tennis shoes without socks, khaki walking shorts, and a khaki shirt, its sleeves rolled up. Frank's first snap judgment was that the other couldn't be much older than himself, but later realized on seeing the wrinkles at the side of the eyes that Peter Windsor projected an air of youth 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 down, dear boy," Windsor said. And then, as Frank was doing so, "Yes, I can see the resemblance. You 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 really 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 was he like?"

The other thought about it, sending his lime-green eyes ceilingward. He murmured finally, slowly, "A sort of dashing chap. He liked combat, I shouldn't wonder. Some men do, you know. They live for the excitement. He liked nothing so much as to find what he considered a just cause and then fight for it. He didn't mind making a profit at the same time, but for him, the enjoyment was in the combat. For myself, and for the Graf, I think, it has always been purely business. Buck fought for 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't of 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. He 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 the 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. Take every opening you can, every advantage. In that manner you'll live longer. Rivas had his chance. He was a bloody fool for not coming in with us. There was no use mucking around with him when he refused."

Frank said, "I suppose that Senegelese sergeant of his will get a good position with Mercenaries, Incorporated now."

Peter Windsor shook his head at him. "No. He'll be paid the amount promised and sent on his way. If he'd betray Rivas, how can we be sure that he wouldn't betray us, given the opportunity? The Graf 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 impossible 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 of the organization in the same sense that our exuberant Nat Fraser or Colonel Ram Panikkar are. However, you were offered a sizeable sum, a hundred thousand pseudo-dollars desposited to your account in the Bahamas, before you were to leave for Central Africa. Upon the success of your mission you were to make your escape and enjoy the amount in whatever manner you saw fit. Very well, where 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 escape 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 pledge. I've always thought Panikkar a bit of a swine. I'll have to take this up with him. It wouldn't do for the 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 floor. "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 from 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 elaborate 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-floor window which framed the Rhine and its valley, his hands in the coat pockets of his immaculate business suit. He was staring out, his face characteristically expressionless. On their entry, the short-statured Graf turned, and, for a long moment, stared at Frank. Frank, feeling uncomfortable, 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 was taken aback by the smoky gray-flecked irises of the other's eyes and more so when Lothar von 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 him, many years ago when we were both, ah, callow youngsters." He turned to one of the oversized couches and lowered himself, saying, "Sit down, Franklin."

Peter Windsor cleared his throat and slumped into one of the chairs, crossing long legs 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 retreat. He said, "I couldn't have been much of a surprise. It was already set up. I suspect that the two IABI men were in on it, possibly even Judge Worthington back in the States. Certainly the cab driver and the two muggers in the medina in Tangier. First came Nat Fraser, as implausible a knight in armor as ever came down the pike. He took me to your Colonel Panikkar, who lavished good will on me, supposedly putting me deeply into his debt. He gave me strong arguments for taking an assignment for you. I might look young and ah, callow, as you put it, but I'm not as much a fool as all that. It was a suicide project. Actually, I wouldn't have taken it, but Panikkar didn't know that. I played along, just to see what the hell was going on. But it was called off from your end, before I ever 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 been the cause of the death of my father."

The old man nodded again. ' 'Then, for once, Rivas spoke the truth. I was the cause of your 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, after saving my life. He sacrificed himself to rescue me. He was my best friend, and I, his. I have not had 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 said, "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 all I stood for. She had been violently against your father's, ah, profession. When my representative approached her, she absolutely refused to allow me to participate in your raising. She refused to accept any of your father's extensive earnings, as she had always refused while he was still alive. The relationship between your father and mother was not a close one, Franklin. She was contemptuous of him. She only continued to allow him to visit occasionally because he was your father and you loved him. Your mother was a good and compassionate woman with whom Buck Pinell was deeply in love. She refused to marry him, though he wished it. Their affair ended when she discovered your 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 kept a closer check on you as the years have gone by. But still, I hadn't wished to interfere with your mother's plans for your education and upbringing. It was the only thing for which she would draw upon your father's accumulated fortune and, even then, frugally. I had planned to make contact with 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 had selected?"

"That's correct. In any of the fields I selected."