Deathwish World

"Why not?" the Graf said bluntly.

"Because there are jobs in our economy for only about five percent of the population. But the fault is largely mine. I switched subjects too often. I started in aviation, but after a few years, I could see that it was becoming so highly auto-mated that there were going to be practically no positions available. So I switched to space and spent a few years cramming so that I might be chosen to go to Lagrange Five or the Asteroid Belt. But then the government began cutting back drastically on new space expenditures, so drastically that it was all but impossible to get out to the space islands. So then…"

"Very well. I can see your problem. So when you finished your schooling you were unable to find employment."

"Actually, I've never quite finished it, though it became more difficult after my mother's death and my source of income was cut off. She never gave me access to my father's resources, hating them as she did. I'm not even sure that she could have. I don't know what the legal arrangements were. Since then, I've largely been on GAS. However, I've held a few small jobs out of the ken of the computers. In between I continued my studies as best I could."

The Graf leaned back in the couch. "You might consider a position in my organization, Franklin."

Peter Windsor had been listening, his eyebrows a little high. Obviously, much of this was new to him but he learned best by listening.

Frank Pinell, who had been gaining confidence over the past fifteen minutes, shook his head at the old mercenary's words. He said, "I have certain reservations. Nat Fraser and Colonel Panikkar gave me a rundown on the position you assume on the things you do in your, uh, organization. However, I suspect that toward the end, at least, my father might have had some of the same reservations. What did they call him? The Lee Christmas of the 21st century. I've read a little about Lee Christmas. I wonder if he ever went in for outright political assassination."

"Possibly not. I checked on this early American mercenary after Fraulein Krebs gave me a bit of his background the other day. He was an uncouth, uneducated man—a railroad worker, I understand, before becoming a soldier of fortune. Undoubtedly, he had the usual prejudices of his time and his upbringing."

The Graf's voice was becoming a bit impatient. "See here, Franklin, you must realize that mankind accepts the fact of killing his fellow man under acceptable circumstances. What are acceptable circumstances is the bone of contention. Even the assassin can become a hero—given circumstances. Let us take a few examples from the history of your own very aggressive nation. Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, and Colonel Travis, heroes of the Alamo, were not Texans. They were American adventurers; mercenaries. The Alamo was not garrisoned by Texans, it was garrisoned by men of many nations sent to that part of Mexico to seek their fortunes with their guns. The flag that flew over the Alamo was that of a troop of New Orleans volunteers. How many true Texans were there I do not know, but certainly Crockett was not one of them. He had been a Representative in Congress from Tennessee."

"I didn't know that," Frank murmured.

The Graf went on. "A group of American mercenaries during the First World War formed the Lafayette Escadrille, a pursuit squadron in the French Air Force. By American law, this should have deprived them of American citizenship. Instead, as soon as the United States entered the conflict, they became heroes, and their squadron became part of the American forces. The Flying Tigers who fought as mercenaries under Chiang Kai-shek against the Japanese before Pearl Harbor? These men were all highly trained pilots from American army, navy, and air force schools, and they flew the latest in American fighters. They were paid for each plane they shot down, with American money funnelled to China. But they were mercenaries, and became American heroes, instead of losing their citizenship.

"So much for mercenaries; let us consider assassins. Suppose that in my own country the General Staff had been successful in assassinating Hitler. Would they not now be heroes?"

The young American was unhappy. He said, "Panikkar and Nat Fraser gave me similar arguments. They didn't convince me."

Peter Windsor said, "Let's face reality. Man kills his fellow man for profit, don't you know? Take the owner of a colliery. The mine is unsafe because he has ignored expensive safety devices. It caves in and fifty of his miners are buried alive. Indirectly, he has killed them—for profit. Is he ever brought to trial? I fancy not. He is a pillar of the community."

The Graf said, "But enough of this for now. You must be

Reynolds with Dean Ing

tired, Franklin. We'll meet for dinner. No need for you to make a decision at this time."

Evidently, he had signalled somehow since Sepp, the liveried butler, materialized. "Bitte, Herr Graf," he said, bowing.

"Sepp," the elderly mercenary said, "this is Mr. Franklin Pinell. See him to his suite. I suppose his bags have been delivered by now. And see that he is assigned a valet."

"Ja, Herr Graf." Sepp turned to Frank. "Mr. Pinell?"

Frank nodded at Peter Windsor, came to his feet, and followed the stone-faced servant out a side door.

In the medieval stone corridor along which Frank followed Sepp, the elderly servitor said politely, "If I may say so, sir, you resemble your father remarkably."

"So everybody's been telling me. You knew my father?"

"I had the honor to serve with him in two campaigns, sir," Sepp said, his voice politely inflectionless. "Before I lost my leg."

Involuntarily, Frank glanced down and now noticed that the servant limped lightly.

Frank said, "I had gathered that the Graf made a policy of granting suitable compensations for his wounded men. Shouldn't you be living in comfortable retirement somewhere?"

"Well, yes, sir. But you see, I am wanted by both Interpol and the American LABI. I am safe here."

"That you are," Frank smiled. "From what I've seen of it, this castle has many attributes of a resort. Shouldn't you be able to retire right here?"

They had reached a heavy wooden door and, for a moment, the servant stood with his hand on the knob. For the first time Frank saw a slight expression on the other's usually immobile face. It was ruefulness. He said, "I suppose so, sir. However, the Herr Graf is used to my service. And… besides, it is of interest to be here in the center of things."

He opened the door and they stepped inside. Frank's luggage lay in the living room's center. The suite was spacious—an extensive living room with ornate wooden furniture, a bedroom with an enormous canopied bed, a large bath, and what Frank assumed was a small study. He was again surprised at the art of whatever interior decorater had redesigned the donjon of the Wolfschloss. The man had been a genius in merging the old and new. That the rooms were those of a

Dark Ages castle was obvious, but they were modern in the best sense of comfort. That they had once been cold, damp, and grim could easily be imagined, but not with the modern conveniences added. The suite was absolutely palatial.

"It is satisfactory, sir?" Sepp said with polite anxiety.

At this height in the keep, it had undoubtedly never been necessary to continue the narrow bowmen's apertures that prevailed on the lower levels. The windows were spacious and looked out on a picturesque setting of Alps, glaciers, streams, and the upper reaches of the Rhine.

Frank shook his head. "It's a beautiful suite, Sepp. What was this about a valet?"

"I'll assign you Helmut, sir. A very reliable servant."

"What do I need him for?"

The old soldier-turned-butler seemed a touch surprised. "Why, sir, he'll do for you. Something like a batman, an orderly, sir."

Frank sighed. It would be an advantage to have somebody who could show him the ropes. He didn't even know his way around the corridors. He said, "All right, but tell him the less I see of him, the better."

"Sir, Helmut will never intrude unless summoned. Is there anything else, sir?"

Frank looked around. There was even a heavy wooden bar, which looked handcarved, set up against one wall. "I suppose not," he said. "Thanks, Sepp."

"Not at all, sir. I was always a great admirer of your father, sir. In the fracas in which I lost my leg, he carried me over a kilometer through enemy fire to the nearest field hospital." He coughed before adding, "Although he was wounded himself."

Frank couldn't think of anything to say to that, and the ramrod-erect old man turned to leave.

When he reached the door and was about to open it, he hesitated momentarily, then half turned and said, "Don't trust any of them, Mr. Pinell."

Chapter Sixteen: Frank Pinell

In the Grafs informal office, Lothar von Brandenburg was saying to his aide, "What do you think of him, Peter?"

Peter said slowly, "Frank seems a straight-speaking young man. Adequate education, all that sort of thing."

The Graf looked at him. "You seem to have reservations."

"Well, not really. But you seem to accept him rather wholeheartedly. He is frightfully young to be taken into our inner circles."

The older man gave one of his rare, gray smiles without humor. "He is older than you were when I first met you, Peter."

The Englishman waggled a hand in rejection. "Perhaps we went to different schools."

"We shall sound him out further at dinner, but meanwhile, I am quite impressed," the Graf told him. "Ram Panikkar and that Australian fellow didn't hoodwink him for a moment. Meanwhile, let us be about the day's developments. Where is Margit?"

It wasn't a question that needed an answer. Margit entered immediately, obviously having been summoned.

She said briskly, "Lothar, Peter," and took her chair.

Peter said, "There's one item, Chief, on which we should get cracking. This Roy Cos, who signed a standard Deathwish Policy in Nassau."

"The Wobbly organizer? Yes, of course. I thought we notified Cellini, in New York, to put a couple of top men on him."

"Jolly well," Windsor said in disgust, "but our Mr. Cos is still with us and Brett-James, who sold the contract, is screaming like a chap with the blue spiders. Cos and his business manager, a Forrest Brown, are spending money like autumn leaves on the wind. Ordinarily, the poor bloody clods who sign these contracts have neither the imagination to spend a fraction of their million pseudo-dollars a day available, nor to avoid our people. They usually go on a drunken, woman-chasing binge in some expensive resort. They take the most posh suites and they buy—dear God, do they buy!"

The Graf eyed him in incomprehension. "But what does this Cos fellow do?"

"He's spending, right up to the hilt each day, on prime Tri-Di time for his lectures. He's also renting huge auditoriums for his rallies, and hiring a large staff of bodyguards and aides, such as publicity men and speech writers."

Margit said, "Can't he be reached through bodyguards or other employees?"

Windsor shook his head. "Not so far. We had a publicity man lined up but he was discovered. The bodyguards are all trusted Wobblies and the attempts to bribe them into defecting have all met with violence. But that's not the only difficulty. His message is beginning to get over. For a century and a half the few radicals of the United States have been a laughingstock. Nobody bothered to listen to their demands for fundamental changes, don't you know? But now the proles, caught up in the emotion of his plight, are beginning to consider his program. I've heard from two members of the Central Committee of the World Club. This man is a potential danger to the overall program. They demand that he be liquidated posthaste."

The Graf said, "Notify Cellini to drop all else and concentrate on this man. Why can't he be picked off by a sniper from a distance?"

"Because wherever he goes there are mobs around him. Not just bodyguards—there are eight of them now—but his staff and thousands of gawking curiosity seekers, most of them at least partially in his favor. A hit man can't get near him without running into considerable danger, and from a distance, there are so many people about him that a man with a rifle can't get a clear bead on the sod."

The Graf said impatiently, "That is for Cellini to solve, Peter. And that brings up the matter of the World Club. How did the operation against Harold Dunninger work out?"

"Completely as planned. A really good show. Nils Ostrander deserves a bit of a bonus."

The mercenary head looked at his secretary. "Refresh me on the details, Fraulein."

Margit's eyes went vague. She recited, "Harold Dunninger, international tycoon. Candidate member of the Central Committee of the World Club and, until his recent death, considered most likely to be admitted to the Central Committee upon the retirement of Grace Cabot-Hudson. He belonged to the so-called liberal element in the Central Committee, which includes such people as Jeremiah Auburn, Fong Hui, and Mendel Amschel, who wish to see the forming of a world state based on more democratic principles than most. The liberal element is opposed by such members as Harrington Chase, John Warfield Moyer, and the Committee's secretary, Sheila Duff-Roberts. Also, of course, by such candidate members as the Prophet of the United Church and yourself. It became necessary that Harold Dunninger be eliminated to increase your chances of being nominated a full member of the Committee. Obviously, it could not be handled in the usual manner or suspicion would immediately fall upon Mercenaries, Incorporated. So our mole in the Nihilists was instructed to kidnap Dunninger and hold him for a ransom of fifty million pseudo-dollars, with his life forfeit if the ransom was not paid."

The Graf interrupted, speaking to Peter Windsor. "Suppose he had paid the ransom. Then the Nihilists would have had no escuse to execute him."

Peter yawned and said, "We looked into it thoroughly. He was on the outs with his wife, don't you know? And she was in control of his interests in his absence. We were quite certain that she would never pay such a sum. She didn't. He's dead and the killing laid at the doorstep of the Nihilists."

The Graf thought about it and finally nodded in agreement. "Very well, I understand that the Central Committee is in session in Rome. You will go there as my deputy, Peter, and exert what pressure you can to have me entered as a full member into the Committee. I assume that your strongest competitor for the honor will be the Prophet."

Windsor said thoughtfully, "Don't you think it would be better, Chief, if you went yourself? You've been a Candidate

Member for years but none of the Committee have ever met you. You'd throw more weight if you attended, I shouldn't wonder."

The Graf grunted contempt of that opinion. "Peter, I have not left the Wolfschloss for twenty years. The last time I did, three separate attempts were made on my life. The last nearly succeeded. No, I'll stay here. Keep in mind that the Prophet will also be represented by a deputy. He has no intention of permitting a rumor that he is so worldly as to belong to the World Club. Is there anything else?"

Peter said, "One other item that ordinarily I wouldn't bother you with. A black named Horace Hampton, who seems, ah, an enigma. He is an active member of the Anti-Racist League in America and indications are that he will soon be raised to membership in their National Executive Committee. This Anti-Racist League has come under the scrutiny of the World Club. So long as they were confined to North America alone they could be largely ignored. But with the Central Committee about to take steps to expand the United States of the Americas, these militant anti-racists take on a new posture."

"How do you mean?" the Graf said impatiently. "The next step in the erecting of a World State is to invite Australia and New Zealand to join the UnituI States of the Americas. The computers conclude that, if invited, they will join. Perhaps Great Britain and Ireland will be next. In all four countries there are few minorities, so the anti-racists are no difficulty. However, offering membership to still other nations poses a problem. Suppose India is approached. If the Anti-Racist League were to infiltrate and influence India, her votes would swamp the new United States of the World."

"What has all this got to do with Horace Hampton?"

"He is one of the more intelligent and aggressive members of the League. Sheila Duff-Roberts has given us a contract on this mystery man. I strongly suspect that the National Data Banks have been corrupted to the point of his dossier being a fake."

Margit said musingly, "It isn't the easiest thing in the world to infiltrate the American National Data Banks."

"No, it bloody well isn't," Peter said. "And it seems unlikely that an organization as short of funds as this League could do it."

The Graf said, "So we have a contract on the man. Very well, have it executed."

Peter looked at him. "Chief, it occurs to me that we might send young Pinell to deal with this beggar."

The older man's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Because the boy's inexperienced. You've obviously got plans for him. Very well, he handled himself well on the Rivas assignment, to the extent that he was needed at all. But it would seem to me that he needs a bit more blooding. No particular hurry, but it will give him an opportunity to learn something about the organization. He'd have to work through our local representatives in the States, of course."

"I'll consider the matter," said the Graf. "Very well, if that's all, I'll see you tonight at dinner."

Dismissed, Margit Krebs and Peter Windsor came to their feet and headed for the door.

In the corridor, as they headed for their own offices, Margit looked up at the rangy Englishman. She said, softly, "You didn't mention to Lothar that this Horace Hampton is considered the most efficient field man in the Anti-Racist League and very dangerous as compared to our Frank."

He said, "If you thought so, why didn't you say something to the Chief to that effect?"

"Possibly, just to find out what you're up to, Peter, dear." She eyed him mockingly. "You couldn't be getting second thoughts about Buck PinelFs son, could you, Peter? For years now, you've been second man in Mercenaries, Incorporated. Undoubtedly, you've expected to take over when the Graf either retires or dies."

"Who's better suited to take over the reins? But Lothar's in a position to turn over the whole organization to this stripling. If he did, an outfit that has taken half a century to build could go down the spout overnight. Then where would you and I be, Margit, old thing?"

She reached the door of her office and stood there for a moment, considering it.

"How do you stand?" he demanded.

"I don't know," she said evasively .^"Perhaps you're overestimating Lothar's acceptance of Frank."

"Perhaps," he grunted and went on.

She looked after him and thought to herself, Peter is beginning to wonder if the Graf isn't getting too old for the job. Perhaps a touch of senility. I'd hate to be in the crossfire if it came to a showdown. Margit, my girl, you'd better start considering on what side of your own bread the butter is on.

Dinner that night was another revelation to Frank Pinell, in a day that had been full of them. The baronial hall in which it was held was one flight up in the keep from the offices and suites. The whole floor was evidently devoted to the Grafs living quarters.

Frank had entered the palatial living room attired in the dark suit which Helmut, his newly appointed valet, had laid out for him. There hadn't been much of a choice. He had bought two suits in Paris, on Nat Fraser's suggestion, and several pairs of shoes. All the clothing he had brought with him from America he had discarded, also at Fraser's suggestion. But now he realized that he had made a mistake. The Graf, Peter Windsor, and Margit Krebs were all in evening wear. Margit looked stunning and ten years younger in a simple black silk affair that brought out the pale perfection of her Scandinavian skin. She wore but one item of jewelry, a matched string of pearls whose deep pink luster was obvious from across the room.

The three were seated about a cocktail table, sipping drinks and chatting, as Frank came in. The Graf looked up and frowned but then said, "Please give us the pleasure of your company, Franklin. Sit down." The Graf added smoothly, "We always dress for dinner, Franklin, but I assume your travel clothing is limited."

Frank said, "I've never worn so much as a tuxedo, not to speak of tails. You don't when you're on GAS, you know."

"Forgive me. It skipped my mind that you didn't inherit your father's fortune. Yes, Sepp?"

The butler leaned forward slightly and spoke to his master in German.

"Ah," the mercenary grunted. "Dinner is served. Margit?" With his secretary on his arm, followed by Peter Windsor and Frank, he passed through the double doors into the dining room.

Compared to the refurbishing of the rest of the keep, the dining hall had hardly been touched by the genius of an interior decorator. Frank could well imagine the old days when some long-dead duke, princeling, or archbishop had held forth here. His closest henchmen would be present with their women, wassailing about a huge round table, while minstrels and clowns provided medieval entertainment, as scurrying servants brought on heaping platters of food, and huge mugs with foaming beer, mulled wine, or subtle mead.

The table, however, was considerably smaller than that which must have prevailed in the old days. It would have seated eight at most. The setting was on the awesome side, so far as Frank was concerned. He had never eaten with more cutlery than knife, fork, and spoon, never eaten by candlelight, and most certainly had never eaten off gold.

The Graf sat at one end of the table, Margit at the other, and Peter and Frank across from each other. It came to Frank that Peter Windsor was a changed man in evening dress, after his informal sports garb of the day. Now he looked as though he had been bom to wear formal evening attire; a matinee idol couldn't have been more at ease in it.

Sepp presided with two footmen, also in livery, behind each chair. No more than two sips were taken from a wine glass before it was instantly refilled. It was all on the thick side so far as Frank Pinell was concerned.

It got thicker as the meal progressed. He recognized exactly two of the dishes presented, or at least the ingredients. One was a potato dish which would have been hard to miss, and one a delightful scallop-based fish course. He made the mistake of commenting on the scallops.

"Ah," the Graf said, pleased. "You mean the Coquilles Saint Jacques Parisienne? It is one of Albert's specialities. He will be overjoyed to know you approve."

Peter said, after sipping at his Chablis, "Albert is one of the three best chefs in Common Europe, Frank. It's a privilege to eat from his kitchen, I should think."

Frank said, "You mean to tell me that one of the best three cooks in Europe works here for just the three of you? I'd think he could get a job in any restaurant in the world."

"The four of us now," his host said magnanimously. "Fortunately, Albert is in no position to tender his resignation."

Margit said dryly, "Liechtenstein is somewhat like Tang-ier, in that there are no extradition laws; and since Albert made the mistake of killing his wife, he sees fit to remain as Lothar's chef."

"Poisoned her, to be exact," Peter said blandly.

Frank looked down at the morsel of scallop on his fork and closed his eyes in sorrow.

There were eight courses in all, with eight wines, winding up with a dessert which Margit told him was Nesselrode Pudding with Sabayon Fruit, served with a slightly chilled sauterne.

Largely, the dinner conversation consisted of the Graf expounding on his dreams and turning on what small charm he boasted in order to win the younger man over. Both Margit and Peter seemed surprised at the extent to which he revealed top secrets of the innermost circle of Mercenaries, Incorporated. It would seem that Lothar von Brandenburg was most certainly now considering Frank to be a member of that circle, in which case, it was the most rapid promotion the organization had ever seen.

All of the servants save Sepp spoke nothing but German, and the table conversation was in English.

The Graf had said, "You are acquainted with the World Club, Franklin," while still on the oxtail soup.

"Just slightly," Frank said. "Isn't it an organization of economists, philanthropists, and international do-gooders seeking solutions to worldwide problems?"

"That is the facade we present to the man in the street," the other said, satisfaction in his voice.

"We?" Frank said.

"Mercenaries, Incorporated is represented in the highest echelons of the World Club."

"That surprises me. I pictured the organization as a group of old-timers with more credits than they know what to do with, supporting a lot of foundations."

Peter Windsor gave a snort of amusement.

The Graf said, "I expect within a short time to be nominated to the Central Committee, which consists of but ten members and has the ultimate say in all of the World Club's policies."

"I didn't even know they had a Central Committee," Frank admitted.

"You're not supposed to, dear boy," Peter said.

The Graf shot him an impatient look before turning back to Frank. He said, "The real goal of the World Club, Franklin, is world government—a world that has become one under the aegis of the Club. Obviously, such a united world will no longer have wars and…"

Frank interrupted, "But then what would happen to Mercenaries, Incorporated? It seems to me that your organization depends upon a multitude of antagonistic nations. You should be supporting nationalism, not trying to do away with it."

The Graf smiled his gray smile. "It's a far-seeing man who is able to accommodate inevitable changes, Franklin. Sooner or later there will be world government. When it comes about, I wish to be part of its direction, not a leftover from the past. This new world government will still have police, still have armed forces…"

Frank interrupted again. "Why armed forces?"

The old mercenary nodded at the question. "To keep the peace. Contrary to popular belief, the first need a state has for an armed force is not to fight foreign enemies but the potential enemy within. As an example, take Latin America before it amalgamated with the United States. They spent billions annually building up then* armed forces though there hadn't been a major war in South America for a century and a half. Those arms were to keep their own people in subjection. So in the future, armed forces will still exist. I will be at their head."

Frank looked at him in open skepticism.

Margit said, "The first steps have already been taken, Frank—the formation of the United States of the Americas. The World Club is already secretly agitating in Australia and New Zealand for them to apply for admission into the United States. For a long time now, those countries have been closer to America than to England and the rest of Common Europe."

Frank looked over at her. Candlelight did nothing to detract from the charms of Margit Krebs. She flashed sloe eyes at him, aware of their impact.

He made a mental note of her obvious availability, then turned back to his host. "If the United States of the Americas eventually becomes a United States of the World, wouldn't the IABI become the international police force?"

The Graf waved that aside, saying, "It's true that John Warfield Moyer, a member of the Central Committee, foresees a united world in which his IABI will be the sole police force; but his organization has been a farce since before the FBI and the CIA were joined together. An organization of clowns, headed by clowns, compared to my own. Moyer will be taken care of, in good time."

Frank thought about it. He said slowly, "Then you're in the process of phasing out your mercenary activities in expectation of becoming legal under this new world regime."

"That's one way of putting it," Peter said.

Lothar von Brandenburg said, "You are beginning to have second thoughts about my organization, Frank?"

"Perhaps. What about these assassinations, though?"

"Such as the Mahdi? The only thing that will make sense under a world government is a state religion. The United Church, under the Prophet, backs the World Club. The fanatic who calls himself the Mahdi stands in the way of the amalgamation into one of all the world's religions. I'm afraid he must go. Others, too, of course. Always remember, Franklin, that a comparatively few key figures can change history. The example of Somerset Maugham comes to mind. In his earlier years, while working for British espionage, he was sent to Petrograd to sabotage the Bolshevik revolution. He wrote later that if he had been sent two weeks earlier he might have accomplished his task and the revolution would never have taken place. How would he have done this? He probably had in mind the assassinations of Lenin and Trotsky and perhaps of a few others of the old Bolsheviks."

The American said grudgingly, "I suppose in some respects you've made your point. Under some circumstances, assassination can be called for. But what happens when someone approaches you with a proposal to kill someone who doesn't deserve killing?"

The Graf raised his eyebrows. He put down his glass of wine. "My dear Franklin, we are pragmatists, not mad dogs. Our interests are not only money. Suppose, for instance, that Mercenaries, Incorporated was approached by an enemy of the Prophet. As I told you, we support the United Church in its efforts to join all organized religions into a single worldwide state church, ending once and for all conflicts between faiths. Very well, not only would we refuse the contract, but we would inform Ezra Hawkins, the Prophet, about this foe of his, so that he could take steps to protect himself."

"By hiring Mercenaries, Incorporated to eliminate the enemy?" Frank said.

Peter Windsor chuckled. "You're catching on, dear boy.'*

Following dinner, they sat for a time in the living room over coffee and cognac. The talk drifted, in deference to Frank, to stories involving his father. The Graf carried most of the conversation, since his relationship with Buck Pinell had extended over years, but Peter Windsor was also able to contribute a few anecdotes. Most of the stories were of a humorous nature and it came to Frank that combat veterans seldom talked much about actual combat itself. When it was shop talk, yes; something involving business at hand. But not as light conversation. Perhaps amateurs might brag of their exploits under fire, but professionals, no. And you couldn't get much more professional than Lothar von Brandenburg and Peter Windsor.

When the party broke up, Margit offered to conduct Frank back to his suite. The winding corridors and stone stairways of the keep took some learning, and under the influence of the wines during the meal and the generous brandies following it, Frank wasn't sure he could find his way unaided. The Graf looked tolerant, Peter amused, as they said their goodnights. On the morrow, Frank was to be assigned a guide to show him the Wolfschloss in detail.

As they strolled along the stone corridor, Frank decided that nicety wasn't called for.

He said, "Your rooms, or mine?"

She looked up at him from the side of her eyes. "I thought you'd never ask. Yours. You might never find your way bck to your own suite in the morning."

And that was the full extent of their courting, then- preliminary love play. Margit was a businesslike woman, in her sex life as well as her secretarial work.

In fact, she was as straightforward a woman as he had ever bedded, and at his age, Frank had seldom gone without horizontal refreshments when he had desired them.

In his bedroom, she had stripped with flattering haste, and had pirouetted exactly once, to show off the woman's body, saying, "Like me?" before sliding into the emperor-sized canopied bed.

His voice was on the thick side as he told her, "Yes," climbing out of his own clothes.

"Good heavens," she said, teasing him, "is that for me?"

"Yes," he said hoarsely, already rampant.

Not for Margit Krebs were new variations of the world's oldest theme. She took her sex straight and lustily, somewhat surprising Frank, who had expected unique desires on the part of this sophisticated wanton. Perhaps that would come later, he decided as he performed for her. For the present, his lady wanted immediate basic action.

And wanted it again, within minutes after they had both reached rapturous climax. He began to wonder if he had known what he was getting into, so to speak.

Later, as they rested, both staring up at the rich cream-colored canopy above, he said, only partly in humor, "And what is a nice girl like you doing in this kind of work?"

She followed along. "What's the classic answer to that? Just lucky, I guess."

"Come on, come on. On the face of it you're the junior member of the staff that runs the toughest organization on Earth. Why would a woman like you want to hold down such a job? With your obvious ability you could get top positions anywhere. So why be the notorious Grafs secretary?"

She looked at him strangely. "It's where the power is."

"I don't understand."

"The Graf is the single most powerful man in the world, darling. Not the wealthiest, not the one with the most political clout, but the most powerful. Others may not always realize that, but he is."

"Why?"

"Because he holds the life of every other living person in the palm of his hand."

He thought about that for a long moment, before saying, "But that's him, not you."

"The Graf doesn't operate in a vacuum," she told him patiently. "There is no such thing as a one-man dictatorship. Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, Mao were the heads of teams. Without the team around them, they wouldn't have been able to cope. The same with Napoleon and Alexander the Great.

Alexander would have been nothing but a headstrong, alcoholic youth had it not been for Nearchus, Parmenion, and other leaders trained by his father Philip. True enough, the Empire broke up upon his death, when the team started fighting among themselves. But while they were still a team, with him at the head, they were invincible. So it is with the Graf. He does not stand alone, making all decisions. He has a team. I'm part of the team. You might be, too."

That quieted him.

She said, a quirk of amusement there, "I should warn you about Lothar. I think perhaps he's getting a bit tired of Peter, who isn't quite as young and pink-cheeks as he used to be."

That came as a surprise. "You mean he's gay?"

She laughed. "What is your old American expression? He's as queer as chicken shit."

"Not my cup of tea," he said gruffly.

"You've already proven that, darling, though I do hope that you're up to proving it again." She reached over to stroke him intimately.

Frank said, "Wizard, but hold it for just a little, eh?"

"You mean that literally?" she said, wickedness in her voice.

"You're a sexpot. Did anyone ever tell you that?"

"Yes."

He frowned again and said, "What ever happened to my father's estate? From what you people say, he must have been a partner for something like twenty years. When he died my mother refused to take anything except enough to educate me on. What happened to the rest?"

"Why, I don't know, darling." She frowned as well. "And I should know. I'm supposed to know everything connected with Mercenaries, Incorporated."

Chapter Seventeen: Lee Garrett

When Lee Garrett reported to the office of Sheila Duff-Roberts early in the morning of the day after she had arrived, it was to find the Amazon-like secretary of the Central Committee of the World Club already deep in work. A cigarette, half an ash, dangled from the side of her mouth, and the smoke from it spiraled upward.

Sheila looked up, did her sparse smile, and said, "Good morning, darling. I rather expected you to return here after your lunch with Jerry Auburn yesterday. Do sit down."

Lee took the indicated chair and said apologetically, "We ran into some difficulty. By the time it was ironed out I felt exhausted and Mr. Auburn took me back to my suite."

"Difficulty?"

"He was attacked in the restaurant by a waiter, apparently a Nihilist. I've read about them, of course. But…" she shook her blond head "… good heavens, I didn't know it had gotten to the point where they were attacking prominent people right in the open."

The other at last noticed the length of her cigarette ash and tapped it off into her improvised ash tray. Her eyes narrowed. "Nihilists! The bastards are really getting out of hand. Just recently they kidnapped one of our candidate members of the Central Committee and shot him when his wife couldn't pay a fifty million pseudo-dollar ransom. Something simply will have to be done. What happened?"

"It was terrible. The man was about to shoot Jerry—Mr. Auburn—from behind. But something made him turn and, well, Jerry knows savate and…"

"What the hell's savate?"

"A method of fighting with the feet; an old French sport with some aspects of karate. Jerry disarmed the man and had kicked him unconscious before the others arrived. The manager, of course, was extremely upset. He said that the waiter was a new man who had only been there for a few days. He called the police, of course."

Sheila shook her head. "Trust Jerry to come up with something like that, fighting with his feet. Undoubtedly, he'll report on it later. With almost all of the Central Committee in Rome, we can't afford to run chances of assassination. Which reminds me: we're to have a party tonight. All of the Central Committee members and candidate members will be present. It will give you an opportunity to meet them and for them, of course, to get an impression of you. In the ballroom, beginning at nine."

Lee frowned. "Candidate member?" she said.

"Yes. You see, there are but ten members of the Central Committee, plus myself as secretary. Most of them are rather elderly. So, at any given time, there are as many as a score or so candidate members, waiting to be made full members upon the death or retirement of any of the present incumbents. One of the matters to be handled at this session is such a promotion. Grace Cabot-Hudson hasn't been active for some time, so she is being asked to retire to the position of Central Committee Member Emeritus and a new member will be appointed."

In an angry movement of a well-manicured hand, she took up another cigarette and lit it, before going on. "And it's ten to one that it won't be another woman. Male dominance still prevails in the Central Committee. You'd think that at least half the members should be female, but no. The male ego we still have with us." She snorted. Then, "Well, be that as it may, dear, I'll see you at the party tonight. Have you met any of the other members, besides Jerry?"

"I haven't had the opportunity."

"I mentioned you to Fong Hui, who has just rocketed in from Hong Kong. He'd like to meet you. Fong is the only Oriental Central Committee member, though there are candidates from Japan, India, and Indonesia."

"When did he wish to see me?"

"This morning." Sheila Duff-Roberts touched a button on her TV phone.

Almost immediately, a door leading to the back opened and a girl bustled through. She was a tiny thing, smaller than Lee Garrett and absolutely dwarfed by the Junoesque Sheila. She was a bit on the plump side, which didn't detract from her vivacity.

Sheila said, "Lily Palermo, Lee Garrett. Lee is to be my new secretary, Lily darling, to replace Pamela. But you girls can get to know each other later. Right now, I'd like you to take Lee to Fong Hui's apartment. The old fuddy-duddy's expecting her."

"Right away," Lily said. And to Lee, "My, you must have spent a fortune on that hair."

Lee came to her feet and said to Sheila, "See you at the party, then."

"Good-O, darling," Sheila said, already back at her work.

As they started down the corridor, redundant with art as everywhere in the Palazzo Colonna, Lee said, touching her hair, "Believe it if you will but it's my own and I do it myself."

"It's lovely," Lily told her and giggled. "You should have been at tüepartous last night. You would have been the hit."

Lee made a moue. "Group sex turns me off," she said.

The other looked at her from the side of her eyes. "I'm surprised that Sheila is taking you for her secretary then."

Lee shrugged. "It was rather thrown at me, without my having much to say about it, though frankly, this whole World Club thing has its fascinating aspects."

"Oh, it's the most wizard job you can imagine. You're right in the middle of the most important goings on in the world. You're really on the inside."

Lee said idly, "Whatever happened to Pamela, the girl I'm taking over from?"

"I don't know. She was awfully nice. Kind of a little serious, even more dedicated than most. Irish, and she still talked with that soft brogue they have."

"What was her last name?"

"McGivern. She wouldn't take anything from anybody, not even Sheila. They'd argue hammer and tongs."

"Maybe that's why Sheila let her go."

The little girl was silent for a moment, as they rounded a turn in the wide corridor. Then she said quietly, "Sheila never fires you from any of these jobs. She might transfer you to some other position, somewhere else. But she'll never fire you."

"Why not?"

The other wasn't quite happy at the question. "Well, I suppose if the computers selected you in the first place, you have more than usual ability, and the Central Committee doesn't want to waste it. Besides…" she hesitated for a moment "… you're in on so many top-secret matters that they wouldn't like you to blab them around." She rolled her eyes. "I can just see somebody who once worked for the Central Committee sitting down and writing a book about it."

Lee thought about that. She already had several new things to think about this morning. For one, she had gotten the damnedest impression that Sheila had already known about the attack on Jerry Auburn before she had told her. But then, it was Sheila's job to know everything that happened pertaining to the Central Committee members.

Lily brought them up to an imposing door, similar to that which opened into Sheila Duff-Roberts's salon. Once again, there was no identity screen. She knocked briskly, then reached down for the bright brass knob.

She smiled brightly at Lee, said, "See you later, dear," turned and tripped briskly away.

Lee entered, closing the door behind her. She blinked in surprise at the large room's decor. She had stepped from a Roman Renaissance corridor into a chamber which should have been eight thousand miles away, in a Chinese palace or mansion of the Ming dynasty. One had no doubts whatsoever that all of the exquisite furnishings, all of the art, and even the rugs, were genuine antiques. The whole room belonged in a Chinese museum.

There were two occupants—an old man behind an intricately carved ebony desk, and a girl, certainly not over twenty, wearing a sleek, long, yellow, high-collared cheong-sam. She was kneeling upon a dais, plucking a thin Mandarin melody from a jong resting on the floor before her. Her slim fingers played over the instrument as though caressing a lover.

The old man was frail with a wisp of a white beard and a bald head poised forward on his long neck with great natural dignity and grace. He wore the red-tasseled, crystal-topped cap and the navy-blue gown of the scholar.

Lee said formally, after bowing, "May I trouble your chariot? My name is Lee Garrett."

His aged eyes took her in for a moment, then the slightest of smiles appeared on his yellowish parchment face. "My chariot is untroubled. Pray take an honored chair."

"I am totally unworthy."

"The unworthiness is mine," he told her. "My office is favored by your visit."

Lee sat across the desk from him and said, "It is a poor woman's delight."

"The office shrinks in humble shame before your footsteps." Fong Hui shook hands with himself, keeping his delicately tapered fingers well within his long loose sleeves.

The Chinese girl who had been playing the jong stood and trotted toward a rear door. She turned without speaking, bobbed several bows, and left.

Fong took Lee in again, the faint smile still in his eyes. "I suspect that you would have been capable of going through the formal greeting of years past in the original Mandarin."

Lee Garrett acknowledged the compliment. "Only awkwardly, Mr. Fong. My father was a diplomat. When I was a young girl he was stationed for two years in the People's Republic in Peking. He was an ardent linguist and always insisted that the family study the language of the nation to which we were posted."

"Such talents will be welcome in the position Ms. Duff-Roberts tells me you are to occupy." He smiled faintly again and let his eyes go about the room. "Undoubtedly, you are surprised at both my office and my attire."

"I have always been a great admirer of the art and culture of the Celestial Empire, Mr. Fong."

His thin voice held a touch of exasperation. "And I have long been displeased by the increasing domination of the Western culture. But I wage a losing battle. The culture of the West sweeps everything before it—its modes of dress, its food, its manners and mores. An accident of history gave the European and North American powers domination over the world for at least the present, so that the habits of the West have prevailed to the detriment of other cultures, not neces-sarily inferior. As to dress, without doubt the Chinese cheong-sam and the Indian sari are far more flattering to the feminine figure than the awkward garb of Europe. And throughout the world now, all cities are beginning to look like Cleveland, Ohio, while such architectural gems as Angkor Wat in Cambodia and Kyoto in Japan are now no longer anything but museums on a grand scale."

Lee said, "I agree with you, Mr. Fong. Even Rome now has its seven hills surrounded by sky-high condominiums and high-rise apartment buildings for the antlike existence of the proles, the slums of the welfare state."

He was obviously enjoying her company. "My dear," he said, "you seem wise beyond your years. Perhaps some evening, after adjusting to your new atmosphere, you will honor me with your presence at dinner. My chef is from Shanghai."

"I am overwhelmed, Mr. Fong. I consider Chinese cuisine the world's finest."

The old man touched his wisp of white beard and said, "And now, my dear, tell me: what are your impressions of the World Club?"

She said hesitantly, "I am somewhat overwhelmed. Its scope is much greater than I had thought. I am inclined to wonder whether it has bitten off more than it can chew. The problems seem insoluble to me."

He nodded. "When I was a boy, confronted with my youthful unsolvable problems and in despair, my father once said, 'What were you worrying about last year at this date?' And I saw on reflection that all my unsolvable problems of that time had, indeed, been solved or lost relevancy. The same might be said to apply to the long-range troubles of man. This is the year 2086. What were our difficulties one century ago in 1986? In those days, savants were aghast at the world's problems; surely they would never be solved. But let us ask the question again. Suppose that an American in the year 1986 was to look back a century to 1886 and consider the problems of that time. The Indian Wars were not quite over; Custer's forces had been destroyed only ten years before and Geronimo had kept the Southwest in a state of siege. Labor troubles were paramount, the anarchists at their peak. The Haymarket bombing killed seven, wounded sixty. The

American Federation of Labor was not yet strong. America was in an unprecedented state of growing pains. The robber barons of industry were taking over the country wholesale. Immigrants were swarming in to the point where nearly half of New York City couldn't speak English, to the dismay of the earlier-arrived Anglo-Saxons."

Lee laughed softly. "I see what you mean. By 1986, the problems of 1886 had all been solved, or disappeared. And so, is your suggestion, will be the problems of our time by 2186."

He smiled in return but then became more serious. "Tell me, my dear, what do you think of our Sheila Duff-Roberts?"

She said carefully, "I don't know her very well as yet. She seems very capable."

The old man nodded. "I am afraid that she is too prone to take on authority which should remain in the hands of the Central Committee, with the assistance of its candidate members, though I defer to the majority in retaining her as secretary." He hesitated. "Nor do I think that she should participate in the sometimes differing currents of the World Club."

He must have caught the puzzlement in her eyes and said in amusement, "Did you think that all was accord in the Central Committee, my dear? Happily, it is not. If it were, I myself would withdraw. A frozen program is seldom a valid one, certainly not over a period of time. It was one of the prime weaknesses of the Marxists back in the 19th and 20th centuries. Marx and Engels did their work as early as the first part of the 19th century. Their Communist Manifesto, written in 1848, predicted an imminent breakdown of capitalism and a proletarian victory. A century later, the capitalist system had changed and was stronger than ever. Marx and Engels had died, but most of the so-called Marxists continued to follow them as though no changes in political economy had taken place; as though such developments as fascism and the state capitalism of the Soviet Union had never raised their ugly heads. At any rate, there are conflicting opinions in the Central Committee of the World Club and I, to a degree, welcome them. When two minds meet, both learn something. An Einstein cannot meet with a moron and exchange opinions without both learning something—however little." The American girl said, "But what are these differences in opinion? I had gathered from Sheila and Jerry Auburn that the goal of the World Club is world government."

He smiled his little smile again. "It is, but there can be varied types of world government. So you have met our debonair Jeremiah Auburn. He is a young man with depths not immediately perceived by some. Indeed, there was considerable difficulty in nominating him to the Central Committee. However, his father before him was a member and such, ah, old-timers as myself and Grace Cabot-Hudson were adamant in vouching for him. The three of us have similar views pertaining to the nature of the world state to come. We had hopes that Candidate Harold Dunninger, who also had somewhat similar views, would replace her upon her retirement. Unfortunately, he was recently murdered by the Nihilists. Opposed to our view are John Moyer of the American IABI who, I suspect, sees the future government as a police state, and Harrington Chase, with his strong racist beliefs, who undoubtedly sees it as a government of whites over the rest of humanity. Some of the candidates, such as Lothar von Brandenburg, I am sure, see the future government as a dictatorship, while Ezra Hawkins, of the United Church, probably desires a theocracy. Ah yes, my dear, I am afraid that there are conflicting currents within the ranks of the World Club."

Lee said thoughtfully, "I can see that there must be ramifications that never occurred to me."

The faint sound of a muted gong came from the inner depths of the apartment and the old man smiled ruefully. "I am afraid that my physician reminds me that it is time for my nap."

The American girl stood immediately. "I must thank you for wasting so much of your valuable time on one who is so ignorant of the great problems resting upon your honorable shoulders."

"The pleasure, my dear, is mine. You are to fill an important post, privy to the innermost developments of the World Club. One cannot know the future, but perhaps one day you may even succeed to the position now occupied by Ms. Sheila Duff-Roberts."

Lee bowed formally, said, "With your permission, Mr. Fong," and turned and left.

Behind her, Fong Hui sighed softly. Old his clay might be, but he still had an eye for a superlatively pretty girl.

Lee Garrett puzzled out the route to her own suite, only twice losing her way through the rambling, twisting corridors of the Palazzo Colonna.

Inside it, she carefully locked the door before going into her small office. She checked the time on her wrist chronometer, then put her shoulder bag on the desk top. She activated a secret compartment in the leather purse and brought forth from it a device like a ballpoint stylo. She pressed a stud on its side and began moving slowly about the room, pointing the gadget here, there, and particularly in the vicinity of electronic devices such as the TV phone.

After thoroughly going over the office, she returned to the living room and resumed her activities. As she approached the apartment's second TV phone, sitting on a small table against a wall, her device began to buzz faintly. Her eyes widened in suspicion and she approached closer. The buzzing increased. She nodded to herself and then continued about the room. She finished the living room and continued her task in both the bedroom and the bath, but she found no more electronic bugs. She deactivated her device, returned to her office, and replaced it in her shoulder bag, extracting from the same secret compartment another device. She also took up her pocket transceiver.

She went back to the living room on her way, pulling a thin antenna from its place in the flat metallic box of her device, which looked something like a small cigarette case. She placed it next to the TV phone and pressed a stud. It began to hum faintly.

She sat down on the couch, turned on her transceiver, flicked the scrambler button, and dialed.

The answering voice came almost immediately.

Lee said hurriedly, "I'll have to make this quick. There's a bug in my suite. I have the muffler on but heaven knows what would happen if some monitor was checking manually. So, briefly, everything is going better than we could have dreamed of. I am the Secretary of Sheila Duff-Roberts, the secretary of the Central Committee. I am meeting the ten members, one by one by one. So far, I have found more division among them than we had known. Grace Cabot-Hudson is to be replaced; the Graf and the Prophet are top contenders for her position. Both will add to the extremist element in the Committee."

A thin, faraway voice spoke from the transceiver.

Then she said hurriedly, "I must go. There is to be a parry tonight which I'll attend. Meanwhile, check this, if you can. A Pamela McGivern, an Irish girl, was the former holder of my job. I don't know what happened to her but I was indirectly informed today that once one takes a job this close to the Central Committee one doesn't quit. Obvious question: where is the McGivem girl?"

The voice spoke again.

And Lee said, "I'll be very careful. I'm a little afraid."

She switched off the transceiver, hurried over to the muffler and deactivated it as well, then took it back into the office and hid it again.

Chapter Eighteen: Jeremiah Auburn

It soon came to Lee Garrett, when she attended the party in the ballroom of the Palazzo Colonna, why Sheila Duff-Roberts's position was so important. The Committee itself was undoubtedly the most informal presiding body of a large and influential organization of which she had never heard. Sheila's office held it all together. Present at the get-together were nine of the ten Central Committee members, about a score of candidate members, and another score or so of prominent supporters and employees of the World Club who had not as yet attained Central Committee rank, but were knowledgeable of its secret nature and headed various of the foundations, research groups, pressure groups, and lobbies. All were in formal dress but that was as near as Lee could see to it being a formal affair. She would have called it a cocktail party, at most. The buffet was one of the most elaborate she had ever seen, and Lee Garrett had attended many an embassy affair. There were tobacco fumes in the air as well as those of cannabis.

Men predominated by far. She noticed a dozen other women, most in their middle years, and most gave the impression of being the wives of male members. One wore a golden Indian sari but otherwise all were gowned most expensively in the latest styles. Two of the men wore Arab garb, but all the rest were in European dress, though at least half were of dark complexion, including one very black man who, unlike the others, didn't seem at ease in his black tie and tails. For a moment, as she surveyed them, she wondered about the conservatism in men's dress. Formal attire had changed precious little since the days of Abraham Lincoln. Sports and daily wear, yes; evening wear, no. A guest at a reception given by

Woodrow Wilson probably wouldn't have looked out of place here tonight.

When she first entered there were as many servants present as guests, tending bar and the buffet, carrying drinks and canapes, running the errands waiters run. But very shortly after she arrived they seemed magically to disappear, to her surprise. Then the realization came: those present were not in a position to be overheard. For the balance of the evening, the guests helped themselves to the buffet and the abundant drinks at the two bars.

She recognized only a few people—Sheila Duff-Roberts, of course, and Jerry Auburn, and Fong Hui, who inclined his bald head in salutation when their eyes met. Across the room was Nils Norden, an unconventionally jovial Swede who had been pointed out to her though thus far they hadn't met.

No, this was no formal party; merely a get-together of the bigwigs of the World Club. They stood or sat about the ballroom of the renaissance palace chatting, arguing, debating; sometimes friendly, sometimes in heat, and in groups of anywhere from two to eight. Most seemed to make a policy of circulating around, joining one conversation for a time, then drifting on to another individual or group.

Sheila had suggested Lee's presence as an opportunity to meet not only other members of the Central Committee but the other influentials of the World Club as well. For the moment, she didn't quite know where or how to begin. But then, from across the room, Jerry Auburn waved to her. He was standing with Sheila Duff-Roberts, who was dressed in a stunning, bright-blue evening gown which surely must have been designed with only her in mind. With them was a stranger who bore a fragile handkerchief with which he daintily touched his lips after each sip at the champagne he carried.

Lee approached hesitantly, wondering if the wave had meant she was to join them, and Jerry beamed at her. He held a highball glass in hand and, by the darkness of its contents, it was either straight spirits or nearly so. His shining eyes and flushed face indicated that the drink probably wasn't his first.

When she came up to the others, Jerry waved his glass in a gesture of welcome and said, "Honey, meet Carlo Brentanto.

Carlo, this is Lee Garrett, Sheila's new secretary. A knockout, which you wouldn't recognize, though Sheila does."

Sheila, who had a brandy glass in hand, murmured throat-ily, "You look stunning in that gown, darling."

Carlo Brentanto said, in almost a lisp, "Incantato," and bowed over Lee's hand gallantly.

Jerry said, "Carlo's been explaining that the gays should inherit the Earth."

"Certainly, they should have a greater say in its governing," the Italian told him coolly. "After all, my dears, they have been outstanding throughout history. It is ridiculous that there isn't a single homosexual in the Central Committee."

Jerry took a pull at his drink and said, "Well, we have our imposing Sheila.'' Sheila snorted.

"Over and over, the homosexual has proven himself down through history," Carlo argued, after daintily sipping. "Can you think of anyone more outstanding in the military and in government than Alexander the Great, Caesar, Frederick the Great, and many more prominent than Plato? Man has reached his heights when the homosexual was most widely understood— The Golden Age of Athens; the Renaissance here in Italy."

"Tolerated, but not exactly in power," Jerry said. "Off hand, the only governments I can think of that were ruled by the gays were Sodom and Gomorrah—and they came to a fiery end."

"I've always wondered what it was they did in Gomorrah," Lee murmured.

"You name it, they did it," said Jerry. Sheila gave her curt little laugh and said, "I'm gratified to see you have a sense of humor, darling."

The Italian fluttered the hand bearing his handkerchief and said, "Oh, all of you are quite hopeless. I think I shall go over and join the admiral."

"I have no doubt you'll try," Sheila purred. He left and the three of them looked after him for a moment.

Jerry said, "How in the hell did he ever get into the candidate class?"

"Actually, he's quite brilliant and the Brentantos are the wealthiest family in Italy," Sheila told him. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Jerry, before he interrupted us?"

He finished his drink and said, "Oh, yes. When I asked you yesterday what had happened to Pamela McGivern you said that I'd undoubtedly hear later. I haven't. In fact, I've asked a couple of the Committee and none of them seem to know, though Chase managed to mutter that it was good riddance. I don't believe that our Pamela was capable of hiding what she thought about his racist leanings."

Sheila said, "She was becoming quite impossible. It's one thing my being somewhat of a minister without portfolio in the Central Committee, but, after all, she was only my secretary, and there was no reason for their putting up with her opinions."

Jerry cocked his eye at her. "Minister without portfolio, eh? I didn't know that was how you regarded yourself, Sheila. I thought you were more like a Man Friday. You're sure that you're not beginning to take on responsibilities beyond those the Committee had in mind?"

Sheila's silent irritation was only partially concealed.

He said, "Now, what happened to Pamela? I, for one, liked the girl, and so did Fong Hui, among others."

"I dismissed her, giving her a bonus of fifty thousand psuedo-dollars."

"Without consulting anyone, eh?"

"I didn't think it necessary. After all, she was my secretary. I originally employed her on my own, without consulting anyone."

"What happened to her? Where is she now?"

Sheila frowned slightly. "I wouldn't know. Perhaps she returned to Ireland."

"Perhaps," he said. He looked at Lee. "Neither of us has a drink. Should we go on over to the bar and remedy that situation?"

"Thank you," Lee said, and turned her eyes questioningly to her superior.

Sheila did her bleak smile and said, "Run along, dear, and do meet as many of those present as you can. You'll be working with all of them later."

Jerry took Lee by the arm and led her to one of the bars which had been set up in the ballroom, immediately across from the buffet tables. For the moment, it was unoccupied.

He dropped the curt air he had assumed with Sheila Duff-Roberts and said, "What will it be—champagne? One of the candidates has his own vineyard near Rheims. He provides us with the best vintages."

"That will be fine, Mr. Auburn."

"Jerry," he told her. "I'll stick to cognac."

There was a long row of ice buckets, each with a bottle of sparkling wine. He selected one which had already been opened, took up a clean glass and poured for her, then took up a half-empty bottle of impressive-looking brandy and renewed his own glass with a generous charge. She had been right. Save for two ice cubes, he was drinking his spirits straight. Lee winced at the idea of putting ice in good cognac.

She said, "Cheers," and sipped at her wine. It was certainly as good as any she had ever tasted.

A small, thin, slightly hawk-nosed, dignified elderly man came up and poured himself a glut of sherry. He nodded at Jerry and looked questioningly at Lee.

Jerry said, "Mendel, this is Lee Garrett, Sheila's new secretary. She's a bit bewildered, undoubtedly because she didn't know the Central Committee was composed of such far-out folk. Lee, this is Mendel Amschel, a Committee member and once my father's closest friend."

"I'm charmed, my dear," the newcomer said, taking her hand. "I don't know why, but one never expects surpassing beauty in a girl who must also be surpassingly intelligent and competent."

"Why, you old goat," Jerry protested. "I saw her first."

Lee was fully aware of the identity of Mendel Amschel, reputedly the head of the richest bank in Common Europe, although his name seldom appeared in the news.

"You flatter me, Jerry," the older man said, smiling gently at the girl. "However, if I were twenty years younger…"

"You'd still be sixty," Jerry said. "You dreamer."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Lee protested. "Isn't the Code Duello still legal in Italy? If you must fight over me…"

"Right," Jerry said. "The bois at dawn. I'll get Peter Windsor to second for me. I see him over there, talking to the Archbishop. Competent man in a fight, I understand, but don't turn your back on him. You might get a knife in it, even though you thought he was on your side."

The banker raised his eyebrows at the younger man. "I suspect when it comes to a vote to replace our Grace Cabot-Hudson, you are not likely to opt for the Graf."

Jerry said testily, "I doubt if the original founders of the World Club ever expected professional killers to be represented in the Central Committee."

"I discussed it with Harrington," the other said. "He pointed out that most of the former mercenary activities of Lothar von Brandenburg are now becoming phased out, but that there will always be a need for espionage and, ah, strong men even in a World State."

Jerry dismissed that opinion. "It's true mercenaries are on the wane. Wizard. But the Graf is expanding into other lines. Personal assassination hasn't been so prevalent since the days of the Borgias. He's simply computerized it."

The Viennese banker scowled at him questioningly. "Isn't that largely a matter of gossip and rumor? Every homicide in the world is being laid at the door of the mysterious Graf."

"Yes." Jerry looked thoughtful. "And that reminds me. I wanted to see Peter Windsor and ask about the death of Harold Dunninger. He's the one I would have voted for to take over Grace's seat on the Committee, rather than either the Prophet or the Graf."

"So would I have, my boy," Amschel said. "But the Nihilists, who seem daily to become more bold, got through his defenses."

"I wonder," Jerry said. "At any rate, I want to talk with Windsor. You two get to know each other; see you later."

When the younger man had gone, Amschel sighed and said, "Our Jerry Auburn is considerably different than I remember his father." He smiled slightly. "Perhaps it is the generation gap, after all. I was Fredric Auburn's contemporary. Jerry seems a bit precipitous. I wince at his confrontation with the Graf's representative." He turned his eyes from the retreating Jerry and brought them back to Lee. "I imagine everyone is asking you what you think of the World Club."

"Well, yes," she told him carefully. "My first reaction is that the Central Committee's plans seem to be somewhat premature, though I support them. Is the world ready for a universal government?"

"Ready or not," he said with a touch of resignation in his voice, "it is the only answer. Today, the world is on the precipice of disaster. What is the old Britishism? The chickens have come home to roost. The slowly developing problems of the past three centuries have now reached a head."

Lee demurred. "Oh, come now, the world is comparatively dormant at present. There are no real immediate crises. We haven't known a major war within the lives of anyone now living."

He shook a thin finger at her. "My dear, it is astonishing how quickly matters can develop when conditions are ripe. Consider the spring of 1914 when everything seemed stable. The Kaiser was securely on his throne, Franz Joseph of the Austro-Hungarian Empire on his, the Sultan ruled the powerful Ottoman Empire, and the Czar of all the Russias had recently celebrated the 300th anniversary of Romanoff rule. Five years later, there was no major monarchy in Europe save England, and capitalism itself had collapsed in Russia, the largest nation of the world. No, my dear, comparatively overnight, world institutions can radically alter, given the right, or perhaps I should say the wrong, conditions."

She took a full lower lip between perfect white teeth. Then, "And you think such conditions exist today?"

"Yes." He looked about. "Come, my dear, let us find a place to sit down. My friend Fong Hui tells me you are an interesting young woman. Frankly, I was sorry to see Pamela McGivern leave, but if it was necessary at least we seem to have found a competent replacement. Would you like me to fill your glass?"

"No," she said. "No, I have plenty." She followed him to a fifteenth-century couch set against one of the large chamber's walls. When they were seated she said, "And what do you foresee in the nature of this new World State? What kind of government will it be? I get the impression that there is considerable difference on this among Central Committee members."

He conceded the validity of that. "Yes, there is. Some of us wish to continue the type of democracy that now prevails in the United States of the Americas."

She sipped again at her wine, frowning slightly. "You advocate a two-party democracy with both of the parties controlled by a power elite?"

He smiled his little dry smile again. "Yes. I am a product of my class and my age. My class owns the so-called Western world. 1 believe that they should govern it. Benevolently, of course, and maintaining all the liberties that man has achieved. Perhaps half of the Central Committee and even more of the candidate members concur."

"And the ordinary citizens, including the proles: they are still to have the vote?"

"Yes, of course, my dear. Why not? It keeps them happy to think that they have the ultimate say. Every four years we put up two candidates and let them take their pick. What could be more democratic than that? You must realize that even at the height of the Empire, the Roman proletariat had the vote. They usually sold it to the highest bidder, of course, but they had it. The proles, my dear, we shall always have with us. They are the masses who labor at the undesirable jobs when labor is needed, or fight as common soldiers in times of war. They are the nonentities. The world has passed them by. A typical example is the peons of Latin America, now assimilated into the United States of the Americas. Uneducated, untrained, they were pushed from a burro society into one of electronic computers. They won't adjust, nor will their children. Like the Roman proletariat, they must simply be fed and otherwise taken care of by the state, as cheaply and efficiently as possible, and forgotten about."

"But there are exceptions among them. There surely are many exceptions."

"Of course, and they must be found and encouraged. Thomas Edison was born in poverty and had only about three years of grammar school. But he was a genius. Andrew Carnegie came to America as an immigrant and fought his way upward into the highest ranks of the powerful. Oh yes, there are many exceptions. The ancestor of Harrington Chase who founded the Chase fortune was an oilfield worker in Texas."

Lee shook her head and put her empty glass down on a small table beside the couch. "I had always thought the

World Club to be composed largely of economists whose research was supported by wealthy philanthropists."

The international banker was obviously amused. "Don't exaggerate the contributions of economists, my dear. They are highly overrated compared to us, the pragmatic. If there was ever a group to which the question, 'If you're so smart, why aren't you rich?' applies, it is the economists. Economics aren't as complicated as all that but the economists tny-thologize the subject. There are exceptions, but most of them go through life as second-raters—teaching, writing books that few read and even fewer understand, or selling their services to governments or the powerful. They make their way with gobbledy-gook terminology, but practically never do they get rich. Even a five-percent advantage on knowing what way the stock market was going to go would make them wealthy, but they simply don't know. Karl Marx himself, that analyzer of the capitalist system, lived and died in poverty. Did you ever hear of a Rockefeller, a Dupont, a Getty, or any other founder of the great American fortunes, who was an economist?"

Lee's smile was inverted. "I am afraid that you are making a cynic of me, Mr. Amschel."

The smile he returned was thin. "I hope not, my dear. You are far too charming to succumb to cynicism. However, take as an example the monetary crisis of the last century. Every economist in the world was working on the problem of the collapse of international money. There was not enough gold or any other precious metal in the world to back the needed mediums of exchange. All nations, particularly your United States, simply began printing paper money, which had no value since it represented nothing. Inflation was rampant. Inflation, of course, is not a matter of prices going up, but of the value of money going down. The United States, with a two trillion dollar a year economy, faced disaster because it had issued perhaps four hundred billion dollars' worth of paper without backing. Did the economists solve the problem? No. It was solved by an obscure speculative writer."

"I didn't know that!"

"Oh, yes. He proposed that the government, in taxing the two hundred top corporations of the United States, take ten percent of the taxes in the form of their common stock. This was amalgamated into what was called United States Basic

Common, a sort of gigantic mutual fund. Its shares, of course, paid dividends based on the combined dividends of the corporations. The stock was placed on every stock exchange of the world to seek its level. Each year, the government added its new common stock, taken in the form of taxes, to its U. S. Basic Common. Anyone who had dollars could turn them in for Basic Common. In short, the money of the United States, now called pseudo-dollars since there was no gold behind them, was now backed by the American economy." The banker made a little snort. "It wasn't long before all other developed nations followed the lead. The world now has valid currencies."

Halfway across the room, Jerry Auburn was interrupted on his way to seeing Peter Windsor.

Harrington Chase, his inevitable glass of bourbon and branch water in hand, waved him down. The American tycoon was a stereotype of the cattleman or oil entrepreneur who had flourished in the old Southwest. He differed little if at all from his progenitors. A Henry Ford or a Joe Kennedy might have come from rough-and-ready, tough-and-tight-eyed schools, but in two generations their descendants were attending Ivy League universities and had become ladies and gentlemen who conducted themselves as aristocrats—America's new nobility. But not the Chases! Harrington Chase's fief was a ranch enveloping two large counties overlapping in Texas and Oklahoma, larger than the areas of several northeastern states. Big and ruddy of face, his bulk no longer called for his riding his famed Palominos, but he usually still affected riding boots. And a king-sized cigar, even when police were in the vicinity, was always in his mouth. He also, Jerry knew, invariably ordered steak and potatoes, in the most celebrated restaurants, with apple pie and ice cream for dessert.

With Chase, as usual at a Central Committee session, was his closest associate, John Warfield Moyer, for some twenty years Director of the IABI. A square-cut man in his late fifties, Moyer, with his bulldog face, shaggy brows, and cold, accusing eyes, looked every inch what he was: a high-ranking police officer. In his case, the highest ranking in the world.

Chase said, with an overriding joviality, "Hold on, Jerry, old-timer.''

Jerry Auburn came to a halt, albeit reluctantly. "Something up, Harry?" He knew perfectly well the other hated that name. He nodded at Moyer. "Hi, Fuzzy," he said, inwardly pleased at the director's wince.

Harrington Chase hefted his glass up and down a couple of times pontifically. "We've been mulling over the replacement of Grace Cabot-Hudson, now that she's let it be known she's resigning."

Jerry said, "I had been inclined to Dunninger… until somebody got to him."

"Never cottoned much to Harold myself," Chase said pompously. "Kind of a goddamned liberal. Show me a liberal and I'll show you a man on the verge of a coyote Euro-communist. But at least he was a white American, just like us three."

Moyer looked at Jerry: a policeman's look. "What do you mean, somebody got to him? Those Nihilist subversives shot him when his people wouldn't pay the ransom. His wife must have thought they were bluffing."

"So they say," Jerry nodded. "Which leaves the field more or less left to Ezra Hawkins and Lothar von Brandenburg, two of the most unlikely candidates for a seat in the Central Committee I could imagine."

Harrington Chase puffed out his cheeks. "At least the Prophet is a God-fearing Christian, a white man, and an American. We Americans ought to stick together. We wouldn't want to see a slant-eye like lyeyasu Suzuki, or a nigger like Sri Saraswate, on the Committee."

Jerry took him in. "It's never been proven that the Prohpet can read or write. Supposedly, the top echelons of the World Club are composed of highly intelligent, well-educated men and women, not superstition-spouting demagogues."

"Look, boy, us Americans have a manifest destiny to run this world. It's in the cards. But unless we hold the cards, we'll wind up with the wogs taking the pot."

The younger man regarded him, doing little to disguise his contempt. "Harry," he said, "do you realize that half the United States population is below average in intelligence?"

The billionaire's eyes all but popped in indignation. "That's a damn lie!" he rumbled.

Jerry shook his head in pretended despair. "Your American chauvinism does you little credit, Harry. Of course, half of every population is below average, and the other half above average. What do you think average means?"

The oilman sputtered, then took a heavy slug of his bourbon.

Moyer said, obviously getting it before his colleague did, "What's that got to do with the Prophet being elevated to the Central Committee, Auburn? It seems to me that having a man of God in our number makes good sense. The fact that the majority of us are among the world's wealthiest rubs some people the wrong way, especially the liberal intellectuals. The Prophet heads the biggest church in the world, and every day it gets larger."

Jerry turned his gaze to the IABI head. "And did it ever occur to you, as a fuzzy, that the number of crimes in a city each year is proportional to the number of churches there?"

The other stared at him. "You must be around the corner, Auburn. The more churches, the less crime."

Jerry shook his head in sorrow. "On the face of it, fuzzy, the larger the town is, the more churches there are. And the larger a town is, the more crime there is."

Harrington Chase said angrily, "You're getting away from the point, Jerry. The point is, we don't want any more kikes like Meyer Amschel in the Central Committee, and no more chinks like Fong Hui."

Jerry said, "We'll see about that when it comes to the vote, Harry. In my opinion, Amschel and Fong may be on the oldish side, and overly conservative, but they're two of the best we've got. And now, excuse me; I want to have a few words with Windsor. Has it ever occurred to either of you that the Graf is so afraid of leaving that castle fortress of his that he always sends a deputy to represent him? What kind of a Committee member would he make if he never bothered to attend sessions?"

Before the arrival of Jerry Auburn, Archbishop Willy Beck and Peter Windsor had been hitting it off jolly well, as the Englishman might have put it. The Graf's right-hand man, now in impeccable evening wear, was a far cry from the languid, easygoing young man of the Wolfschloss. Now, in the view of his peers, he presented himself as the British aristocrat—straight of posture, clipped of voice. His companion was dressed in black and wore the reversed collar of clerical tradition. They were approximately the same age, approximately the same height, but there the resemblance ended, save for goals. Willy Beck, a lifelong evangelist who had first taken the stump at revival meetings in the American Bible Belt at the age of fourteen, had the sanctimonious face of his trade—long, expressionless, save for a sadness which tugged at the heartstrings of his feminine followers. Indeed, his face had been compared to that of Lincoln before the beard. His voice was soft, with a depth of sorrow similar to that of an undertaker. His railings against the evils of drink and tobacco were his trademark, which would undoubtedly have led the faithful to goggle at the Manila cigar he now held in one hand and the glass of that most delicate though strong of spirits, Hungarian barack, in the other.

The Archbishop was saying, "Yes, you are quite correct. The Prophet foresees, once the World State has come to power, the reestablishment of the Holy Office, the Inquisition— under a more inspiring name, of course. Heretics must be rooted out. At this point it is quite impossible, but once the United Church has become the State Church of the World Government, matters will be different. Since the days of Socrates the organized religions have found that to be the ultimate truth. But now, at this point, we must rely on other means to confound our Godless opponents, and that is why the Prophet sees the need for greater cooperation between our two organizations."

Peter Windsor said, sipping at his Scotch, "You put it most interestingly, Your Excellency. In what manner do you think the United Church could be of use to us?"

"In most of the present-day branches of the United Church, my son, we follow the rite of confession. Perhaps a judicious leader might be reluctant to reveal his secrets, but often the same restraint does not apply to his more devout wife. It is astonishing, the information that is revealed in the confessional booth, especially if encouraged by a trained confessor— information that would be priceless to an organization involved in espionage."

"Bloody marvelous," Peter Windsor said, lost in admiration of the possibilities. "And in return?"

The Archbishop's face was sad. "Alas, my son, in this sin-ridden world the true faith often has what would seem insurmountable obstacles raised by the followers of the Adversary. Such enemies of the United Church would feel the wrath of the heavens. Who knows what might befall a strong official of some false faith who exhorts his fellows to refrain from cooperation with our Holy cause…"

"Chaps such as the Mahdi, I wouldn't wonder," Peter said.

"Indeed. Our sainted leader, Ezra Hawkins, spent long hours in prayer before coming to the reluctant decision to remove this limb of Satan from the scene, so that his deluded followers might at long last see the true path to salvation."

"Long hours in prayer?" Peter said musingly. "I say, do you chaps really find time for that sort of drill?"

Willy Beck sighed. "Peter, sometimes I am inclined to think that Ezra takes himself a bit too literally in his role of Prophet. It does not do for a religious man, or a politician, to believe too much in his own propaganda. The more one knows his religion the less he believes, if he is a pragmatic man."

Peter accepted that, pursing his lips. "However, the Prophet is, shall we say, no longer young. And history tells us that it is often a devoted follower of a great prophet who finally witnesses the flowering of the new religion. It was not Jesus who founded Christianity as we know it, but Paul. And Mohammed never saw Islam spread beyond Arabia. It was the second-generation Moslems who conquered half the known world."

"A point well taken, my son. And who can tell what the good Lord has planned for the future. But tell me, how is the health of the Graf these days?"

The Englishman shook his head regretfully. "I am afraid that Lothar is aging rather rapidly, don't you know? Sometimes he seems to make rather ill-considered decisions."

Archbishop Beck shook his head, also in sorrow. "Not long for this world, then. However, undoubtedly, when he goes to his reward there will be more youthful hands to take the reins of his worthy organization."

Peter Windsor fixed his green eyes on the other man's face for a long calculating moment before he said, "Perhaps we should talk this over in more detail in the near future. I suspect that matters are coming to a head faster than some of us realize."

It was then that Jerry Auburn came up, recently refilled glass in hand, dark blue eyes with a faint glaze. He said, not quite slurring, "Hi, Peter. Done in any poor cloddies of recent date? Hi, Willy, saved any good souls lately?"

"All souls are good, my son," the Archbishop said unctuously.

"You ought to know; you must get a wide variety of them. The United Church will take anything into its ranks, down to and including animists."

The Archbishop was sadly forgiving. He said softly, "In my Father's house there are many mansions. We are all one in the loving eyes of God, be he called Jehovah, Allah, Brahma, Maya, or The Great Spirit."

Jerry said, taking another healthy pull at his drink, "Or Artemis and Pan, for the sake of the various witch cults. You'll adapt to anything to suck another faith into the United Church. If the Aztec religion was still in existence, you'd allow them to cut out the hearts of a few thousand victims each year. If the Canaanites were still with us, they could throw their firstborn into the flaming bronze maw of Ba'al."

"Surely, my son, this is not a subject upon which to jest." There was sorrow in the voice of the Prophet's right-hand man, but his eyes were narrow and cold.

"I wasn't kidding," Jerry said. "The archives don't record what long-dead con man first dreamed up religion and put nine-tenths of the human race on the sucker list, but he must have been a genius."

The Archbishop said, his long face expressionless, "I am neglecting my duties as the representative of a candidate member of the Central Committee. I must pay my respects to Harrington Chase. His devotion to the United Church is well known; only last week he contributed a million pseudo-dollars. If you'll forgive me."

When he was gone, Jerry said to Peter Windsor, "I hate to see you two getting together."

Peter said, "Oh, Willy's all right. I assume that most of us in the World Club are either agnostics or atheists, but we'll always have religion with us, and I'd rather see the United Church on our side than have it oppose us."

"Sometimes I wonder what our side is," Jerry said. He fixed his eyes on the tall Britisher. "Have you heard about the attack on me yesterday?"

The other looked worried. "Yes, I did, Jerry. Jolly good that you were able to thwart the beggar."

"Yeah, wasn't it? What I've been wondering about was who fingered me."

"What do you mean, dear boy?"

"I mean that it seems unlikely that cloddy went to all the trouble to get a job at the Hostaria dell'Orso just to take a crack at the first wealthy customer to come along. If he had, he would have polished someone else off long before I arrived on the scene. It's the most expensive restaurant in town and there's a fistful of millionaires and top politicians there every day. No, he was waiting for me. Somebody had tipped the Nihilists off that it was my favorite eating spot. I'd just got in to Rome the same day. And he was waiting."

Peter looked distressed. "What's your point, old chap?"

"All of a sudden, the Nihilists seem to be taking an extraordinary interest in members and candidate members of the Central Committee. It was only a few days ago that Harry Dunninger was knocked off by them, back in the States. If he hadn't been, sure as hell the Central Committee would have nominated him to full membership. With him eliminated, it looks as though either the Graf or the Prophet has a much better chance. If I'd been knocked off, both of them would have the chance."

"I don't follow you."

"I think you'd better try." Jerry Auburn's eyes had lost their alcohol sheen and were now very level.

The Englishman shook his head. "Really, old boy, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Your people had the contract to guard Dunninger. When the Nihilists raided his estate, four of the guards had been pulled off, weakening resistance so that overwhelming the defense was a cinch. Now, what I want to know is what contracts you people have with the Neo-Nihilists."

Peter Windsor flushed in indignation. He said strongly, "Really, Auburn, your suggestion is inadmissible."

Jerry's voice was winter cold. "I'm asking you if you have contacts with the Nihilists. If you tell me no, and through my people I later find out that you have, your organization is mud in the World Club, chum-pal. Remember that I'm a member of the Central Committee. All by myself I can blackball the Graf from ever becoming a full member. I think I could throw enough weight to have him tossed out of the World Club entirely. And that would hardly fit in with your plans, would it, Windsor?"

"Now, see here, Jerry," Peter Windsor said hurriedly. "You're getting off onto the wrong foot. Of course, the Graf has infiltrated the Nihilists, along with all other subversive organizations. A great deal of our work is espionage. We infiltrate everywhere, especially into organizations having any sort of political connotations."

"So, who's your head mole in the Nihilists?"

The other stared at him. "We haven't one. We have several plants among them but they're not of enough importance for us to go to any great extent to infiltrate them. It's just a matter of keeping the sods under observation. Had we gotten news that poor Harold Dunninger was to be kidnapped, we would have immediately informed him. The Graf, after all, is a loyal candidate member of the Central Committee."

Jerry Auburn took him in for a long, cold moment. "We'll see about that," he said. He finished his drink with the stiff-wristed motion of the practiced drinker, turned on his heel, and headed for the bar, leaving the Englishman staring after him, boiling anger in his pale killer eyes.

Lee Garrett gave up at about one o'clock in the morning. She had done her best to make acquaintances, as ordered by Shelia Duff-Roberts, and had met perhaps a dozen of the members and candidates. She had spent the last half hour in the'company of Nils Norden. From what she had gathered, the Scandinavian tycoon was on the fence so far as the divisions within the organization were concerned. If Chase and his colleagues were the right wing of the Committee, and Jerry Auburn was on the left wing, then Nils Norden must be thought of as the center. Not that she'd discussed the World

Club with him to any extent. Largely, he seemed interested in conducting her back to her suite—and to bed.

By this time, she had learned the layout of this part of the Palazzo well enough that she had no trouble finding her way to her quarters. She sighed her weariness, kicked off her shoes, picked them up, and headed for the suite's interior, her bedroom in mind. To get to it, she had to pass through the living room. She was surprised to find the lights were on.

Then she spotted Jerry Auburn sprawled on the fifteenth-century couch, his feet, shoes and all, up on one arm of the priceless antique. His inevitable glass was on a low table, within easy reach. He looked up at her.

"What is the meaning of this, Mr. Auburn?"

"Jerry," he said. "If we're to become lovers we must forget formalities."

"Lovers!" She dropped her shoes onto the floor and slipped her feet into them. "If you came here to…"

He held up a weary hand. "Please. No indignation. I never rape girls. I've never had to. In fact, sometimes they rape me."

She snorted and ran her eyes over his sturdy athlete's body. "It'd take quite a mopsy to rape you, my friend."

"I rape easily—a flaw in my character," he explained, swinging his feet around and to the floor. "Sit down, Lee. I have something to ask you."

"I'm tired," she said. "I want to go to bed." But she sat, taking one of the antique chairs, which was more comfortable than it looked. It would have to be.

"So do I," he told her earnestly. "But we'll get to do that later." He pointed at the phone, the one she knew was bugged. Her eyes widened when she saw, sitting next to it, a muffler similar to the one she had utilized.

"Nobody's listening in," he said, reaching over and picking up his glass.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she got out.

He took back some of his drink. "You know, everybody's been telling me that this evening," he told her. "Peter Windsor, for instance. However, you're reporting to someone. Whom? Don't bother to deny it, honey. We often monitor the quarters of new employees, on the off chance that they're an attempt to infiltrate the World Club. You'd be surprised how many elements would like to know its inner workings. By chance, the monitor in this case is an old family friend, indebted to my late father. He reports to me first—and sometimes I'm the only one he reports to. At any rate, honey, he tells me that your bug was muffled for a time. Obviously he couldn't tell me whom you called, nor what you said, but he was aware of the muffler. So what is a nice girl like you doing with a sophisticated piece of electronic equipment and who were you calling, to report what?"

She glared at him angrily, even while her mind raced. "My mother!" she got out finally.

He closed his eyes in pain and pushed his left hand over his mouth. "Oh, come on now, honey."

She said challengingly, "My mother is Rosamond Brice."

He cocked an eye at her. "I know Rosamond Brice. Or did. She doesn't look old enough to be your mother. And, what's more, she doesn't act like a mother. She's been in more beds than I've been in automobiles. And when she comes to town the local distilleries put on an extra shift."

Lee went to the bar and poured herself a drink from the first bottle that came to hand. She took down a quick snort and made a face. Absinthe. She poured some water into it and returned to her chair.

She said defiantly, "My mother and father weren't married, but for a time they evidently had a somewhat hectic love affair. For some reason, she agreed to have a baby. By the time I came, the affair was waning. Mother couldn't bother with me; I interfered with her good times. But father wanted me and raised me. We loved each other very much. After he died, I became friends with Rosamond although we're worlds apart as a rule. When I told her I was to work for the World Club, she told me that they'd probably bug my rooms and gave me a muffler so that we could talk without being overheard. She knew about mufflers because she always uses one. She's afraid of jealous wives, sweethearts, or whoever, listening in on her calls to lovers."

He looked at her for a long disbelieving moment.

She came to her feet and said, "Oh, hell; come on. I suppose this was inevitable."

"Come on where?" he said.

"To the bedroom. I'm going to rape you a little."

Chapter Nineteen: Roy Cos

Roy dreaded getting up, but that feeling of dread was now a daily occurrence. He couldn't bring himself to face the Coming day. How long had it been now—a couple of weeks? More than that. At least he was giving the bastards a run for their money. One of the newsmen had told them that Oliver Brett-James, in Nassau, had been fired by the outfit issuing the Deathwish Policy Roy had signed up for. Evidently, the cosmo-corp's executives blamed the Englishman for not spotting potential trouble in the offbeat Roy Cos and his manager. Long before this, they had begun losing money on the deal. Not only were the premiums eating them up, but the so-called Deathwish Wobbly was spending his million pseudo-dollars per day at an unprecedented rate. How many people did he have on his payroll now? Over twenty, Roy supposed, counting the stenographers down in the offices on the floor below—a payroll of more than two hundred thousand pseudo-dollars a day! If he wasn't feeling so damned depressed, he might have laughed. Imagine Roy Cos spending over a million a week on his staff.

Mary Ann, on the pillow next to him, said, doing her best to keep the anxiety from her voice, "Something wrong, darling?"

He looked over at her. Mousy of face, Mary Ann Elwyn might be, but a mouse of very special attractions. It was the first time in his life that he'd had a deep involvement that went beyond mere sex.

"No, not really," he told her.

She looked at her wrist chronometer. "You're supposed to hear that Tri-Di singer this morning for the United Church broadcast."

"Yeah," he said, staring up at the ceiling. "What was his name again?"

"Stevie Summers. He's the current big thing in nostalgia folk song revivals."

Roy sighed and said, "How's Forry getting along with the hotel manager?"

She laughed shortly. "He's reversed the flow of crap, you might say. The first few days, guests were moving out wholesale when it was learned that the Deathwish Wobbly was staying here. Evidently, they expected the whole New Tropical Hotel to be bombed flat or something. But that didn't last. Thrill seekers zeroed in wholesale. One of Ron's friends who works in the lobby says the manager is turning down bribes that run up to a thousand pseudo-dollars for reservations. Same old story—thousands of silly dizzards would give then-right arms to be on hand when the Graf's men get to you. I mean if," she added contritely. "Sorry."

He ran a weary hand back through his shaggy, faded brown hair. "Nothing to be sorry about," he told her. He dug around for something else to postpone getting out of bed. "How'd that girl check out?"

"The one who got in with the reporters yesterday? She's evidently what she said she was, a celebrity hound. She wanted to see you in person, wanted to try to get your autograph. The guards shook her down just like everybody else and she had nothing remotely resembling a weapon, so they let her through. Supposedly, she was a reporter."

"If she could get past all of our security, so could somebody else," he said bitterly.

"We'd better go and check out this Stevie Summers, darling."

"All right." He swung his legs out over the side of the bed. Ignoring his bedroom slippers, he went over to the chair where he had thrown his clothes the night before and began to dress. Mary Ann got up too and went to the closet. The prole clothes she brought forth were as similar to his own as possible.

She looked over at him. Roy Cos had lost the extra ten pounds or so of weight and now looked drawn rather than pasty of face. The sunbaths on the roof, which Forry Brown had insisted upon, had wiped away the pallor. It came to her that Roy must have been quite good-looking as a young man. Twenty-five years of inadequate diet and exercise hadn't done him any good, nor had the long hours of sitting around small, drab rooms arguing political economy, night after night.

Forty Brown and Ferd Feldmeyer were in the living room with three of the guards who bore short, stocky Gyrojet automatic carbines. Dick Samuelson, in particular, carried his with a practiced ease. It had turned out, when the weapons were first procured, that Dick had spent a hitch in the Sky-borne Commandos, and he'd taken over the duty of instructing his less knowledgeable Wobbly colleagues in their use.

Also present was a rather vague-looking young man, somewhere in his early twenties. He bore a guitar and was looking both impatient and bored. His fans might have swooned over him, Roy decided, but he looked like nothing more than a gangly kid.

Forry, dressed identically to Roy, and looking somewhat ludicrous in prole attire, squinted through tobacco smoke at his employer. He said, "This is Stevie Summers. I promised him five thousand to sing one song as a preliminary to you roasting the Prophet."

"It ain't the money," the singer said. "I hate that sapsucker."

Roy nodded, went over to his desk, and took up a little red pamphlet, thumbed through it to the page he sought, found it, and handed it to the boy.

"This is a book of old IWW songs," he said. "This is the one I wanted you to sing. It was written by one of the early Wobblies, Joe Hill, who was executed in Utah for a crime he didn't commit because he was a radical. You sing it to the tune for the old hymn, In the Sweet Bye and Bye.

"Gotcha," the boy said. He looked over the lyrics for a moment, then began to strum and sing. To Roy's surprise, the singer's voice, though soft, grasped with appeal.

Long-haired preachers come out every night,

Try to tell you what's wrong and what's right;

But when asked how 'bout something to eat

They will answer with voices so sweet:

You will eat, bye and bye. In that glorious land above the sky;

Work and pray, live on hay, You'll get pie in the sky when you die.

And the starvation army they play. And they sing and they clap and they pray,

Till they get all your coin on the drum, Then they tell you when you're on the bum:

You will eat, bye and bye, In that glorious land above the sky;

Work and pray, live on hay, You'll get pie in the sky when you die.

Workingmen of all countries unite.

Side by side we for freedom will fight;

When the world and its wealth we have gained

To the grafters we'll sing this refrain:

You will eat, bye and bye, When you've learned how to cook and to fry

Chop some wood, 'twill do you good, And you'll eat in the sweet bye and bye. The boy ended with a bang on the strings, looked up and grinned. "After that, the Prophet'll want to crucify you."

"That's the idea," Roy said. "He's lined up with the other side. We want to make that clear." He looked at the folk singer. "That old radical song is kind of primitive as propaganda goes but it won't put you on anybody's shitlist, will it? The Prophet throws a lot of weight. With me, it doesn't make any difference. He'll have to stand in line if he wants to take a crack at me."

Stevie Summers shook his head, "The kids I sing for don't go for this holy-roller fling. So far as we're concerned, he can bugger himself with a wood auger. By the way, my old man's a Libertarian. I've heard a couple of your bleats on Tri-Di. Your two organizations oughta get together."

"There's been some talk about it," Roy nodded. Forry said, "We better get ready for that press interview." He took young Summers by the arm and led him to the door, going over details about the broadcast.

Roy sat down at his desk and looked unhappily at the pile of mail before him. He thumbed quickly through it. There was nothing from anyone he knew. All strangers. He said to Mary Ann, "You want to go through this and spread it around to the girls for the standard answers? By the way, how come I haven't met any of the stenographers?"

Mary Ann came over from her own desk, carrying a letter. She said, "Ferry doesn't want them on this floor. Two of them are Wobblies, but the others are outsiders. For all we know, the Graf might be able to get next to one of them. It's just as easy for a woman to take a crack at you as a man."

Roy shook his head but said, "I guess you're right. What's that?"

She put the letter down before him. "It's from Wobbly headquarters in Chicago."

Billy Tucker, who was also dressed identically to Roy Cos, said, "Oh, oh. I was beginning to wonder when we'd get a kick from the Agitation Committee. Some of those speeches Ferd has been writing for you aren't exactly the standard message the Wobblies have been making for the last century or so."

Roy ripped open the envelope and quickly scanned the letter.

"I'll be damned," he said. "I've been promoted from national organizer to a member of the Agitation Committee." He looked up at Mary Ann. "That's our executive committee, headed by the national secretary. He wants me to attend a meeting being organized by Synthesis."

"What in the hell's Synthesis?" Dick Samuelson said. He was lounging against the wall, next to the door to the corridor, his carbine under his right arm.

Roy grunted and said, "A new outfit that's trying to get all the radicals together. The whole shebang: Libertarians, Nihilists, Wobblies, the Anti-Racist League—everybody but those Eurocommunist slobs."

The door buzzed. Samuelson readied his gun and checked the identity screen. It was Forty Brown.

The newsman came in followed by Ferd Feldmeyer, who was carrying a sheaf of papers. The speech writer, like all the others of the team, was in prole dress identical to that worn by Roy. It had been one of Ferry's ideas. The whole team dressed exactly alike. As they invariably moved in a tight group whenever they were in public, a hit man, at any distance at all, would have his work cut out telling which one was Roy. Roy had protested, particularly in the case of Mary

Ann, but she had overruled him. As with the grossly fat Ferd and the king-sized Billy Tucker, there was small chance that even a myopic assassin would confuse her with his target, but the whole crew of them being dressed alike wouldn't help him any.

Forry, noticing the letter in Roy's hand, said, "What spins?"

"I've been made a member of the Agitation Committee. They want me to attend a special meeting that's being held in an attempt to amalgamate all radical groups."

"That's out. No more public appearances," Forry told him sourly. "From now on, I've made arrangements for your broadcasts to be made from right here. The fuzzies stationed at your last rally picked up two armed men before they even got near enough to you for our boys to be needed. Next meeting, there'd be more than two, and it's just a matter of time before one or more of them gets within firing range. From now on, you don't leave the New Tropical Hotel. You don't even leave this floor."

Roy said, "I'll have to attend that Synthesis meeting, if the national secretary wants me to."

"Screw the national secretary. Let him represent the Wobblies. He's expendable; you're not. You're the Deathwish Wobbly and you've put your message over more widely than all the rest of your outfit put together since it was first started."

Roy shook his head, feeling tired all over again. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, Forry, but I'm a member of an organization, not just a one-man agitator. I take orders from our elected officials just like Billy and Dick here do."

The little newsman shrugged angrily but gave up and fished a cigarette pack from a jumper pocket.

Ferd Feldmeyer tossed his sheaf of papers on the desk before his employer "Here's the United Church broadcast. I played it the way you said, stressing the fact that the Wobblies have nothing against religion per se since a man's relationship with his God is his personal business. But when organized religion intrudes on politics, it's no longer a matter of religion. They're as vulnerable as any other political organization."

Roy Cos was quickly scanning the speech. He said, "You used some concrete examples—the Roman Catholic Church, during the Middle Ages in particular, Islam, Shintoism in

Japan, and all other religions that have supported class-divided society down through the ages?"

"Sure, sure," Feldmeyer said, running his obscenely obese hand back through thinning blond hair. "Practically every large church—once it got big—has supportd the status quo. And the Prophet's United Church is no exception."

Dick, at the door, reported, "The rest of the boys have finished shaking down the reporters."

"Okay, let them in," Forry said.

There were a score or so of reporters and photographers. They were followed by three more of Roy's Wobbly guards, who stationed themselves alertly about the walls of the room, while the newsmen found places.

Most of the reporters had been here before. Roy's press interviews were daily affairs, as were his sessions with freelancers doing special articles. The senior of the newsmen, a wrinkled veteran, who was moist of eye from prolonged battles with the bottle, said, "What spins, Roy?"

Roy Cos, seated behind his desk, said, "I'm still here, Don. What're my odds today?"

"The bookies are giving even-steven that you get it today. Two to one that the Grafs boys get you by tomorrow. Four to one the next day, eight to one by the next," Don told him.

Mary Ann winced; her face looked sick.

"Jesus," Forry said. "What're the odds that he lasts the week out?"

Don said, flatly, "A hundred to one against. The word is out that the Graf's getting uptight about this. He likes to operate on the q.t. Publicity isn't his forte. The insurance companies are probably giving him the prod, too. All this publicity about the Deathwish Policies is giving them a black eye. People all over, not just in the States, are getting indignant. It pretty well shows that anything goes in this profit-oriented world. The multinationals are completely without morals. A man is put in a position where he can't make a real living and then coerced into giving up his life in return for a few days of hedonism. Yeah, the pressure is increasing on the multinational insurance companies, on the Swiss banks, on Lloyd's of London—any outfit that's got a finger in the pie."

Roy said, his smile working the usual wonder on his stoic face, "We'll make a Wobbly out of you yet, Don."

The old reporter looked at some of the photographers and said, "Why don't you guys wait until the interview's over before getting your pix? You just get in the way when we're trying to tape for Tri-Di."

"Elitist," one charged amiably, and sought a chair.

Forry said, "No special releases today, chum-pals. Fire away if you've got any questions for the Deathwish Wobbly."

One of them called out, "Roy, what's your stand on world government? It's in the air these days. You've probably heard that the Congress has invited Australia and New Zealand to join the United States. And it looks as though England and Ireland will get the same invitation."

Roy said, "We Wobblies are in favor of world government but can't see much advantage to it, so far as the proles are concerned, so long as class-divided society is retained. We'd just continue to be in the same undesirable spot, subsisting on GAS. World government under an industrial democracy would be desirable, but under the status quo it would merely give the powers that be better control of us. Instead of having dozens of countries, each with its own special conditions, its own rules and regulations, they'd have all of us under the same thumb."

Another reporter held up a hand and said, "After you've taken over, are you Wobblies going to continue to use the computers to decide who's going to work at what jobs?"

Roy Cos touched the end of his nose and frowned. He said slowly, "What you've got to understand is that Wobblies are advocating an industrial democracy. It'll be up to the people to decide such questions as that. We might come up with our ideas on how it should be handled, and then when the new order has taken over, the people might say, screw that, and vote in something else."

The questioner laughed and said, "Well, what is your personal opinion? How would you vote?"

Roy said, "Yes, I'd be in favor of continuing to use the computers to select who should have what job. However, there are some angles. We don't expect to put all of the population back to work at production. They're not needed to produce all the products and services necessary for society. That's where we differ from the Luddites. They want to destroy technology so that the whole work force can go back to production. That's ridiculous. After a million years or so man has finally solved the problem of producing all the articles we need. Now we can settle back and enjoy our longing for leisure. True leisure is not wasted. It's not only an opportunity to loaf. Man must spend this leisure intelligently, not sitting before Tri-Di screens sucking on trank pills or drinking syntho-beer."

Another reporter called, "Sure, but you'd be up against the same trouble we are now. There simply aren't enough jobs to go around. The computers can't find jobs where there aren't any."

Roy said, a bit impatiently, "What I just said was that we don't expect to put everybody back to work at production and services. But such jobs aren't the only kind of employment. Everybody physically and mentally capable of working, studying, or participating in the arts and sciences can be found a place. Be you ever so humble, the computers should be able to find something for you to do, the biggest consideration being that it's what you like to do. If you've got a leaning toward one of the arts, then they won't have you cleaning up the environment."

While Roy continued to field questions, one of the still-photographers sitting on the sidelines waiting his turn yawned and said to his neighbor, "That's an interesting box you've got there. An old-timer. What is it, a holo or lite?"

"Holo," the other said.

The first one yawned again and said, "I don't believe I've ever seen you here before. Who are you working for?"

The other ran his tongue over his lower lip. "International. The editor sent me over for a few shots for…"

The first photographer's face had frozen. His voice was louder. "Like shit you are! I'm representing International and I've never seen you before."

Billy Tucker dropped his gun and lunged across the room, sent Roy Cos sprawling from his chair and landed atop him behind the desk, his arms spread, his huge wrestler's body completely covering the smaller man.

One of the Tri-Di cameramen brought his rig crashing down on the head of the false photographer, who reeled, dropping his camera. Ron Ellison came charging up from where he had stationed himself against a wall, reversed his stubby carbine, and clubbed the man.

Another one of the reporters, in advance of his fellows, stepped in close and drove his fist into the interloper's solar plexus. The others came up, largely getting in each other's way.

"Son of a bitch," one of them snarled.

Don, the veteran, looked at his Tri-Di photographer, who had sacrificed his camera in the initial attack. "You stupid cloddy," he said. "That's ten thousand pseudo-dollars worth of box. How're we going to explain it to the office?"

Forry Brown, rubbing his thin fist over his scraggly mustache while staring down at the fallen man, said absently, "The Deathwish Wobbly will pick up the tab, plus a bonus of five thousand." He then looked at Ron. "How did this bastard get by you?"

Ron said defensively, "He's not armed. We shook him down like everybody else, real thoroughly. He hasn't got so much as a pocket knife."

The photographers were all recording the scene, particularly of the fallen man, the shattered camera beside him, and of Billy Tucker and Roy, now emerging from their place on the floor behind the desk. The hulking Billy looked shamefacedly at the shambles.

Mary Ann said, "Possibly he's like that girl yesterday. Wanted to see Roy in person. Talk to him. Get his autograph.''

The reporter who had originally started the ruckus by denouncing the now-unconscious intruder said, "Yeah, possibly. Let me take a look at that damned camera of his. He said it was a holo. He doesn't know his ass from a holo in the ground."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Don said as the other scooped up the camera under discussion from the floor.

While all watched, he fiddled with it. The back came away. Whatever the complicated jury-rigged device inside was, it had nothing to do with holo cameras.

"For Crissakes, let me see that," Forry rasped, taking it from the other's hands. He stared at the insides, turned the instrument over to check the lens.

He said in wonder, "This isn't a camera. It's a dart gun.

The dart's fired by springs and comes out through the opening where the lens is supposed to be."

"I'll be damned," Don said. "You gotta admit, the Grafs tricky. When all these boys were firing away at Roy, flashing lights and all, this bastard could have fired his dart without anybody noticing it. It might feel like nothing more than an itch, and Roy'd scratch it. And, sure as hell, the poison wouldn't work until our phony photographer, here, was already on his way out of the building, safe as a pig in shit."

Roy shook his head wearily, sighed, and said to Ron, "Couple of you boys get him out of here and turn him over to the fuzzies down in the lobby."

Forry said, "Tell them that our lawyers will prefer charges. If we can get him to admit he was hired by the Graf, we'll sue Lothar von Brandenburg through the World Court. Not that it'll do any good directly, but it'll be one more bit of damning evidence against the whole establishment.''

Don said, "We'll do up the releases from that angle, Forry. Come on chum-pals, let's get out of here. This is news!"

When they were gone, Dick said, "Roy, the party's getting rough—two people in two days penetrating our security. Maybe we ought to go to ground again; hide out somewhere."

Roy shook his head again. "In the first place, there's no place to hide. They'd find us, sooner or later. In the second place, there'd be no more broadcasts, no more publicity. We're just beginning to get the message over. We can't stop now."

Ron said, "Did you see how those news boys lit into him? They got to him before we could. That slob'll spend a week in the prison hospital, if he's lucky."

Forry squinted his eyes through the dribbling smoke of his inevitable cigarette. "It's a good sign," he said. "The press has been sympathetic from the first. Hell, it's been first-rate copy since we first made our news releases. But now they're really rallying around." He chopped out a cynical laugh. "Can you imagine some of those tough bastards beginning to accept what Roy's saying?"

"It's early in the day for it," Roy said, "but how about a drink? I could use one. That dizzard almost accomplished what he came for."

Mary Ann looked at him in alarm. "You don't mean that he fired a dart at you!"

"No. But I was nearly squashed to death under Billy, here."

As Ron went over to the bar to take orders, there came the blat-blat-blat of a copter outside.

Dick Samuelson took up his automatic carbine and went out through the French windows to threaten it off. It wasn't anything new. Since the word had gotten out that the Deathwish Wobbly was stationed in the New Tropical Hotel penthouse, aircraft, undoubtedly hired by rubberneckers, had circled almost daily. Roy's team had decided that the threat of a commando raid on the part of the Grafs men wasn't very likely. The invaders would have been at a considerable disadvantage, now that Roy had augmented his guard to eight well-armed men. They would have been mowed down as they attempted to disembark. Besides, in the Shootout, Roy would have been able to escape, along with Mary Ann and the other noncombatants of the team.

Taking their drinks, they paid little attention to the guard who had gone out on the roof and was shaking his weapon at the aircraft, until Ron blurted, "Jesus Christ! Dick's down!" The three guards in the living room dropped their drinks to the floor, grabbed up their guns, and headed for the roof garden on die double.

Dick was sprawled out on the terrace in agony. He called weakly, "Sniper! On the roof opposite!" His face contorted and he passed out.

Billy and Les ran for him, grabbed him by the arms, and pulled him back toward the penthouse, bending double to present as small a target as possible. Ron upended a heavy wrought-iron patio table and knelt behind it, steadying his Gyrojet on its edge. He traversed the roof opposite with rapid fire, emptying the clip with one burst. He slapped the side of the gun so that the magazine fell away and fumbled in a pocket of his prole jacket for another.

Dick's two rescuers hauled him into the living room, where the others were standing to each side of the windows out of the line of fire. Billy and Les dragged their fallen companion to a couch and got him onto it. Billy, his face pale, snapped, "He's hit bad! Doctor!"

Mary Ann, her usual prim efficiency slipping, squealed and dashed for the phone on her desk. She banged the activating stud and screamed, "Doctor! Doctor! Immediately in the penthouse. Emergency, emergency!"

Ron, bending double as his companions had, came hurrying back from the rooftop garden. "He's gone, I think," he blurted. Breathing deeply, he stared at Dick, sprawled on the couch. Roy, Forry, Billy, and Les were all hovering above him, trying to get his jacket off, trying to staunch the flow of blood. He said, "It must've all been a put-up. That chopper came over to draw us out. The guy on the roof was waiting. Dick's about the same size as Roy and, of course, we all dress the same."

"Where the hell's that doctor!" Forry grated.

One of the new guards opened the door and stuck his head in. "What the hell's going on?" he said, his eyes bugging when he saw Dick. "There's a doctor out here."

"Let him in, for Christ's sake," Roy said. "Dick's been hit. He's bleeding all over the place."

The doctor came hurrying in. He was in a white jacket and carrying the standard physician's black bag. He was a dignified-looking type, gray of hair, weary of face.

As he headed for the fallen man, those gathered around Dick Samuelson made way for him. Even as he crossed the room, he snapped his bag open and began to fish in it. Billy roared, "He's no damned doctor," and made a flying tackle.

The newcomer dropped his bag and smashed into the floor, hitting full on his face. The wrestler swarmed onto him, expertly, snagged an arm and pressed it behind and up the back.

Ron scooped up the bag and stared down into it. He reached inside and brought out a small Gyrojet hideaway gun. "Holy smog," he said, "a shooter."

The other guards came pressing in from the corridor, guns at the ready.

Billy hauled the fake doctor to his feet and slugged him mercilessly in the face, shattering his glasses and bringing blood.

"Another doctor," Forry blurted at Mary Ann, who had abandoned her phone and was standing, both fists to her mouth, her eyes popping in distress. "Have the manager come, accompanying the regular hotel doctor. Goddammit, Dick's still pumping his life out."

She got back on the phone.

Forty said to Billy, in disgust, "How in the hell did you know he wasn't a doctor?"

Billy Tucker, who was still manhandling his victim, aided now by Les, who was no gentler, looked slightly embarrassed. "I don't know," he admitted. "Just instinct, I guess."

They all looked at him. The wrestler said uncomfortably, "He got here too soon. Besides, he looked too much like a doctor."

Forry closed his eyes in weariness. "Give me strength," he muttered.

Roy, who had settled down in his chair behind his desk, said emptily, "Take him down to the lobby, Billy. You go too, Les. Turn him over to the fuzzies. Same story as that photographer."

Ferd Feldmeyer was over at the bar, pouring himself a fresh drink. He said, "We'd better call the press boys back. This makes a bigger story."

"To hell with publicity," Roy snapped. "Take care of poor Dick first."

A half hour later, the place was reasonably cleaned up. The faithful guard, Dick, had taken a side wound. Happily, the slug hadn't been explosive, as was so usual these days, and had gone completely through. According to the hotel doctor, there was little fear for his life—only a protracted stay in the hospital.

Forry said, "He'll continue on the payroll like everybody else."

Ron looked at him. "You're damn right he will."

Ron was the only guard in the room for the time. Billy was out on the roof, on the off chance that either the copter or the sniper might make a return performance. The others were in the corridors or stationed at the entries. Everybody was uptight.

Feldmeyer shook his head until his lardy jowls wobbled. He said, "What motivates a cloddy like that? Suppose he'd got his gun out and shot Roy? We'd all have been on him like a ton of bricks. He didn't have a chance of making a getaway."

Forry grunted. "When the Graf can't find anybody else to take a chance, there's always the John Wilkes Booth type kicking around that you can steam up to do the job. Think of all the international fame that would accrue to anybody who finishes the Deathwish Wobbly. Besides, one way or the other, the Graf will probably have that fake photographer and the phony doctor loose within six months. With his kind of money and muscle, you can do almost anything in this world."

In spite of all the excitement, Roy hadn't dispelled his earlier despondency. He took a pull at his third drink, though they hadn't had lunch yet.

He said, his voice reflecting his inner despair, "Dick might have been killed."

The others were seated around, quiet in their own inner thoughts.

Ron looked over at his chief quickly. He said, rejection there of the other's obvious thoughts, "Dick knew that. We all knew we were taking a chance when we signed up. You're the only one not taking a chance." He hesitated, before adding, "You don't have a chance, Roy, but you're in here pitching. What would you expect us to do? We're just as avid Wobblies as you are."

Roy Cos shrugged that off. "It was a mistake," he said, deep weariness in his voice. "What good's it done? I don't see the multitudes swarming in to join the Wobblies."

"There are some," Mary Ann said, trying to keep obvious compassion for her lover from her voice.

Roy looked at Forry, rather than her. "Yes," he said. "Most of 'em are crackpots trying to get in on the act. We don't need crackpots. We need devoted militants."

"They're not all crackpots," Ron said. "And it takes time to make a good Wobbly. A lot of study. A lot of background."

"No, they're not all crackpots," Roy said. "Some are undoubtedly IABI men ordered to infiltrate us and act as agents provocateurs. Some are probably in the pay of the Graf, getting in where they can do the most damage. What's the old Russian adage? When four men sit down to talk revolution, three are police spies and the other a damn fool." He was still looking at Forry Brown. "You and your story about Sacco and Vanzetti."

Forry lit another cigarette from the butt of his old one. "They wanted to get over their message. By being idealists.

The American people heard their message but rejected it, which is undoubtedly what they should have done. Anarchy didn't fit the country's needs. All right, you wanted to have the chance of getting over the Wobbly program. You're doing it. Now it's up to the program. If the majority of the people think it's good, they'll support it. If they don't, they won't. What's your beef, Roy?" His tone was sour. Roy nodded, tired still. "They haven't accepted it." Ron said, "They haven't had time, Roy! For Chrissakes, it's only been a couple of weeks or so."

His chief ignored that, saying, "You know what the trouble is? Always in the past when there was a fundamental change in the working, the people were driven to it, usually by hunger and despair—the French Revolution, the Russian Revolution, the Chinese before that, all the way back to the slave revolts in Rome led by Spartacus. But we don't have any hunger now, in the Welfare State. GAS takes care of everybody. Not on a very high level, but nobody starves, nobody goes unsheltered or unclothed, and medical care is free. The proles today are largely what Marx used to call the lumpen proletariat. He expected them to side with the enemy when the chips were down. And our lumpen proles are lumpen indeed. Go into any autobar in the slummiest part of town and say anything against the government and you'll have a fight on your hands. One of the platitudes they have is their slogan, it was good enough for Daddy and it's good enough for me.

Ron said uncomfortably, not at his ease in arguing with the older man he admired so much, "You knew all that before we ever started, Roy. It's admittedly a long road, but if we're right, sooner or later we'll win."

"So far as I'm concerned, and maybe Dick, it'll be later," the Deathwish Wobbly said bitterly.

Chapter Twenty: Jeremiah Auburn

When Jerry Auburn awakened, it was to find Lee Garrett next to him, up on one elbow. She was frowning puzzlement.

He grinned, his eyes glinting amusement, and said, "Did I put up a valiant enough battle for my honor? I wouldn't want the word to get out that I was an easy lay."

"What?"

He said, "When you raped me last night."

She was frowning still, ignoring his sally of humor. "I'm still wondering where I've met you before. At first I thought it was just your voice, but now I seem to find facial resemblances to someone I've met somewhere. Have we?"

He laughed. "Yes, for a short time. But not under such circumstances that I ever expected to wind up in your bed, honey. In fact, I lied to you. Told you I didn't think blondes were…" He chuckled again. "Someday, maybe, I'll tell you about it. Right now, you wouldn't believe me anyway."

"Don't be cryptic, Jerry."

But he dropped it and his voice became serious. He said, "I'm going to be leaving today, Lee. I've got some things to do in the States. Besides that, I don't think I'd win high marks in a Roman popularity contest right now. After that attempt in the restaurant, I'd rather be on my own turf."

She nodded at that. "I heard a few rumors last night that you haven't been exactly ingratiating yourself among some elements in the World Club but then, of course, you were a little drenched."

"No," he told her definitely. "I knew what I was doing and I was doing it deliberately. I don't like the present drift of the World Club and I want to bring certain things to a decision. At any rate, I want you to get in touch with Mendel Amschel and Fong Hui and let them know that if it comes to a vote on a new Central Committee member to get in touch with me, through you. I'm going to give you the number of my tight beam transceiver. You're not to tell Sheila, or anyone else, about this."

"But I work for Sheila Duff-Roberts. I can't…"

He interrupted her. "And she works for the Central Committee, and Amschel and Fong and I are members of that committee, so you work for us, above and beyond your obligations to Sheila."

"I suppose you're right." She hesitated, then said, "Jerry, what happened to Pamela McGivern, the girl who preceded me?"

"I don't know," he said grimly. "It's one of the things I intend to find out.''

He got out of bed and went to where he had so hastily disrobed the night before. He gathered up his clothes and headed for the bathroom, Lee looking after him thoughtfully. It occurred to her that though she'd had several brief affairs, she'd never before met a man with whom she might have considered a more permanent relationship. But then she snorted in self-amusement. He was Jeremiah Auburn, for years the leading igniter of the Rocket Set. Obviously, if he'd gotten to his age without more prolonged alliances, he wasn't interested in one. She wondered, all over again, where she could possibly have met him before—as he had now admitted.

His decision made to return to the States, Jerry Auburn faded out of Rome as inconspicuously as he had appeared. He didn't even bother to pack a small bag. All his requirements could be met on his personal air yacht.

He drove out the Appian Way to the International Shuttleport and directly to his king-size airliner. On the way, he had alerted the captain of his arrival and the fact that he wanted to be airborne immediately. A skeleton crew was always aboard, so that ordinarily he could have taken off immediately. However, the balance of the crew of eighteen, including the stewards, was undoubtedly quartered at the shuttleport's International Hotel and would be aboard as soon as he was.

The flight was uneventful. He sat in the main lounge, staring unseeingly out one of the larger ports at the sea, far beneath. What he had told Lee wasn't exactly correct. It wasn't just a matter of wanting to bring things to a decision. They were coming to very basic decisions, and Jeremiah Auburn was a high-survival type. He wished to be out in front directing matters along the path he favored.

He had a steward call ahead and have one of his limousines available when they landed, and to alert customs to pass him through without the necessity of his going to the administration building. It was his standard procedure. VIPs such as Jeremiah Auburn could be met on their private aircraft and not be bothered with the inconveniences suffered by the common herd. In such respects the 21st century differed not at all from the centuries before it; wealth and power had their privileges.

The limousine sped him to Manhattan and through its deserted streets, arrogantly remaining on the surface rather than taking the underground highway. They pulled up before the minor entrance on the side street behind the towering office building which was his destination. He entered the building, fishing in his pockets for his key ring and the small silver key for his private elevator.

The elevator sped him up to the high-level floor he used for his personal offices and living quarters while he was in residence. He emerged into the reception room and nodded at the dazzlingly smiling girl at the desk.

"Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Auburn," she gushed, rising. "We've been expecting you, sir."

"Wizard," he told her brusquely. "Tell Barry Wimple I'll see him in my quarters in five minutes."

"Yes, Mr. Auburn," she simpered.

For Christ's sake, he thought inwardly, let's not be too damned effervescent, as he pushed his way through to the office behind. It was staffed with two neatly suited accountant types and two gorgeous, efficient-looking women who could have landed Tri-Di parts portraying brisk secretaries of upper-echelon corporation executives. They were all deftly at work when he entered; whether make-work or not, he didn't know. They all stood and chorused smiled greetings, and he nodded back while striding across the room.

He had a suspicion that if he'd said, "Miss Jones, come into my apartments, I want to lay you," not one of the four would have blinked an eye and Miss Jones would have trotted after him. He had a dozen such staffs in half a dozen countries throughout the globe.

Simmons was waiting for him in the living room, ramrod-stiff, subservient just to the correct point, not sickeningly so. "Welcome home, Mr. Auburn," he said.

Jerry looked around the lush room. "Did you think this was home?" he growled. He headed for the bar, adding over his shoulder, "I came without luggage. Check to see if all my needs are available. Tell the chef—what's his name here, Henri?—that I'll probably dine in the apartment tonight. Alone."

"Yes, sir, of course. Yes, it's Henri, sir. He's anxious that you taste his new dish based on shad roe."

"Wizard," Jerry said, taking up a cognac bottle from the bar and pouring into a glass generously. The butler faded. Jerry sat down on a couch, put his feet up on a cocktail table, and took a pull at the drink.

Barry Wimple entered from the door that led to the offices. He was the epitome of the senior executive. Jerry Auburn sometimes wondered if they took courses in grooming at New Harvard Business College. He had never seen a senior executive who wasn't groomed to his teeth. He suspected that the other's clothing bill was greater than his own.

"Welcome back, Mr. Auburn," Wimple said. "Was your trip to Europe satisfactory?"

Jerry regarded him coolly. "How did you know I went to Europe?"

The other looked at him in distress. "Why, Mr. Auburn, Captain Wayland of your air yacht recorded it in his report."

Jerry made a note to do something about that. He didn't like anybody at all to know where he was at any given time. But obviously Wayland had to make reports on his expenditures, costs of fuel, landing fees, and so on.

He said, "Barry, I want you to get a few heavies in here when I'm in residence."

"Heavies, Mr. Auburn?"

"Hard types; guards. And I don't want you to hire them from Mercenaries, Incorporated. I've got reason to believe there might be a contract out on me. Get them from some competitor of the Graf."

His New York office head blinked at him. "A contract?

You mean… but, sir, that's ridiculous. Who could possibly want you…"

"Not everybody loves me like you do, Barry. So, six guards. I want them here this afternoon, inconspicuously, and I want them to shake down anybody who comes to see me."

"This afternoon?"

"Yes, preferably. But especially tonight. Is Lester here?"

"Yes, Mr. Auburn. And Ted Meer as well, as you instructed."

Lester was a carbon copy of Barry Wimple, fifteen years younger. One glance marked him as an efficient, supercilious WASP who would wind up a millionaire by middle age almost without trying.

Jerry nodded at his greeting and said, "Lester, I want you to find out who is the head of Mercenaries, Incorporated in North America. Have him here this evening. Tell him that the meeting is confidential. I'm assuming that New York is his base of operations."

Lester stared at him blankly, a touch of dismay there. "Mercenaries, Incorporated, sir?"

"You heard me. If they're here, and they should be, there must be some manner of contacting them. Start earning your pay, damn it. Don't you know any upper slot news people, or someone in the IABI? Either should know."

Wimple cleared his throat. "I have a niece who is married to a captain of detectives in the Inter-American Bureau of Investigation, Mr. Auburn."

"That ought to do it. Anything else pressing on the agenda, Barry?"

His senior aide said, "There's a representative from the Lagrangists waiting to see you, sir. When the order came for your limousine, I took the liberty of informing him that you were to be here this afternoon and that you might work him into your schedule. He's on his way. Of course, if you haven't the time…"

"Lagrangists?" Jerry said. "You mean from Lagrange Five? What does he want?"

"He wouldn't say, sir. He wanted to discuss it with you face to face. He was upset when I told him that you had retired and seldom devoted time to business matters anymore."

Jerry grunted. "Send him into my office when he arrives. I

don't believe I've ever met a real space colonist before. Brief me, Barry. How much have we currently got invested in Lagrange Five and the Asteroid Belt Islands?"

"Two hundred and twelve million and, ah, some change, Mr. Auburn. Largely in the Satellite Solar Power Plants."

Jerry grunted again. "That much? All right, you two, get going. I'll see the Lagrangist in my office and the Mercenaries, Incorporated bastard here in my quarters, both as soon as they've arrived. And remember, Barry, I want the new guards to frisk them before they see me."

The two left. As they crossed the outer office, Lester said to his higher-up, "He's a tough sonofabitch."

Wimple looked at him from the side of his eyes. "I'd probably be the same if I had inherited a few billion."

Jerry Auburn was idly looking at some reports he wouldn't ordinarily have bothered with when the man from Lagrange Five was announced. He hadn't known what he had expected; among other things, possibly an older man than this, if the other was an official representative from the space islands.

Ian Venner was disgustingly healthy looking. He must have been exactly the height and weight that the insurance statistics averaged out on a man of his age. He was a sun-faded blond, sharp blue of eye, with a good mouth on the wide and dry humorous side, and a strong chin. He looked as though he either owned the place or didn't give a damn who did.

"Sit down, Mr. Venner," Jerry said, even while sizing the other up.

"Just Venner," the newcomer said crisply. "We don't use the term Mister in Lagrangia.''

Jerry said, "Why not?"

"It is derived from the word master and I don't wish to be anyone's master any more than I want someone else to be mine."

Jerry refrained from twisting his mouth in amusement. "What can I do for you, Venner?"

"The Space Federation is desirous of buying out your holdings in space, Auburn. I've been sent to make initial contact."

"Man, you don't waste words. What federation? I don't usually handle this sort of thing. I have aides who make business decisions in which I seldom involve myself. I didn't even know there was a federation in Lagrangia."

The other nodded, not as though he approved of Jerry Auburn's divorcing himself from the details of his enterprises, but as though he had already heard of the fact. He said, "Recently, a loose-knit organization has been formed to represent the united needs of Lagrangia and the Belt Islands."

Jerry scowled. "United States of the Americas? Common Europe? The Soviet Complex? The Reunited Nations? Or a combination of two or more, or all of them?"

"No. The federation represents only space colonists actually living in space. We have no other affiliations."

"Don't be ridiculous," Jerry growled. "Every island in space is controlled by either some Earthside nation, the Reunited Nations, or by consortiums of multinational corporations."

His visitor was shaking his head. "Times are changing. One by one, we're buying out private interests in Lagrangia and the Asteroids, and most of the new islands are colonized from the older islands but have no political ties to them, or to the original nations which first founded them."

Jerry was staring at him now. This was absolutely new. There wasn't much news about the space projects any more; they were being played down drastically, as budgets were being cut on the space program. Still, he should have heard of this.

He said, "You mean to tell me that up in space you people get together and build a new island that has no affiliation whatsoever to Earthside private enterprise or to any specific nation?"

"That's correct. We're tired of misguidance from, ah, Earthworms."

"Earthworms!"

The Lagrangist wasn't without humor. He laughed lightly and said, "An old joke."

Jerry said, "But buying out my interests in solar power and such. Where the hell would you get the credits? One of my executives just informed me I have over two hundred million in investments in space."

The other agreed to that. "From the first, pay in space has been astronomical, compared to that Earthside. And, frankly, there is comparatively little to spend it on. We don't particularly go for ostentatious living, conspicuous consumption. We have no desire to keep up with the Joneses, or have a larger house, or boat—in those islands large enough to have suitable bodies of water—than our neighbors. I don't mean that there are any rules against it, but we simply don't do it. We pile up the credits. Some of the more energetic among us began to put scientific and industrial space developments to work for exports—artificial diamonds, for instance. Now we have enough money to buy out Earthside interests and, uh, I believe the term you use down here is to nationalize them."

"Why?" Jerry said blankly.

His visitor sighed. "For one thing, you Earthworms are usually unable to identify with our problems. You send instructions that are ridiculous considering the situations that apply. Often you send directives to expand in some direction in which expansion is pure nonsense, or refuse to divert funds to some effort which is absolutely necessary. It's something like England running the Thirteen Colonies from three thousand miles away. The British had no conception of the problems that faced American colonists."

Jerry Auburn was astonished. He came to his feet and made his way over to his office bar, his face in thought. "Drink?" he said.

The Lagrangist said, "You wouldn't have any Reman Riesling, would you? Top Earthside wines are one of the few things we haven't been able to duplicate in Lagrangia. We're working on it," he added quickly.

"I have some," Jerry murmured, still in his other thoughts. He filled glasses and returned to his desk, extending his visitor the dry white wine.

After settling back into his chair and swallowing some of his brandy, he said, "So: the space colonists are attempting to cut ties with Mother Earth."

"Some mother," the other said wryly. "More like a stepmother."

"How do you mean?"

"Earth has, from the beginning, only exploited Lagrangia and the Belt Islands. Almost all the profits are funneled back to Earth, rather than being used for continued expansion of the space program. A corporation wants immediate dividends; not, uh, pie in the sky a century from now. We have a different view. We've got a different dream."

Jerry was becoming increasingly intrigued. "So you're having trouble with Earth. Such as?"

The other took another sip of his wine, appreciatively. He looked at the multibillionaire and said, "Almost all funds for the space programs have been cut to ribbons. It's practically impossible for a top scientist or technician from whatever country to get permission to migrate to the space islands. Even ordinary folk are highly discouraged from leaving for Lagrangia or the Asteroids. Whenever we make a scientific breakthrough in the islands we immediately rush the details Earthside, but of recent years the Earth nations do not reciprocate. They keep their discoveries to themselves."

"Why should we do that?"

Venner shrugged and frowned before answering. "We're not sure. Maybe we're going too fast in the islands; the Earthside powers are afraid we'll upset the boat, come up with changes that will threaten the status quo. We're contributing to future shock with a vengeance. Sooner or later, almost every Earth institution will be threatened with change as a result of developments in space."

"Probably true." Jerry thought about it before saying, "These new developments of yours. What kind of political system have you dreamed up?"

"We're experimenting with a half-dozen alternatives." The other flashed a grin of deprecation. "None of them very similar to anything now prevailing Earthside."

"I'll be damned," Jerry said. Then, "Look, with emigration being deliberately discouraged, how are you populating these new islands of the Federation?"

The other looked him straight in the eye. "Partially from natural increase. We still like kids in the space colonies. But even more so from the original islands."

Jerry looked at him quizzically. "Wouldn't the original islands take a dim view of losing their inhabitants in that manner?"

Ian Venner wasn't fazed. "Some of them do, especially in the Belt."

"I'd think the Soviet Complex would send the KGB up en masse."

"They do. And they defect. For that matter, so do the IABI men, and those from the Common Europe Interpol, while chasing felons who've run to Lagrangia. My own—never mind," he finished, smiling to himself.

"Jesus," Jerry muttered. "I'll have to have my people do me a brief on this. I had no idea…" He scrutinized the Lagrangist again. "How are racial problems in Lagrangia and the Asteroids?"

"What race problems?"

Jerry was impatient. "You know: conflict between the races. Blacks, whites, yellows…"

The man from Lagrangia was just as impatient. "Auburn," he interrupted, "when you're out in deep space and something happens to your suit, you don't give a good goddamn whether the person next to you is black, yellow, or green. Death only comes in one color. In space, all humans cooperate, or they die. We pay no more attention to a person's race than his religion, if he has any—which he most likely doesn't."

Jerry said, "Come again?"

Venner was still impatient. "That's one of the reasons we're on the shit list. The Prophet has been pulling out all the stops when it comes to space colonization. He found out about twenty years ago that there wasn't a single church in Lagrange Five and demanded that he be allowed to build a United Church mission in our Island One. Obviously, we couldn't care less, so he built it and manned it."

"But nobody came, eh?" Jerry Auburn was amused.

"Oh, we all came. Once. In fact, some came back again for the second time… for laughs. Good grief, Auburn, any emigrants to the space colonies are screened to hell and gone, not for just competence in their line of work, but for intelligence, education, Ability Quotient. How many of them do you think can believe in the religious mythologies of the Jews, the Christians, the Moslems, the Buddhists, the Shinto-ists, or any of the rest? And if we tried to teach the Genesis account, Noah's Ark and the rest, do you think any of them would swallow it? Sorry."

Jerry got up and went over to the bar to refresh their drinks. He returned with them and said, "I begin to see why you people are getting uptight. So you've been rather quietly acquiring all private investments in space that you can get your hands on, as fast as you can finance it. But why approach me directly? Why not resort to various stock exchanges and buy up a controlling interest in Auburn Space Development, Incorporated?"

Ian Vernier said, "It's a question we debated. However, your grandfather was one of the first to invest in Lagrange Five, and he did it with no strings attached. He didn't make quick initial profits and keep them Earthside. For two decades, he reinvested all income from space back into the projects. When he died, your father continued the policy. And he didn't use Earthworm directors. He was the first to have sense enough to appoint experienced Lagrangists, usually second-generation colonists. Nor have we had any interference from you since you have inherited the Auburn interests. So we decided, in all fairness, that we should consult you without the bullshit."

"You did it, that's a fact," Jerry Auburn said. He thought about it for long moments during which time the other held his peace. He sipped at his brandy until the glass was empty, then put it down and turned to one of the screens on his desk. He flicked it on, and when a face faded in, said, "Barry, make arrangements to sell all our interests in Auburn Space Development to the Space Federation. I have a gentleman here in my office named Ian Venner, from Lagrangia. Go over the details with him. You'll have to relay this to Central and to Sillitoe in London and Flaker in Berlin. But first, buy what common shares you can and add them to our holdings you turn over."

Barry Wimple gaped, but Jerry flicked the switch again and turned back to the equally gaping Lagrangist.

Venner said, "But look. We make a policy of paying cash, when we've accumulated enough credits to swing our latest acquisition. This was to be the largest thus far. We don't want to be saddled with paying interest for…"

"No interest," Jerry said flatly. "I'm turning my space properties over to your Federation." He stood and extended a hand. "Perhaps, someday, you'll be able to do a favor for me. Meanwhile, you can use those credits you've accumulated the hard way to buy up some other properties. The move is on, Venner, to create a world government. If such elements as the United Church are in control of that world state, you people are going to be in the soup. You'd better make yourselves as independent as possible, as soon as possible."

The Lagrangist, still in something of a daze, shook hands. He said hesitantly, which was out of character for him, "I don't know what motivates you, Auburn, but I assume that you've thought this out. And I can assure you that the Federation is most anxious to grant that favor.''

Jerry smiled suddenly. "No racism in space, eh?"

The other was mystified. "That's right. There hasn't been from the beginning."

When Ian Venner was gone, Jerry went back to his living room, got a double brandy from the bar, and spread himself out on a couch. He remained there for a couple of hours, staring unseeingly out the huge window which overlooked Manhattan. From time to time he got up to replenish the glass.

At one time he said aloud, "What in hell am I doing in this position?"

And ten minutes later he answered himself. "I was born into it."

It had grown dark outside by the time the identity screen buzzed on the door leading to the offices. He sat erect and looked over. It was Lester.

Jerry said, "Yeah?" a slight slur in his voice.

"Mr. Luca Cellini is here, sir."

"Send him in."

The door opened and an alert-looking stranger entered. In his late thirties, he could have been one of Jerry's staff, so far as appearance was concerned. He was dark of complexion in the Sicilian tradition, clean and handsome of features, sharp of eye. He took the room in completely in one quick sweep, then turned to its occupant.

Jerry got up and went over to the bar for still another drink, saying over his shoulder, "Sit down, Cellini. You're the Graf's local man?"

The newcomer seated himself in a comfort chair and crossed his legs, adjusting his beautifully tailored trousers.

He said, "That's right, Mr. Auburn, and for both hemispheres of the Americas. What can I do for you?"

Jerry came back, reseated himself on the couch, and viewed the other. He said finally, "What would you take to sell out the Graf?"

Luca Cellini stared at him for a long moment. Then he said, "First of all, nine lives, like a cat."

Jerry said nothing, took a sip of his drink.

Cellini leaned forward a bit. "Mr. Auburn," he said "I don't want to antagonize you. I know who you are, and I know how much weight you can throw. Even the Graf wouldn't want to antagonize you. However, I've been working for Lothar Von Brandenburg for over twenty years. One of his scouts brought me off the streets when I was a kid. I've been with him ever since. He even sent me to school. Now I'm settled in the organization. The pay's good, more than I could ever have expected with my background. In short, Mr. Auburn, I owe the Graf. He's been more than a father to me."

Jerry took another pull at the drink, without removing his eyes from the other. He said slowly, "The Grafs a has-been. Mercenaries are rapidly becoming a thing of the past, and so is selling arms to would-be revolutionists. Already Latin America, once a lucrative field of operation for you, is now part of the United States and sealed off from your operations. And that's just the beginning. World government is on the way. When it comes, there will be little use, anywhere, for mercenaries and illicit arms sales. Hit men for the Death wish policies will be gone, since such policies will be illegal with a World State. There'll be a great fall-off in bodyguarding and assassinations, since most of them are international and there won't be any nations. The Graf is hedging his bets, trying to get into the upper hierarchy of the World Club so he'll have a place in the new scheme of things. You rank-and-file employees will largely be dropped. So, looking out for your own interests, you'd better get out while you can."

Luca Cellini had not worked his way up to his present standing in the Graf's organization by being slow.

He said, "Mind if I smoke?"

Jerry shook his head.

The New Yorker took out a gold cigar case and from it drew a panatela. The end had already been pierced. He brought forth a gold lighter and lit the long cigar carefully. He said, "I couldn't sell out the Graf. He'd get me no matter where I tried to hide. Just as easily as he gets those Deathwish policy suckers. Few of them last a week."

Jerry nodded, taking back more of the drink that he didn't need. His eyes were already shining in the characteristic way they did after a half-liter of spirits.

He said, "Try this. We'd arrange a Shootout in which you were involved. You'd supposedly take a couple of hits and the ambulance would haul you off to a clinic owned by a doctor on my payroll. He'd operate on you, making a few impressive-looking scars and possibly taking a half inch or so out of one of your shin bones, so you'd be left with a noticeable limp. When you were released from the clinic, the doctor's report would read that you were ninety percent disabled, possibly one of your kidneys shot away, or something. My people know how to do it. You'd report to the Graf or Peter Windsor or whoever you report to, that you have to retire. So you go to some island paradise like Samoa, and settle down living the good life in retirement on whatever pension the Graf settles on you, and especially the sum I give you. You stay there at least until Mercenaries, Incorporated is gone from the scene—possibly Lothar von Brandenburg as well. Possibly you spend the rest of your life where you're not apt to run into any of your present associates. So, the question is still, what would you want to sell out the Graf?"

Luca Cellini was staring again and breathing deeper now. He said, "Could I have a drink?"

His host motioned with his head toward the bar. Cellini went over to it and poured himself a triple from the same bottle his host had used, He swallowed part of it and returned to his chair.

He said, "One million pseudo-dollars, tax-free and untrace-able."

Jerry nodded in agreement. "Very well. As you leave, Lester will make arrangements with you to deposit that amount to whatever account you prefer. I assume that you have at least one secret account in Nassau, Tangier, or wherever."

Cellini nodded. "I know you don't welch, Mr. Auburn. I trust you. What did you want from me?"

"What happened to Harold Dunninger?"

"He was kidnapped by the Nihilists. When his wife wouldn't pony up the ransom, they hit him."

"I know what was in the news. How did you set it up?"

The other moistened his lips. "I was supplying his bodyguards. There were twelve of them, four on a shift. I pulled four of them off at the crucial time, supposedly rotating them. The orders came from Windsor. The Nihilist who pulled off the kidnapping was one of ours. We've had him planted with them for years. He placed the ransom amount so high that there wasn't a chance Dunninger's wife would pay it. We'd checked her out to make sure."

"What's the name of your mole in the Nihilists?"

"Nils Ostrander."

"New subject: What happened to Pamela McGivern?"

Cellini shook his head. "Never heard of her."

Jerry thought about it for a moment, then accepted that and said, "What else has been going on under your jurisdiction?"

"We've diverted all our best men to hitting the Deathwish Wobbly."

"Who?" Jerry scowled.

"Roy Cos, a screwball radical who took out a Deathwish Policy. Instead of blowing the credits coming to him like all the rest, he's devoted it to buying prime time so he can sound off against the system. He's surrounded himself with a flock of guards, all devoted to him, and we haven't been able to get through. He's scheduled to show in a couple of days. All the screwball outfits are getting together in Chicago for what they call a synthesis meeting. He's supposed to represent the Wobblies."

"I guess I have heard about him," Jerry said, his voice deeper in its slur now, his eyes brighter. He was obviously at least half drenched in booze. "What else?"

"Nothing much. They sent over a new man from the Wolfschloss." Cellini looked up. "That's the…"

"I know," Jerry said. "The Grafs fortress in Liechtenstein. Goon "

"Kid named Franklin Pinell," Cellini growled. "It's not the way the organization usually operates. Windsor said to cooperate with him one hundred percent. Handle him with kid gloves. Grafs orders."

Jerry eyed him. "What's he supposed to do?"

"Hit a spade named Horace Hampton, evidently. Never heard of Hampton."

Jerry Auburn's face froze. All of a sudden, he didn't seem quite so influenced by the drink he'd been putting down. "Why?" he got out.

"Damned if I know. There's a contract on him. Why we couldn't have handled it is a mystery to me. Routine stuff."

After a moment, Jerry said, "Anything else?"

"Can't think of anything."

"Wizard. Go out to Lester. He'll cover you with all that we've agreed on."

The executive came to his feet, looked at the man who had just bought him, then, without further words, turned and headed for the door.

Jerry finished his drink, went over to the living room's small desk, and sat down before the screen there. He flicked it on and said, "Ted Meer."

When the face of his aide appeared, he said, "Check as deeply as you can on these men. First, a Franklin Pinell. All I know about him is that he's young, has recently been in Europe, including Liechtenstein, and is connected with Mercenaries, Incorporated, evidently on a high level. Second, Roy Cos, the so-called Deathwish Wobbly. Third, a Nils Ostrander of the Nihilists, evidently one of their more militant members; possibly connected with some of their more flagrant operations. And, oh yes, who are we currently using for our private investigations in Common Europe?"

His aide said, "We're still using Pinkerton International, Mr. Auburn."

"Very well. Get them to put all-out effort into checking a Pamela McGivern, an Irish girl, recently employed as a secretary by the World Club, at their headquarters in the Palazzo Colonna in Rome. She disappeared about a week or so ago. This is crash priority, Meer. I want results immediately."

"Yes, sir."

Jerry Auburn flicked the screen off, sighed, and went back to the bar.

In the morning, he had a raging hangover. He went into the bathroom and got a bottle of Sober-Ups from the medicine cabinet, shuddered, and took one. Still in pajamas, he went into the living room and stretched out on the couch, after touching a button set into its armrest.

Simmons entered, immaculately correct. He took one look at his employer and said sadly, "Yes, sir."

"Wipe that goddamned superior, long-suffering look off your face and bring me about a gallon of Italian Expresso."

"Yes, sir." The butler left.

Jerry Auburn went through the agony of the stepped-up recuperation from overindulgence. When he at last felt semi-healthy, he groaned, took himself over to the desk, and flicked on the screen.

Ted Meer appeared, looking weary as though he hadn't been to bed the night before.

Jerry said nastily, "Why in the hell don't you take pep pills when you've got a siege before you?" He knew that his aide had an aversion to stimulants but was in no mood to sympathize.

"Yes, sir," the other said.

"Well, what have you found out?"

"We have the Dossier Complete of Roy Cos, as well as his activities of the last weeks since he has broken into the news. The material is on your desk. We have drawn a blank on Nils Ostrander. It is obviously an assumed name. The IABI is on the verge of arresting him in connection with the kidnapping and death of Harold Ounninger but thus far has insufficient evidence with which to operate. There is a vague hint that higher ups are protecting him, though that would seem impossible."

"Shit it is," Jerry muttered. "Go on."

"Franklin Pinell was recently deported from the United States after four felony sentences, the last of which was a homicide, He was sent to Tangier but he never reported to the Moroccan police. He is the son of the late Willard Pinell, known in mercenary circles as Buck Pinell. The elder Pinell, in partnership with Lothar von Brandenburg, founded Mercenaries, Incorporated over twenty years ago. Present location of Franklin Pinell is unknown."

Jerry said, "He's here in the States. If he's a deportee, undoubtedly under an alias and with false papers. Put the Pinkertons on his trail. What about Pamela McGivern?"

"There hasn't been sufficient time for much of a report, save that she has not returned to Ireland. Her family lives in Dublin. They haven't heard from her for a month."

Jerry thought over what he had been told for a few mo-ments, then said, "Keep at it. If anything important breaks, get in touch with me immediately. Keep digging on this Franklin Pinell and get some background on his father, Buck. Find out everything you can about him, especially his relationship with Lothar von Brandenburg." He hesitated, then went on. "I also want to check out a Lee Garrett, including all the dope you can get on her father and mother, who evidently weren't married. She's currently in residence at the Palazzo Colonna in Rome and has the job formerly held by Pamela McGivern. Check for any hanky-panky there might have been in her being selected by the computers for her job there. I don't want a cursory report on this. I want deep digging. It's extremely difficult, but not impossible, to jimmy the computers or the data banks."

"Yes, sir," Ted Meer said. "Anything else, Mr. Auburn?"

"No. I'll get in touch, Ted." Jerry turned off the screen and ran his hand over his facial stubble.

He thought some more, then reached for the screen again, touching the stud that would deactivate the video. He dialed slowly, remembering the digits. Max Finklestein's face appeared, frowning at the fact that his own screen was blank.

"Who is it?" he said, rubbing the end of his Armenian nose in irritation.

"Hamp," Jerry said. "Horace Hampton."

"How the hell do I know it's Hamp?" Max said irritably.

"The last time I saw you we had our faces buried in the leaves behind the We Shall Overcome Motel, with Tom Horse and Joe Zavalla. Something's wrong with my damn transceiver."

"All right," the other said. "What spins, Hamp?"

"I'm tired of being on leave. What do you want me to do?"

"You'll have to check with National Headquarters, Hamp. I'm not running you anymore. I've been promoted to the National Executive Committee. I'm being sent up to Chicago to represent the Anti-Racist League at the Synthesis meeting."

Jerry blinked. This was better than he could have expected. His mind racing, he said, "I've heard a little about that meeting, Max, some of it disquieting. I want in."

Max Finklestein said, "Why?" puzzlement in his voice.

"As muscle. Among others, Roy Cos is going to be there and so is Nils Ostrander."

"I know about Cos, but who's Nils Ostrander?"

"The Nihilist who engineered the kidnap killing of that multimillionaire, Harold Dunninger. There's an off chance that the IABI might try to pick him up at the meeting."

Max said suspiciously, "How in the name of Christ do you know?"

"Sticking my ears out. Ever since this Roy Cos character has been sounding off, everybody and his cousin have been talking about the different radical organizations. Not just the Wobblies, but all radicals. The idea of fundamental change is in the air."

Max considered it. He finally nodded and said, "All right. I'll check it out with the Executive Committee but they'll undoubtedly okay it. Each organization is allowed two delegates. You might as well be my partner. Suppose we meet there."

"Wizard," Jerry said. "See you, Max."

He cut the screen, then flicked on the video again and the switch for his harassed aide. Ted Meer's face came on.

Jerry said, "One more thing, Ted. Plant a news story, and I mean really plant it, so that nobody who listens to the news at all could possibly miss it. The story is that Horace Hampton, an alleged suspect in the recent attack on Governor Teeter, will be present representing the Anti-Racist League at the Synthesis meeting to be held by radical groups in Chicago."

His aide said, "Yes, Mr. Auburn. That name again?"

"Horace Hampton, damn it. Take some pep pills!"

He flicked off, then immediately back on again. He dialed and almost immediately his own face was there on the screen. He said, "Hi, Jim. What spins?"

His double grinned at him. "I still think I've got the best goddamn job in the world."

Jerry laughed. "You probably have at that, you chronic hedonist. I do all the work, you have all the fun, and between us we're Jeremiah Auburn. Okay, Jim. You're to surface again, immediately. This time, drop the recluse bit. Go to one of the gambling resorts—Monte Carlo or Nice. Drop a hundred thousand or so at roulette, or whatever. Enough so that it'll be picked up by the news people and have society commentators asking whether Jerry Auburn is coming out of seclusion to rejoin the Rocket Set."

"Got it," Jim said. "Great. Back to the high life. Do I need to know what it's all about?"

"No. Not necessary." Jerry's face broke into another fond grin. "Just be sure to remember the names of people you meet and what you did with them, especially the mopsies you might lay, you damned screwing machine. We'll have to get together again one of these days, Jim, and bend a few elbows. It's been a long time since we've sat across a table from each other and tossed back a few. There's something weird about getting drenched and sitting across from you… yourself.''

"Tell me about it," Jim said. "The last time I didn't recover for days. And it wasn't just because I was looking at my own face."

Jerry laughed and flicked the screen off, touched another switch. This time, Barry Wimple's face came on.

Jerry said, "I'll be leaving town again, Barry. Dismiss the staff. You and Ted and Lester check into Central, of course. I don't know how long it'll be before I'm back this time."

His senior executive was aghast. "But, Mr. Auburn, I've got a dozen top-priority matters…"

"That's what I pay you for, Barry," Jerry said, brushing aside the other's complaint. "The decisions are up to you and the rest of your boys. When you start making bad ones, it's your ass. Meanwhile, I want the staff cleared out of here before noon."

"Yes, sir," the old man said unhappily.

Jerry turned him off, then slumped in his chair for a moment and took a deep breath before heading for the master bedroom. He passed through it into the dressing room, went into the bath, and to the medical cabinet, which he opened with a small key to bring forth a hypodermic needle. Minutes later he returned to the dressing room. He sat down before the mirror, pulled out a drawer, and took up the small box containing his colored contact lenses.

"Doc Jekyll, meet Comrade Hyde," he muttered.

Chapter Twenty-One: Horace Hampton

Horace Hampton looked up at the lanky, stoop-shouldered man who hovered over his table in the automated bar, grinning down at him.

"Thought I'd find you here," Max Finklestein said. "It's the nearest bar to Assembly Halls."

"Hi, Max," Hamp said. "Have some of this syntho-beer. How did Shakespeare put it? 'Weaker than woman's tears,' or something. They ought to stick it back in the horse."

"Not up to your usual standards, eh?" the older man said, even as he slid into a chair opposite the black. He put his credit card in the table's payment slot and dialed for a mug of the brew.

Hamp looked at him. "What's that supposed to mean, old chum-pal?"

The center of the table sank down to return with the beer. Max took a drink of it, then wiped the coarse foam from his lips. "It means that usually you drink more expensive stuff than the proles have to put up with."

The other's look turned quizzical. "How do you know?"

"I've been checking up on you."

"Wizard, and what've you found?"

"That you're not exactly a down-and-out nigger subsisting on GAS." Max grinned at him in deprecation.

"That's the trouble with you kikes," Hamp said. "Nosy."

Max Finklestein said, "I was sitting around one day, minding my own business, when the thought came to me that the Anti-Racist League was in better funds than it should be. Most of the membership consists of minority elements who'd contribute a lot to the cause if they could, but they can't— they're largely on GAS. Somehow the organization never seems to lack sufficient funds, though. So purely out of curiosity, I began checking on the source of the larger donations that come through. And guess what I found?"

"I know what you found," Hamp said. He finished his beer and dialed another.

Max said, "Why all the secrecy? Why not just openly donate it, in one lump sum, instead of here and there in dribbles?"

Hamp sighed and said, "Because I'm of the opinion that a race, a nationality, or a social class should finance its own emancipation. You mustn't hand somebody freedom on a platter. Suppose I came out and gave a million pseudo-dollars to the Anti-Racist League in a flat sum. Then the membership as a whole would stop their pathetically small donations, as meaningless. But it's not meaningless for a man to give up his guzzle, his sometime extravagance, or his occasional splurge, for a cause he believes in. It's not meaningless for him to sacrifice. It's part of his fight for freedom."

"Quite a speech," Max said. "Where'd you get all this money, Hamp? Or is it a secret? Are you a big-time crook? That's all the organization needs in the way of publicity—one of its most active members turning out to be a crook."

Hamp sighed. "Come off it, Max. It's according to what you mean by crook, I suppose. Yesterday, I tuned in on this Deathwish Wobbly, who we're supposed to get together with tonight. According to him, the whole upper class is composed of crooks. Their wealth has been stolen from the useful workers."

"So you're upper class."

"I suppose so. It's a long story, Max."

The other looked at his wrist chronometer. "We've got time."

Hamp sighed again. "It starts with a slave down in South Carolina—Pod Hampton. I haven't a violin to play so I'll skip the details of the hard time he had. When he finally lit out, he took old massa's silver with him. In fact, the kind old massa was on the rich side and some of the so-called silver was gold. Pod managed to get it, and himself, up to Boston. And there he swore a great oath, understand? He wasn't going to spend any of his, ah, ill-gotten gains on himself. Instead, he was going to invest it and use the proceeds to fight for freeing his people.

"At that time there was no valid organization putting up such a fight. He thought the Abolitionists were a bunch of impractical do-gooders, a bunch of starry-eyed whiteys who, beneath it all, believed that blacks really were inferior, and should be pampered like children by those who were good of heart, rather than being exploited as slaves. He continued to invest the money; railroads, mainly. When he died, both the securities and the dream went to his oldest son who, if anything, was even more solidly anti-racist than the old man. He managed the investments—some land in the so-called Great American Desert really paid off—but didn't spend much of it on himself. During his lifetime the Civil War took place, but it didn't take any genius to see that the freed blacks weren't much better off than they had been as slaves. And there was still no organization that seemed fit to turn the money over to. Those were the boom times of industrialization, and the money was still largely in railroads. It grew. It grew still more under his son. And along here somewhere, it became obvious that not spending any of it no longer made sense. The fortune needed full-time management—office employees and so forth. The next son dropped railroads and went into automobiles."

Max whistled softly.

Hamp went on, after dialing still another syntho-beer. "These sons all continued the dream. They were devoted to ending racism. They'd progressed beyond the point of fighting for black rights alone. They were also smart enough not to throw the fortune away on lost causes. They were hanging onto it until the right time and the right organization came along. The fortune was kept as secret as possible and they led very simple lives while managing it. Remember, they were smart. One by one, as new developments such as radio, the airplane, and later, electronics, came along, they got in on the ground floor. For instance, one of them helped launch IBM back in the 1920s."

"That would explain it, without the other stuff," said Max.

"And along in here came a new development. It wasn't practical to live like misers while hoarding a fortune that would one day be used to end world racism. To manage a modern fortune, you've got to be educated in top schools, you've got to have the correct social and financial contacts, which are often the same people. In short, you've got to move in the right circles. It's all part of the great fortunes game. A Rockefeller, a Mellon, a Rothschild, can't operate out of a sleazy flat in Harlem. At any rate, Max, I'm the current holder of the purse strings and the Anti-Racist League is being doled out all the funds I feel it can handle at this point."

Max was eyeing him. "I'll be damned," he said. "That fortune must be king-size by now."

"It is," Hamp said dryly. "And the present descendant of Pod Hampton still has the dream."

Max said, "But for Christ's sake, you shouldn't be risking yourself carrying out extreme assignments for the organization."

Hamp looked at him flatly. "I refuse to finance activities that I'm not willing to take on myself. If Indians like Tom Horse and Chicanes like Jose Zavalla are willing to take the risks they do, so is Horace Hampton."

Max nodded acceptance of that stand. "Right," he said. "I assume you want me to keep this to myself."

"If I thought you couldn't, I wouldn't have told you," Hamp said.

Max looked at his wrist chronometer again. "I suppose we ought to get going. The Synthesis committee has rented a small hall for the meeting. Only delegates are to be admitted— and their bodyguards."

As they stood, Hamp looked over at him questioningly.

Max laughed. "I assume nobody'll have bodyguards besides Roy Cos. That rule was made with him in mind. From what I hear, they average two attempts on his life a day, the poor bastard."

They headed for the door. "Yeah," Hamp growled. "Every hit man in Mercenaries, Incorporated has zeroed in on him."

They went out onto the street and headed for the Assembly Halls, a commercial building devoted to a score of rentable halls ranging from a large auditorium to small lecture rooms that would hold audiences of fifty or so.

Max was eyeing his companion strangely. "How do you know?" he said.

Hamp covered. "Just guessing. It makes sense. It's not just that insurance conglomerate that wrote the Deathwish Policy now. Poor Cos has everybody and his nephew down on him—the United Church, the government of every country in the world that fears revolutionary change, the World Club, God knows who else. He's the sorest thumb to show up for many a year."

Max said, frowning, "Why the World Club?"

The black shrugged. "They want a World State, but under their wing—not the kind he's agitating for."

As they got nearer to the building in which the meeting was to be held, the crowd began to manifest itself. There were several police cars, lights flickering above them, a police ambulance, and a contingent of uniformed police stationed across the street from the entrance to the halls. There was also one Tri-Di unit mounted atop a truck, and a couple of hundred curiosity seekers, gawking. Among them were twenty-five or so teenagers of both sexes, each carrying a child's baseball bat. These latter were dressed identically in prole clothing—sweaters and denim shorts.

Hamp said, "Not much of a turnout when you consider Cos is exposing himself. I'd think there'd be thousands."

Max said cynically, "The news media has been given orders to play down the Deathwish Wobbly. They can't ignore him entirely, news being news, and the fact that he might get burned any minute. But they're trying to ease coverage on him and especially this meeting. Every radical organization going, no matter how zany, is on Roy Cos's bandwagon, whether he wants them or not. Everybody's beginning to have second thoughts about whether basic changes ought to be made in the world's socioeconomic systems, even in the Soviet Complex and the People's Republic of China."

They came up to the entry to the halls, just as two heavy limousines slid quickly to the curb immediately before them.

"Cos," Max grunted.

Four men, Gyrojets swinging from their hips in quick-draw holsters, sprang from the first vehicle and immediately dashed back to surround the second one, each of them at a corner. Their hands rested on their guns and their eyes were never still as they scanned the crowd, not excluding the police or the Tri-Di crew. Two of the doors of the second limo opened and three more guards erupted. They immediately stationed themselves between the car and the entry, and they too had their hands on pistol butts. The teenagers with the baseball bats pressed closer, between the guards and the building entrance.

Two more men got out of the second limo and looked up and down the street, one apprehensively, the other as though resigned.

Max said, "Jesus, is that the Deathwish Wobbly? Colorless looking little guy, isn't he?"

Forry Brown was saying, "Inside. Let's get inside, damn it. I don't like to be out in the open like this."

Roy Cos grunted and they headed for the door, the guards crowding around them now.

Roy Cos's manager hesitated and looked at one of the kids with the baseball bats. "Who the hell are you?" he said.

The boy saluted with his bat. "We're the Junior Wobblies, sir. Come to help protect Comrade Cos." He wielded the bat as though it was a field marshal's baton.

Roy Cos looked at him. "Junior Wobblies?" he said. "There is no such organization. If there was, I would have heard of it."

The boy wasn't fazed. He looked to be about seventeen— man sized, but with a teenager's awkwardness. "We've organized on our own, Comrade Cos. We haven't had time to get in touch with the national organization for their approval. There's fifty of us here surrounding the building. If any of these professional mercenaries show up, we'll give 'em hell."

Ron grunted in disbelief and his hand tightened on his Gyrojet.

But Forry shook his head. "Let them alone," he said. "The Graf doesn't have any teenagers in his outfit. His need is for experienced professionals." He clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Carry on, kid."

"Yes, sir."

Hamp and Max had joined the Wobbly contingent as they entered the building, three of the guards going ahead.

Max said to Roy Cos, "We're the delegates from the Anti-Racist League."

Roy shook hands. "I suppose you know my name," he said. "And this is Forrest Brown, my business manager."

"Max Finklestein and Horace Hampton," Max introduced them.

"The meeting's on the third floor," Forry said nervously. "Let's get going."

Ron and Les got into the elevator alone and rode up, to check out the way. The other guards packed around Roy and Forry, waiting.

Roy looked over at Hamp wanly and said, "A helluva way to live."

The black nodded. The other was right. The elevator returned.

On the third floor, Ron and Les were waiting. The whole group proceeded to a hall down the corridor from which sounds were emanating. They were evidently a bit late.

Two members of the Synthesis committee were at the door checking credentials. Roy Cos, on the face of it, hardly needed them, but he went through the motions of proving himself a delegate from the Wobblies. Max presented a letter identifying himself and Horace Hampton.

The meeting was a bore, doomed to failure from its inception. The Synthesis group, which had proposed it, was obviously sincere in its desire to unite all the radical elements but, as Hamp whispered to Max Finklestein, sincerity alone was dull as dishwater.

There were perhaps thirty-five present, including the Synthesis committee, the bodyguards, and various delegates. The leading representatives were those from the Wobblies, the Nihilists, the Luddites, and the Libertarians, in addition to the Anti-Racists. The other delegates were from splinter groups and some, splinters from splinters. There was even one representative from an organization evidently unknown to the others, called Technocracy, Incorporated. Going at least a century and a half back, the Technocrats opted for a world government dominated by scientists, engineers, and technicians. He wasn't quite booed down.

A table in front of the hall acted as a rostrum and each delegation was called upon to give the program of its organization. Roy spoke for the Wobblies, Max Finklestein for the Anti-Racist League, a Nils Ostrander for the Nihilists, and a blowsy woman named Bertha Holtz held forth for the Libertarians, who evidently carried high the banner of the new women's lib and that of the gays as well. After these four stars, the splinter groups each had their turn, turns that dealt almost exclusively with hair-splitting.

Hamp and Max had seated themselves next to Roy Cos and Forry Brown, the guards being strategically placed about the room, all standing with their backs to the walls. Hamp spotted Nils Ostrander, who sat next to a younger, very earnest-looking man whose suit was by far the best of any of those present. He also spotted the other person he was looking for, an athletic-looking young fellow in his early twenties. The chairman had introduced him as the sole delegate from one of the smaller organizations back East, of which Hamp had never heard, and suspected that no one else present had either.

By the time each organization had had its say, the chairman was looking distressed; indeed, downright unhappy. He said, "Did anyone else wish to speak?"

Hamp stood and said, "I wouldn't mind doing a little summing up."

He was invited to the table and stood in front of it, rather than behind.

He looked over them, sighed, and said, "This meeting is a farce and I suspect that by this time most of us realize it. It's been a farce because its purpose is unobtainable. The organizations here can't get together because they don't stand for the same things. I can't figure out what some of you do stand for. Everybody here is against something, but damn few are for anything. Cos's Wobblies at least have a program, whether or not it's valid, but the Nihilists proudly announce that they haven't. All they want to do is tear down the present social system without having anything definite to replace it. The Libertarians want to reform the present Welfare State by granting more GAS for all proles, by pushing through still further rights for women and gays. They aren't interested in complete change, just reform. The Luddites want to turn the wheels of progress backwards. They want to destroy modern technology and return to the days before automation and computerization, when all of the labor force was needed in production, distribution, and services. The trouble is that you can't uninvent things any more than you can unscramble eggs. We of the Anti-Racist League have only one thing in common with the Luddites: our interest isn't in overthrowing

People's Capitalism and neither is theirs. Neither is it the interest of the Libertarians. In fact, in the ranks of anti-racists are some who are wealthy and have an interest in maintaining the status quo, save on the racial question. You see, none of us stands for the same thing. We can't unite."

The audience stirred, some muttering among themselves.

Nils Ostrander, the delegate from the Nihilists, was on his feet angrily. "That's defeatism! Quite a few of us stand for the complete dismemberment of the welfare state. We ought to get together to pull this rotten system down."

More mutterings and still more agitation. The saturnine Max Finklestein was looking at his companion in amusement.

Hamp said deliberately, "I've done a lot of wondering about the Nihilists. You are a continuation of the terrorists of the late 20th century, such as the Symbiosis Army here in the States, and the Sekigun, the so-called Red Army of Japan, and similar groups in Germany and Italy. Anti-establishment, but pro-what? And, given the viewpoint of those who opt for the status quo, you serve a very definite need. Whether you want to be or not, you serve as agents provocateurs. The assassinations and kidnappings laid at your door serve to turn sincere people of good will away from any movement that proclaims the need for fundamental change. People are repelled by what you do in the name of radicalism, which puts a chip on their shoulders about all revolutionary groups— including the Wobblies, who foreswear force and violence and want to make their changes through legal means. In short, you're the kiss of death to all the movements represented here tonight. If there was no such organization as the Nihilists, it would be to the interest of such outfits as the United Church, the IABI, the World Club and, for that matter, Mercenaries, Incorporated, to start one. They use you to louse up the image of anybody advocating change."

"That's a lie!" Ostrander yelled in indignation.

"Is it?" the black said emptily. "Let me give an example. Recently, the multimillionaire World Club man, Harold Dunninger, managed to get himself on the shitlist of the United Church, as well as in the bad graces of some of the higher-echelon members of the World Club. Names? Harrington Chase, Moyer of the IABI, and Lothar von Brandenburg, the Graf, who was anxious to take the place scheduled for

Dunninger in the top ranks of the World Club. Obviously it wouldn't do for Dunninger to be eliminated by one of the Graf's men. So the job was delegated to the Nihilists and the blame put on them."

"That's a lie, you bastard!"

"I$o, it isn't, Ostrander. You engineered it yourself. You're a mole in the Nihilists, an agent of the Graf."

The Nihilist delegate was gaping at him, his face white, only partially in anger. His younger companion seated next to him was eyeing him strangely.

Hamp shrugged in contempt. "You pretended it was a kidnapping to raise funds for your organization but you put the ransom so high there was no chance of it being met. Then you killed him, per orders of the Graf. I don't have the proof with me here tonight, but now that I've made the charge, I have no doubt that your fellow Nihilists will look into the matter."

The black flicked a hand at the chairman to indicate that he was through and returned to his chair.

Forty Brown looked at him, amusement on his wizened face. "You really throw the shit in the fan, don't you?"

Roy Cos was looking thoughtful. "You know," he said, "I think you're right, Hamp. I've often wondered about what motivates those Nihilists. They're just too far around the bend to be true."