Deathwish World

Hamp's talk had been the finish of the meeting. It broke up into squabbles, everybody standing as they argued.

Max said mildly, "What happened to our friend, Nils Ostrander?"

Billy Tucker had come up, worried about the way the gathering was now milling around. He said, "I just saw him light out, arguing with that kid with him. Shouldn't we get out of here?"

Hamp said to Roy, "I'd like to talk to you a little more. Could it be arranged?"

Roy Cos said, "We're staying in a suite at the Drake, just for the night. Why don't you come over with us?"

"Right," Hamp told him. "But just a minute. I want to say something to someone here."

"Hurry it up," Forry Brown told him, scowling. "I don't like Roy to be exposed to so many people for so long, and we've still got to ran the gauntlet in the street. By this time the word's probably gotten around that the Deathwish Wobbly is inside this building and there might be a few thousand rubberneckers out there, with a few of the Graf's men sprinkled among them."

Hamp made his way across the room and confronted one of the delegates, who looked as though he was preparing to leave.

Hamp said, looking directly into the man's eyes, "Hello, Pinell. I understand you're looking for me."

The other was too young to be very adept at covering but he tried. He said, "The name's Merson and I represent…"

"Your name's Franklin Pinell," Jerry interrupted flatly, "and you were sent by the Graf and Peter Windsor to hit me. You're the son of the late Buck Pinell, co-founder of Mercenaries, Incorporated, who has an account amounting to some forty-five million pseudo-dollars in a bank in Berne."

Frank Pinell's eyebrows went up in shock. He said, "How the hell would you know a thing like that?"

"I own the bank," Hamp said. "Now, look, I want to talk to you but I have something else on the fire right now. Where are you staying?"

"At the Drake, but…"

"Wizard. That's where I'm going right now. In fact, maybe I'll register myself. I'll see you later tonight. What name did you say you were going under?"

"Merson," Frank said weakly.

"See you later," Hamp returned to where Roy and Forry and the bodyguards were waiting.

Forry, ever suspicious, said, "Who the hell was that?"

Hamp granted amusement. "A guy the Graf sent to finish me off. Maybe I'll tell you about it someday."

Some of the delegates were still arguing out in the hall as the group of them headed for the elevator. Max said to Hamp, "I've got some things to do tonight, including a report to the Executive Committee. I'll meet you in the morning."

"Great," Hamp told him. "I'll register at the Drake."

The guards took over again at the elevator. Billy and Ron went down first to check out the lobby. When the elevator returned the five remaining guards, plus Roy, Forry, Hamp, and Max, all crowded in. So did several of the other dele-gates, two of them still arguing. Forry began to remonstrate about their coming along in this elevator load, but Roy shook his head wearily and the little ex-newsman shrugged it off.

Halfway down, Roy's business manager gave a startled cough. Max darted a look at him. "For Christ's sake," he blurted. "What's wrong?"

The small man's face was wet and shiny and gray of color. He had both of his fists clamped tight against his chest. His jaw was going up and down as if he was trying to say something that wouldn't come. Les blurted, "He's having a heart attack!" Two of the guards grabbed the stricken man by the arms, supporting him. The elevator came to a halt at the ground floor and the group emerged, hauling Forry Brown with them. They headed for a chair.

Hamp yelled at the top of his voice, "A doctor! Get a doctor from that police ambulance across the street!"

Forry Brown's eyebrows were high, his eyes bulging as though in surprise. His jaw continued to move, soundlessly. And even as they lowered him into the chair, he passed out. Two white-jacketed young men, Red Cross bands around their arms, came hurrying in with a stretcher. They expertly snaked the stricken man onto it and trotted from the lobby with him.

Ron said, "I'll go along," and followed after. Les was the first to recover from surprised confusion. He said to Roy, "Let's get out of here. They'll take him to the hospital. There's nothing we can do and meanwhile, for all we know, there are a couple of the Graf's boys waiting outside."

Roy nodded dumbly.

Hamp said, "Under the circumstances, we'll have to call off our get-together."

But the Wobbly organizer shook his head. "No, if we've got anything to say to each other, we might as well do it. There's no guarantee I'll last the night."

The six remaining guards stationed themselves around Hamp and their charge as the body of them moved out the door and made a beeline for the limousines. Roy, Hamp, and Billy got into the rear of one, two of the guards into the front. Then the three remaining got into the lead car. Hamp looked out the window. The crowd had grown considerably larger and the teenage kids with their baseball bats held it back, very businesslike. A half-drunk prole waved one hand high and yelled, " 'Ray for Deathwish Wobbly!"

"Yeah," Roy muttered as they took off.

Tbe bodyguards of the Wobbly national organizer had their parts down pat by this time. They moved with precision and cool efficiency. The limousines smoothed up to an entry in the area of the Drake Hotel. The three in the lead vehicle popped out and scouted the vicinity, two of them going into the hotel. Then the three returned to the second limousine and stood alert while its occupants emerged. Then all moved into the hotel and took the service elevator.

All of Cos's basic crew were accommodated in one large suite, Hamp was introduced to Mary Ann Elwyn and Ferd Feldmeyer, and Roy went over to the bar while Les told the secretary and speech writer what had happened.

"Damn," Feldmeyer said, his plump little mouth looking petulant. "Those cigarettes. How bad did it look?"

"Bad," Billy said in disgust. "He passed out. But the medics were there immediately. Nowadays they ought to be able to do something. A man no older than Forry usually doesn't die from his first heart attack."

Roy had knocked back a first drink. He said, looking at Ferd, "Had he ever had one before?"

"Not as far as I know. I've known him for years and he never mentioned any heart trouble."

When the drinks had been distributed, Roy Cos looked over at the black. He said, "Well, we should hear about Forry within the hour. Meanwhile, what did you have in mind, Hampton?"

Hamp half emptied his glass. He said, "As you know, I'm from the Anti-Racist League. That's my prime interest. I wondered what you thought of the World Club. The story is beginning to surface that they're in favor of establishing a World State. They're behind bringing all of Latin America into the United States, and now Australia and New Zealand. I suspect that the Common Europe countries will be next and I also suspect that such nations as Spain, Portugal, and Italy will line up overnight, and the rest soon after. Hell, even commie countries, beginning with Cuba and Yugoslavia, wouldn't be far behind."

Roy said, "And?"

The black regarded him questioningly. "It would seem to me that under a World State racism would disappear."

Roy shook his head very emphatically. "Why? Suppose we had a United States of the World. Why would that end racism? It hasn't been ended in the United States, so far. Sure, if it was a world government under the Wobbly program, there'd be no reason for racism. But under the status quo? Suppose the World Club took over and made the United Church the state religion. The Prophet does precious little to hide his anti-semitism. That reactionary Harrington Chase is hand in glove with him. The Jews aren't about to join up with the United Church, like so many other smaller religions are. Most of them, these days, are agnostics or atheists and won't support any organized religion. Those who are still Orthodox cling to the faith that's held them together for three thousand years. So the Prophet's down on them, and if his outfit ever becomes the state religion, Jews will be in trouble."

Hamp didn't like that but he accepted it. He said, "That's only the Jews."

Roy made a gesture of contempt. "It'd be a lot of others, too. Racism isn't an accident, it's deliberately fostered in a class society. When there aren't enough good jobs to go around, then it's handy for a ruling class to have the proles fight among themselves. Supposedly the reason the blacks can't get decent jobs is because the whites take them all, and whites say they can't get jobs because the blacks are moving in on them, or the Chicanes, or the Orientals, or whoever. Divide and rule. Keep the proles at each other's throats so they'll never sit down and figure out that they have a common enemy."

Hamp said in disgust, "You people have one-track minds. Whatever's wrong, you blame it on the socioeconomic system."

"That's where the blame usually is," Roy said, obviously too soulweary to want to argue. "The proles go out to fight their war, division by division. One division carries a banner inscribed Pacifism, another Women's Lib, another All Power to the Worker's Councils, another Down with Racism, another Clean Up the Environment, End Pollution, and on and on.

None of them seem to see that basically it's the same war and that if they unite their divisions they'd have an army, instead of going out separately—and down to defeat."

Hamp said, "Probably a good simile. But now we get to the real reason I came up here tonight. That Deathwish Policy of yours. Are there any provisions restricting your travel?"

Roy looked at him and shook his head. "None at all. I can go anywhere in the world that I want."

"I wasn't thinking about the world. I was thinking about Lagrange Five, or, better still, the Asteroid Belt Islands."

All of them were gaping at him now.

Hamp said to Roy, "Look, basically you've done what you started out to do. You've brought to the attention of the whole world the program of the Wobblies. People are digesting it. Whether or not they'll buy it is another thing. I'm inclined to doubt it. As it stands now, your time is probably limited to hours. The Graf's hit men are the most experienced on Earth and now, I believe, they're all concentrated on you—all of them in this country, at least. So you take off from the Space Shuttleport in New Mexico for Space Station Goddard. There you transfer to a shuttle headed for Island One of the La-grange Five Project. From there you take the next ore freighter to the Asteroid Belt, select an Island most suited to your needs, and spend the rest of your life there, probably bankrupting whatever damned company signed that Deathwish Policy of yours."

Billy said doubtfully, though liking it, "Okay. But then he doesn't get the message over."

Hamp glowered at him. "Damn it, he's already got the message over. But he can continue spouting his propaganda from the Belt! All he has to do is tape his talks and beam them back Earthside for broadcasting. Besides that, he'd have lots of time on his hands. He wouldn't be leading the life of a hunted animal. He could write a book about the Wobbly program. He could turn out a raft of pamphlets and articles."

"Good grief," Mary Ann said, her eyes wide. She looked at her lover, who was still staring at the black man. There was hope in her face.

Hamp said, urgency in his voice, "Don't you see? You'd be safe out there. Among other things, there are no hit men flitting around on the Islands. It takes all the clearance in the world to get into space at all. And it takes a full year for a spacecraft to get from Lagrange Five to the Asteroid Belt, which is halfway to Jupiter. If one of the Grafs men tried to get through to you, they'd have him spotted months before he ever arrived. And he'd be well aware of the fact that even if he did get through and did you in, there'd be no way he could get safely back. Lagrangists are a rough and ready lot."

Billy said, "If Roy goes, Les and I go too, and probably Ron, just to be sure."

Mary Ann nodded. "And so do I."

Roy took a deep, tired breath and said, "None of us goes." He turned his eyes to Hamp. "Thanks for the good intentions but the restrictions on going into space are endless. You've got to have some ability that they need out there. You've got to be a scientist, or some kind of technician or highly experienced worker in construction, or electronics, or whatever. I don't have any such ability, and I doubt if any of the rest of us here do. One of their strictest requirements is that you have an I.Q. of at least 130. I don't. You have to have a far above average Ability Quotient. I don't. I'd be a parasite out there, even if they'd let me come, which they wouldn't."

All eyes went back to Hamp. Mary Ann's were sick, as though he had overfed a false hope.

"That's where I come in," Hamp said. He brought forth his pocket transceiver, activated it, and said, "Information? Put me through to Ian Venner of the Lagrangia Asteroid Belt Federation. He is now in New York as their representative."

He waited long moments for the connection to be put through. Silence permeated the suite's living room.

There came a tiny voice from the transceiver and Hamp said, "Venner? This is Auburn. I'm calling you about that favor sooner than I had expected."

He paused, then said, "Good. I am in the company of Roy Cos. Perhaps you have heard of the Deathwish Wobbly. Yes, that's him. I want him, and several of his friends, to become space colonists in the Belt. They won't meet your usual requirements. They will undoubtedly remain for the rest of their lives, unless some very basic changes take place here Earthside."

He listened for long moments, then said, "Wizard. Oh, Venner? I consider your obligation to me now terminated. Thanks and goodbye."

He switched off the communicator and looked back at Roy. He said softly, "If you can make it to the Shuttleport, Venner's people will take over there."

The Wobbly organizer's lips were pale.

It was then the phone screen buzzed. Mary Ann, in a daze, went to it. She said blankly, "It's Ron, at the hospital."

Billy got it out first. "How's Forry?"

But Mary Ann was listening, shaking her head as though in disbelief. Finally, she switched the screen off.

She turned back to them and said simply, "He—didn't make it. And then, "It wasn't a heart attack. It was murder."

"It couldn't have been," Roy blurted. "I was right there!"

Mary Ann said emptily, "Something long, very thin, very sharp. Something like an antique woman's hatpin. Stuck up through the diaphragm, perforating the heart and flooding it with blood."

"He would have yelled," Les said in utter disbelief.

She said, "Maybe. But from what the doctors told Ron, at first he'd only feel mild discomfort, and especially if he had any lung or stomach or digestive disorders, he wouldn't particularly have noticed the pain. But then the pressure would slow the heart down until it stopped. He'd feel faint, breathless, dizzy, as though he'd had a small aortal attack. He'd be dead in five minutes."

Roy said emptily, "It was meant for me."

Hamp stood up and looked at the Wobbly organizer. "No. It was meant for Forrest Brown. The guards were too tight around you. It's gotten to the point where the Graf's men are out to get anybody associated with you, anybody helping you." He looked at Roy Cos's secretary. "Including Ms. Elwyn. That's why you'd better make a beeline for that shuttleport in New Mexico, Cos."

Roy Cos stood too, and said, "What's all this to you, Hampton? I don't even know you. Certainly, you're no Wobbly. But you've gone far out of your way to extend a life I'd given up."

Hamp tossed his head, brushing it off. "You're a man, Cos, and I believe in a man having a chance to have his say.

What was the quote of Voltaire? 'I disagree with what you say but will defend with my life your right to say it.' A lot of your program doesn't come through to me. For one thing, I think you're out of the times. Maybe, up there in the Belt, you'll learn some things and update what you stand for. And maybe—just maybe—they'll learn some things from you."

Chapter Twenty-Two: Jeremiah Auburn_____

Hamp stood before the identity screen on the hotel door and looked at it sardonically. The door buzzed open and he entered. The room was on the small, austere side considering that this was the age-old prestigious Drake.

Frank Pinell was seated, watching a news commentator. Now he took in the chocolate features of the newcomer without expression. Without waiting for an invitation, Hamp went over to the autobar and dialed himself a double brandy. He brought the snifter glass back and settled himself into the room's second chair.

Frank reached over to click the screen off but Hamp said, "No, just a minute. What's he saying?"

The commentator was saying, "… and if the victim's identification is genuine, the notorious Luca Cellini, long suspected by the IABI to be Lothar von Brandenburg's top representative in the Americas, has been shot to death on the streets of New York."

"I'll be damned," Hamp said. "Peter Windsor is even more efficient than I thought."

The younger man had been staring bug-eyed at the commentator. Now he shakily reached out and turned down the audio. He sucked in air before saying to the black, "You know Peter Windsor?"

"Yes. One of the most competent snakes this side of the Garden of Eden. How he learned that Cellini had sold out, I'll probably never know."

"Sold out?" Frank said. "I… I was just talking to him a few days ago."

"Yes, I know," Hamp said, taking an appreciative sip of his cognac. "He was how I found out that Windsor and the Graf had sent you to finish me off."

Frank said, a touch of irritation in his voice, "If you knew that, why in the devil have you come here? Aren't you afraid I'll carry out the assignment?"

"No," Hamp said. "Why did they send you?"

"I'm not too clear about the details. Evidently, it was more or less a standard assignment. Somebody in the World Club wanted you eliminated."

Hamp stared at him. "The World Club! Wanted Horace Hampton eliminated?"

"Yes. If I understand correctly, they're becoming increasingly conscious of the part the Anti-Racist League might play when the World State begins to embrace third-world countries."

"But why me? I'm not even a member of the Executive Committee. Just a field worker."

"If I have it right, there are some strange angles to your Dossier Complete. You're kind of a mystery figure. You're also said to be the Anti-Racist League's most efficient man. Somebody figured that if half a dozen of your key members were eliminated, it would be considerably easier to control the organization."

"I'll be damned," Hamp said thoughtfully. He finished his brandy, went back to the autobar and dialed another. He looked at his reluctant host. "Want a drink? It's a pleasure for me to be knocking back guzzle that the Graf will eventually pay for."

"Beer," Frank said.

Hamp dialed the brew, brought it over, and resumed his own place.

Frank said cautiously, "Why did you think I wasn't a danger to you?"

"Because you're a fake. When I told you I own the bank your father used in Berne, I wasn't joking. I own controlling interests in various other banks as well. When Cellini told me you'd been sent to hit me, I had you checked out and then your father as well."

"All right, great. But why do you say I'm a fake?"

"You were deported, picking Tangier. Tangier is the biggest base of Mercenaries, Incorporated outside Liechtenstein. Anybody wanting to make contact with the organization couldn't do better than to go there. You were deported because you had supposedly committed four felonies and the legal computers automatically ordered your deportation."

"What do you mean supposedly?" Frank said, his voice flat.

"The first two felonies, well, they were probably genuine. Certainly the first one, back when you were a kid. Kind of a kid's prank which turned sour. But the third one and the fourth? Nope; you faked them. The murder, the crime that made it definite that you'd be deported, you didn't commit. You confessed to it, but you didn't do it. The way my agents reconstructed the thing, you hung around in the most rugged area of Detroit, possibly the toughest big city in the country, during the most dangerous time of night, for a period of weeks. Eventually, you found what you were looking for, a fresh corpse. You set the stage for getting the blame and you got it, guaranteeing deportation." Hamp took another pull at his brandy. "You're no killer, Pinell. It was all a scheme to get next to the Graf and it evidently worked out even better than you must have hoped."

Frank glared at him. "Why would I do that?"

Hamp shrugged. "It would seem obvious that you want to get your hands on that money your father left. Forty-five million pseudo-dollars isn't chicken feed—not a poultry sum, as the expression goes."

The younger man ignored the pun and said sullenly, "I had no idea it was that much."

"It wasn't originally, but it's been sitting there in Berne for almost twenty years, invested in Swiss gilt-edged securities."

"It's my money," Frank said. "I didn't even know about it until my mother told me on her deathbed. She hated the very thought of the stuff but she hated the Graf even more and didn't want him to get his hands on it. I'm my father's only living relative. My mother suspected, but had no proof, that my father was killed by the Graf. The last time she saw him, he hinted that they were on the outs with each other. My father, it would seem, didn't like some of the new fields into which Brandenburg was expanding. My father was a soldier of fortune, not a hit man."

The black eyed him questioningly. "Why didn't you just go to Switzerland and demand your inheritance?"

"It's tied up in some complicated way I don't understand.

Evidently, my father was on the way to change that when he was killed. I'm not sure about the details but I suspect that the Graf is part of the complication."

"If Lothar von Brandenburg could get his hands on that money, he would. The sonofabitch is just about bankrupt now. His overhead is astronomical. With your father's money he could retire, or do just about anything else he wanted to do."

"That's what I've suspected, damn it. I think there must be some kind of requirement that both of us must appear, or sign something, before either can get his hands on the amount."

"So what the hell are you doing tailing me around? By the way, didn't Windsor tell you I'm supposed to be a little on the dangerous side? You're a bit inexperienced when it comes to taking me on."

"I don't think Peter Windsor is in on it. I don't think the Graf has told anybody about it, not even Margit Krebs, his secretarial thinking machine." Frank finished his beer and put the glass down. "The Graf put on a big show of friendship. Welcomed me with open arms as the son of his best friend. The implication is that I'm now one of the inner circle and they're breaking me in to the workings of the organization."

"And this is your first, uh, assignment, eh?"

"Not exactly. They sent me along with one of their top operatives to see a competitor named Rivas in Paris. He was invited to join up, or else. He turned down the offer, mentioning in passing that he thought the Graf was responsible for my father's death."

"What happened?"

"It would seem that Windsor, or somebody, had bribed all of Rivas's people out from under him. His bodyguard knifed him to death."

Hamp looked at him in surprise. "And you participated in a thing like that?" His tone turned sardonic. "A nice clean-cut boy like you?"

Frank flushed. "Listen," he said. "I'm not as much of a milksop as you seem to think. As far as I'm concerned, Rivas was no better than Nat Fraser, the hit man who arranged his death. Nor Peter Windsor, the Graf, nor any of the others. I didn't mind seeing him killed at all. Not at all! He was a professional dealer in death. He was the type of man that I

would have no moral reserves about seeing killed—or given the circumstances, doing it myself."

Hamp pursed his lips and chuckled before getting up and heading for the bar again. "Another beer?" he said.

"No thanks," Frank said nastily. "And you act as though you're half drenched already."

"The complaint has been made before," Hamp told him, dialing another double brandy. "But I can still operate."

"And I've heard that story before," the younger man told him in sarcasm. "Sometimes from drivers who explain that they can drive better when they have a couple of drinks in them. Famous last words before they plow into a tree. You're on the death list of the most dangerous people in the world and here you are getting drenched. Hell, even I could take you and, as you so nicely explained, I'm inexperienced."

"Don't try it," Hamp said mildly, taking a pull at the double brandy. "But now we get to the nitty-gritty. What were you doing at the Synthesis meeting if you're not really interested in doing chores for the Graf?"

"I had to go through the motions," Frank said, all fed up with the conversation. "I had to look as though I was trying to get to you. For all I know, some of Peter Windsor's other people were there."

"They were," Hamp told him. "What the hell did you mink you were going to do to put over your act?''

"I don't know," the other said. "I was trying to play it by ear, hoping something would come up that would enable me to report back, admitting failure but for some good reason. I have to stay in the game, supposedly in the Graf's good graces, until I can find out what's going on. I haven't the vaguest idea, so far, what kind of hold he has on my father's fortune."

Hamp thought about it some more. He said finally, "The reason the Graf was willing to send you after me was that he wanted to get something to hold over you. Some lever that would help him persuade you to do whatever has to be done to get his hands on your father's fortune. If you'd killed me, as ordered, then he'd have had his lever." He knocked back the remaining brandy in one gulp and added, "I just dropped in to let you know I was onto you and to warn you to stay off my back. So now I'll… what the hell was that?"

"What was what?"

"That news commentator. What did he say?"

"I haven't been listening."

"Play it back. The last couple of minutes."

"All right." Frank shrugged, pressed the replay buttons, and turned up the volume.

He missed the first sentence or so. The commentator was saying, "… the famous rocket-set leader, of recent years turned recluse. Indications are, his sports car left the road, either forced off as suggested by the French authorities, or out of control as a result of overindulgence in alcohol or narcotics at a party he had just left. Executives of the far-flung Auburn empire have thus far issued no statement. Wall Street in the City, London, and the Common Europe Bourse are expected to react heavily in the morning."

Horace Hampton, staring unseeingly, staggered to his feet and headed for the autobar. He demanded of the other, "Play that back again, from the beginning."

Frank Pinell, his expression denoting complete lack of comprehension, obeyed.

The commentator said, "Flash from the French Riviera. The multibillionaire playboy of this century, Jeremiah Auburn, died today in a car accident near Nice when…"

"Switch it off," Hamp yelled.

Frank obeyed, staring blankly.

The black sank back into his chair. He swallowed the drink in one gulp. "Jim," he said, meaninglessly, so far as the other was concerned.

"What the hell's the matter?" Frank said.

"Shut up." The black sat there, staring unseeingly. "Jim," he muttered. "Oh, hell, Jim. Why was I such an asshole? I laid you wide open to that murderous bastard Windsor."

"What the devil are you talking about?" Frank said.

"Shut up."

Frank Pinell twisted his mouth in resignation and got up to get himself another beer. He hadn't the vaguest idea what had floored his visitor. Evidently, some bigshot playboy had a traffic accident in southern France. So what? He didn't follow the social news by any means but he had vaguely heard of Jeremiah Auburn, one of those upper-class characters who would spend five thousand on a bottle of wine laid down during the time of DeGaulle. Frank had never paid more than five dollars in his life for a bottle of wine, and then he was splurging.

At long last Hamp shook his head, as though in despair, and got up and went over to the room's small desk. He sat down in front of the phone screen and deactivated the video before dialing.

The face that faded in on the screen looked as though it had recently received a great shock.

Hamp said, "Barry, this is Auburn."

The eyes widened in absolute disbelief. "But… but… on the news I just…"

"I know, I know. So did I. A case of mistaken identity, undoubtedly. Now, this is what I want you to do: refuse any comment to the news media whatsoever. For the time being, above all, don't let it get out that I am still alive. To nobody, understand?"

"Well, yes sir." And then, a touch of suspicion there. "How do I know this is really you?"

"Damn it, you know my voice. Besides, who else has access to this phone number?"

"I… yes, sir." There was relief in the tone now.

"Wizard. Now, I want you to send Captain Wayland and the plane to pick up two men here at the Chicago North Side Airport. He is to fly them to Europe and the crew is to take their orders as though they were my own. The men's names are Horace Hampton and Franklin Pinell. They will make only one stop, in New York. Mr. Hampton will leave the aircraft just long enough to go into the city and acquire some, uh, equipment at my headquarters there. Have a limousine waiting for him at the airport. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. A Mr. Hampton and a Mr. Pinell."

"That's all, Barry. I'll get in touch with you shortly. Meanwhile, mum's the word." He flicked off the phone and turned back to Frank. "Pack your luggage," he said.

The other had been completely flabbergasted by the phone talk. He hadn't any idea whatever of what had gone on. He said, "Why?"

Hamp went back to the bar and dialed another drink. He said, "We're going to Liechtenstein to see the Graf and my old chum-pal Peter Windsor."

The younger man ogled him. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Probably, but your orders were to get Horace Hampton. Wizard; you've got him. He's going back to the Wolfschloss with you." The autobar delivered a full liter of French cognac. Hamp took the top off and applied the bottle directly to his mouth. He then retopped it and handed it to Frank. "Put this in your bag. I won't be taking any luggage."

Frank was still gaping at him. "Bringing you back to the Wolfschloss! Now I know you're completely around the bend, Hampton. That place is a fort. You can't get in carrying any kind of a weapon and once in there's no way of getting out. The Graf will have you by the balls. And probably me as well."

Hamp shook his head. "No. Your story is that I had something interesting to tell you and wanted to relay it to Brandenburg himself. And I'll have the most powerful weapon in the world to take into that fort."

"What? I tell you, they search you all ways from Tuesday, both electronically and physically."

"My weapon comes in a checkbook. Come on, let's get out of here. Wayland will be at the airport by the time we arrive."

The pilot checked their identities with care, obviously somewhat taken aback by this assignment. However, there was nothing to fault them. He handed back the International Credit Cards, saying with a frown to Hamp, "Haven't I seen you somewhere before?"

"I doubt it," Hamp said laconically. "I've never been there."

"Yes, sir," Wayland said, touching the visor of his cap in an informal salute. "What are your orders, aside from the stop-over in New York?"

"Fly to the airport nearest to Vaduz, in Liechtenstein."

"Yes, sir. That'll probably be in Austria."

"And while we're on the way, call ahead and have a vehicle waiting for us, with any clearance that might be required to enter Liechtenstein."

"Yes, sir. I'll check that out. Gentlemen, shall we go aboard?"

To Frank Pinell's absolute surprise, the black seemed to drink himself sober on the flight across the Atlantic. The bar on the huge aircraft was more elaborate than any Frank had seen anywhere and was presided over by a uniformed bartender and two stewards to serve. Hamp kept them earning their pay.

Frank found himself a stateroom and slept almost all of the way to Austria. He had a suspicion that he was going to need all the rest he could get. He didn't like the prospects for the morrow. When he rejoined his companion, it was to find him sitting in the same chair in the main lounge. Whether or not he had gotten any sleep at all, Frank couldn't tell. If anything, he looked less under the influence of the liquor he had been drinking than he had back in the room at the Drake. There was a new shift of bartender and waiters waiting on him.

Even as Frank seated himself, the chief steward entered and said respectfully, "We shall be landing within the hour, gentlemen."

Hamp looked down at himself. "I suppose I ought to have a change of clothing," he said. He was dressed in a cheap suit, just above prole quality.

The chief steward said, "But, sir, we didn't pick up any luggage for you. The other gentleman, yes. But you came aboard without any bags at all."

The black came to his feet. He said sourly, "I suspect that Mr. Auburn's things will fit me."

The steward goggled. "Mr. Auburn's things?"

Hamp eyed him. "Weren't your orders to take my instructions as though they were those of your employer himself?"

"Why… yes, sir."

"Wizard. I'll go and check out his clothes." Hamp started for the corridor which led down to the aircraft's staterooms.

The chief steward, still looking distressed, called after him, "The master suite is at the far end of…"

"Yeah, yeah," Hamp muttered.

At Feldkirch it was found that there were no difficulties involved in driving the sports hover-car that was waiting to take them into the tiny principality. They took off, Frank driving, Hamp next to him with brandy bottle in hand, taking an occasional nip from it.

When they reached Vaduz and began driving out the road to the Wolfschloss which loomed before them on the mountain top, Hamp said, "You'd better call ahead and tell them we're coming. From what I've heard about this place, you run a chance of getting your ass shot off if you approach unannounced."

"Don't you know it," Frank told him, bringing out his transceiver. He went through the routine of dialing the special number Peter Windsor had given him.

When the Englishman's easygoing face appeared on the tiny screen, it was to express surprise. "Frank!" he said. "I say, this isn't an overseas call. Where are you?"

"Coming up on the schloss," Frank told him.

"Then… well, you completed your mission?"

"In a way," Frank said. "I've got Hampton with me."

That made Peter Windsor blink.

Frank redirected the transceiver so that the face of Hamp was shown to Windsor. He said dryly, "Peter Windsor, meet Horace Hampton." And then, before either of the others could speak, "I'm coming down the road toward the cable car terminal, Peter. Do you want to clear me through?"

"Of course, dear boy. Come immediately to my office in the keep. Be seeing you, old chap. Cheers." His face faded, still expressing bewilderment.

"First hurdle," Hamp muttered. He put the half-empty bottle in the glove compartment. "Reserve supply," he said. "We might need it later."

"If there is a later," Frank said glumly. They were approaching the first roadblock, a concrete pillbox with three armed men before it. Frank began to pull up but they smiled and waved him on.

Hamp said, "This inner circle you mentioned that you're now being admitted to: who's in it besides the Graf and Windsor?"

"The only one I've met, if there are any others, is Margit Krebs, the Graf's secretary and data bank."

Hamp looked over at him.

Frank said, "She's got complete recall and keeps most of his secrets in her head."

"Nobody else is in this inner circle?"

"Not that I know of. When they're having a conference, the butler, Sepp, is sometimes around and they don't seem to care. He told me my father once saved his life—and warned me about all three of them."

"Sounds like quite a chummy crew," Hamp said. "How long before we start talking to the Graf?"

"If they see us right on through, possibly twenty minutes or so."

"Wizard," the black said and reached into his jacket. He brought forth a container which looked something like a cigarette case, opened it, and took out a hypodermic while Frank looked at him in dismay. Wordlessly, Hamp rolled up his left sleeve and expertly took the contents of the hypodermic into his arm. He then threw the syringe out the window.

Frank said bitterly, "Fer chrissakes, Hampton, isn't all that guzzle enough?"

"Thanks for reminding me," the other told him and opened the glove compartment for a pull at the bottle there.

They pulled up before the cable car terminal and got out of the vehicle, met immediately by a smiling officer.

He saluted and said, "Welcome back to the Wolfschloss, Mr. Pinell. I'm Lieutenant Lugos. Mr. Windsor has instructed me to see you to the donjon.'' He looked Hamp up and down.

Frank said, "This is Mr. Hampton. My luggage is in the back. There's a gun in it."

"Yes, sir. We'll take care of it." The lieutenant turned and led the way.

Horace Hampton seemed only mildly interested in the routine of being admitted to the Wolfschloss, the identity checks, the searches, the cable car ride. And didn't even seem particularly interested when they entered the enceinte in the direction of the towering keep.

Lieutenant Lugos was walking ahead and Frank said, from the side of his mouth, "You act as though you've been here before."

The other shook his head. "No, but I had some of my agents check it out once. They got good video sequences."

"Even inside the keep?"

"On the lower floors. Not up in the living quarters of the Graf. One tried and didn't make it."

The younger man stared, "What happened to him?"

"Peter Windsor happened to him. He was caught, tortured, put under scopolamine and, of course, spilled his guts."

"How do you know?"

"Windsor dropped a hint to me the next time I saw him. Happily, the others had gotten away before the captured one could inform on them. Our chum-pal, Peter, evidently was more amused by my curiosity than anything else. I suppose the Wolfschloss has been infiltrated before."

They had no more difficulty in entering the donjon than they'd had at the cable car terminal. Five minutes after Lieutenant Lugos surrendered them to the guard at the keep's massive door, they had entered the office of Peter Windsor.

The Graf's right-hand man was, characteristically, lounging in well-worn sports clothes behind his desk, his feet up on its surface. He grinned affably and said as he stood, "I say, Pinell, you're full of surprises." He looked at Hamp and frowned slightly. "Haven't I seen you before, somewhere?"

"People keep asking me that," Hamp said. "I must look like some celebrity."

Peter Windsor shrugged. "No point in mucking around, Hampton. What was your idea in coming here? Doesn't make much sense, really."

"I thought I'd explain that directly to the Graf," Hamp told him. His eyes went around the room, in curiosity, not missing the submachine gun on the wall.

"I dare say that's a good idea," Windsor said, lazily coming to his feet. "Come along, you chaps, Lothar is expecting us."

He led the way down the winding corridor to the Grafs office.

When they entered the spacious office of Lothar von Brandenburg, it was to find the Graf and Margit Krebs seated in the same chairs as during Frank's original interview. To top it, after offhanded introductions, during which no one made any pretense of desire to shake hands, Peter Windsor slumped into the chair he had utilized on the first occasion Frank had met the inner circle. Frank and Hamp sat too, on the same couch but at opposite ends.

For a few moments all was silent as Hamp took in the three of them and they returned the compliment.

The Graf said finally, "To be candid, this confrontation surprises me. I haven't the vaguest idea what you had in mind, Franklin." He turned smoky, expressionless eyes to the black. "Nor you, sir. Will one of you explain?" He looked back at Frank and added, "Not, of course, that I distrust your judgment and discretion, my boy."

"Of course not," Peter said dryly.

Hamp said, "I came to make a deal."

The gray-flecked, uncanny irises turned back to him. "Indeed? Please develop it. I am always interested in deals."

"Wizard," Hamp said. His dark eyes took in the short elderly mercenary and they were almost as unreadable as the old man's. "Brandenburg," he went on finally, "you've got a tiger by the tail. You've built up an empire and now you can't abdicate. You're just on the verge of being dead broke and you can't get out from under. The upkeep on this pile of rock alone must be astronomical and that's not counting your other establishments scattered around the world, and it doesn't count the compensations and pensions you're under obligation to keep up. One of these days, you're going to miss a payroll. When you do—well, the people on your payroll are the most dangerous killers in the world."

"What rot," Peter drawled.

"Silence, Peter," the Graf told him without looking in his direction. He said to Hamp, "Since nothing that is said in this room this morning will ever go beyond its walls, we might as well be completely free. What has given you cause to believe me less than—ah, solvent? My interests are widespread."

"So are mine," Hamp said flatly. "I have sources and I have my common sense besides. Mercenary use has been declining for decades. So have clandestine sales of arms. The citizens of smaller nations are in revolt against their governments so far as military purchases are concerned. They've had a bellyful of it for a century or so. They're also getting a bellyful of assassinations and terrorism. All sorts of inquiries are going out about you and your activities. And this Roy Cos affair is almost sure to wind up with Deathwish Policies declared illegal on a worldwide basis, especially if and when the United States becomes the United States of the World. To sum it up, your business is melting away, Brandenburg."

"I see," the Graf nodded agreeably. "I am amazed at your interest in my affairs. But let us delve into it a bit further. Would it surprise you to learn that my plans include joining the upper echelons of the World Club and participating, along with my organization, in the World State?" The Grafs emotionless voice held a touch of smugness.

Hamp shook his head definitely. "No. Not after last night. And not on top of Harold Dunninger."

The old man's voice was now ice. "What about Harold Dunninger?"

"It's come out that you were behind his kidnapping and death. That you wished this candidate eliminated so that you would be able to assume Central Committee membership. But last night you went too far."

The Graf looked over at Margit Krebs, scowling. "What happened last night?"

Peter said quickly, "I was going to bring that up at our morning meeting, Lothar." He cleared his throat. "I fancied that you'd be surprised. Jeremiah Auburn has been reported killed in a vehicle crackup on the French Riviera. An accident, I imagine."

"No accident," Hamp said. "And the Central Committee isn't going to stand for one of its members being coldly murdered for opposing you. Your name will be mud in the World Club, Brandenburg."

The old man hadn't taken his eyes from his top aide. "Why wasn't I informed about this?" he demanded.

"I told you, Chief. I was going to bring it up this morning, don't you know? A bit of bad luck, wasn't it?" Windsor's eyes went from his employer to Hamp and then quickly back again. "You're not taking this bloody fool's word against mine, are you? He's obviously up to something, but the silly ass has put himself into our hands. We'll show him what the drill is around here. A bit of scopolamine and we'll find out what he's all about."

"You must think me a dolt, Peter," the Graf said coldly.

All his languid pretenses were gone. Peter Windsor shot to his feet, his face in a fury. He turned red and stalked from the room.

The Graf said to Margit, who had been sitting quietly through all of this, "Our Peter seems a bit impetuous these days, Fraulein."

"I'd noticed it," she said without inflection.

The Graf turned back to Hamp. "You mentioned a deal. I

confess I haven't the vaguest idea of what you might have in mind."

Hamp said, "Frank, here, was left a sizeable estate by his father. It's in the hands of a Berne bank, almost forty-five million pseudo-dollars in the form of immediately convertible securities. First, you will cooperate in securing the inheritance for him."

The Graf gave one of his humorless chuckles. "I have never heard of such a thing." He turned to Margit. "Have you, Fraulein?"

But Margit failed to take the cue. "Yes," she said deliberately. Her eyes seemed to glaze slightly. "Its provisions are that the fortune be turned over to Franklin Pinell when he reaches the age of thirty. Until that time, he would be able to acquire it only with your permission. Both of you would have to appear in Berne to testify. If he should die before reaching thirty, the fortune goes to various American charities. If you should die before he reaches thirty, then the fortune reverts to him, as soon as he has reached twenty-one—which, of course, he already has done."

For once, the Graf lost his aplomb. He glared at her, started to speak, and then stopped himself. He turned back to Hamp and said firmly, "That doesn't sound like a deal to me, Herr Hampton."

Hamp said, "That's just the beginning. Is there a drink around here?"

Frank groaned low protest but continued to hold his peace. He was almost completely at sea.

Somehow, the Graf must have signalled, since Sepp materialized at a door leading to the back. He bowed and said, "Bine, Herr Graf!"

The mercenary head looked at Hamp, who said, "Cognac, preferably."

Frank sucked breath in and groaned again.

The Graf said, "A bottle of the Grand Champagne cognac, the V.V.S.O.P., Sepp, and a glass."

"Bitte." The servant bowed and turned, his limp barely perceptible.

"He won't need the goddamn glass," Frank muttered.

While Sepp was gone, Margit looked at Hamp strangely.

She said, "For some reason, I get the impression that your complexion is lighter than I had at first thought."

Hamp said, offhandedly, "Few American blacks are full-blooded. We have been interbreeding for centuries. One of my grandmothers was a Scot. Before that, I have no idea how many of my ancestors were at least partly white."

"But—your skin," she said, frowning.

"That will be all, Fraulein," the Graf growled.

Sepp entered with an ancient squat bottle and a glass centered on a gold tray. He set the tray on the end table next to the couch on which Hamp sat. The cork had already been removed. Hamp poured with satisfaction. Sepp bowed and withdrew.

Hamp sampled the aged cognac with his nose and sighed. "Damn good brandy," he said, sipping.

Frank rolled his eyes upward in appeal to greater powers.

Lothar von Brandenburg said coldly, "And now, sir, we come to the balance of your deal."

It was then that Peter Windsor re-entered the room. He carried his submachine gun. With all eyes upon him, he took a chair, one that dominated the room.

"That would hardly seem necessary, Peter," the Graf said.

"I jolly well hope not, Chief, but I don't like these two."

The Graf shrugged it off and looked back at Hamp. "Well.sir?"

Hamp said, "When Frank receives his inheritance, I will turn over to you fifty million pseudo-dollars. With it, you can settle down in Switzerland, or wherever else you choose, and announce the, ah, bankruptcy of Mercenaries, Incorporated and your retirement. I would suggest that you take along a dozen or so of your best men, although in Switzerland you should be quite safe. For centuries, avidly sought politicians and others have retired there in high-security villas and lived their lives out in safety."

"Fifty million pseudo-dollars!"

"Take it or leave it," Hamp said, pouring more brandy.

The mercenary head scoffed. "I have never even heard of a black, anywhere in the world, who commanded that amount of credit."

Peter looked at Hamp and said, "You look paler," as though unbelieving. "And I still think you look like some-body I've met before. And your voice, too…" He let the sentence dribble away.

The Graf said, "Please, Peter, do be quiet. Well, sir?" This last to Hamp.

Hamp reached into his pocket, brought forth a folder, and tossed it to Margit's lap. "A numbered account in the Grundsbank, in Geneva. Check the balance."

Margit, her face unrevealing as usual while on duty, went to a set of drawers against the wall and opened one of the top ones. Her back was to them. There seemed to be no question but that the Graf was in a position to check the balance of even a numbered account.

After a few minutes of pregnant silence, she turned and said, "The account is considerably higher than the amount mentioned."

The Graf, much of his commanding presence erased, said, breathing deeply, "What else? Confound it, I know there is something else!"

"Oh, yes," Hamp told him, putting down his glass. He bent forward and removed his contact lenses. His eyes, which he directed at Peter Windsor, were a dark blue. "Surprise, surprise," he said. "Show me a bathroom and I'll get the black out of this hair. It looks even prettier, reddish."

The Englishman goggled. "Jeremiah Auburn!" he croaked.

They were all staring now. His complexion was that of a tanned southern European. He fished up into his nose with the nails of his little fingers and brought forth two oval spreaders of metal, his nose losing its broadness.

"But… the news broadcasts and the reports from my operatives…" Windsor got out.

The Graf roared, "What in the name of God is going on!"

Jerry looked at him with all the emptiness of death in his eyes. He took up the brandy bottle as though to pour again, but before he did he said, "The man who was murdered on the Riviera last night was my brother, James Auburn. You asked me what else; this is what else. I want the man who ordered the death of my twin."

Peter Windsor was on his feet. He sneered, "Are you out of your bloody mind?" He flicked the safety stud on the gun and held it at the ready, but now he turned to his employer of many years. "You would have taken him up, wouldn't you?

You would have sold us all out for his fifty million! Well, thank you very much, but I'm taking over. You'll be washed up with the World Club, but that won't reflect on me. There's still Chase and Moyer who'll back me. And Sheila Duff-Roberts, who has more say about what goes on in the Central Committee than anyone else. It was she who got together with Harrington Chase and suggested the elimination of that McGivern girl and then Auburn, here. She's with me. If I finished you off now, Lothar, I can blame it on Auburn and Pinell and the organization won't question it."

His eyes left the red face of the enraged Graf and went to Margit, who had been sitting through it all, her face noncommittal. "Where do you stand, Fraulein? With me, or with this has-been sod? I can use you in taking over."

Margit cleared her throat softly. "Very dramatic, Peter, and ordinarily I'd have to think about it, perhaps. But as things stand that gun is inoperative."

He chopped out a vicious laugh. "An old trick, Margit old thing, but it won't work. It's loaded, all right. I check that out every day or two. I checked again just before I came back in here. You've taken your stand, you bloody fool."

Margit said mildly, "I didn't say it wasn't loaded. I said it wasn't operative. I didn't like to see the thing around, so I had Sepp take out the firing pin, some time ago."

Peter Windsor swore and pulled the trigger. And then stared down in dismay at the unresponding weapon.

The Graf was on his feet, spry for his age. He turned and dashed for a small cabinet set up against the huge window which dominated the whole side of the room. He grabbed for the top drawer.

But Peter, tennis-trim, bounded after him and, even as he went, reversed the gun. The Graf spun, a small Gyro-jet pistol in hand. Too late. Windsor crashed the gun butt into his solar plexus, sending him reeling backward and into the window and, screaming shrilly, through it in a shower of shards. His thin screams, unbecoming to one of the Grafs image, continued as he plunged downward.

Sepp came into the room quietly, an antique 9mm Luger in his right hand. He took in the scene, his Germanic face politely questioning, still playing the obsequious butler.

Peter snapped, "Sepp, cover these two!" He waved his disabled submachine gun at Frank and Jerry.

Sepp turned to Margit Krebs and his eyebrows went up. "Fraulein?" he said.

"Shoot him," she said flatly. "He just killed the Graf. He'll do the same to us, given the chance."

Peter Windsor yelled, "No!" even as Sepp brought up the automatic and shot him exactly once in the middle of the chest.

Frank, walking like a robot, went over to the window through which Lothar von Brandenburg had plunged. For the briefest of moments he looked out over the superb view of mountain peaks and river. Then his eyes went down.

He shook his head in nausea, pulled in air deeply, and said, "He's splattered all over the side of the swimming pool. Five feet farther out and he would have landed in the water.''

Jerry Auburn still bore the brandy bottle in his right hand.

Margit Krebs, efficient as always, went to a wall and pushed back a curtain. Behind it was a microphone. She reached up and touched a switch.

She said, very crisply, "Now hear this. Now hear this. Margit Krebs speaking. The Graf is dead. Those of you near the swimming pool can see his body. Peter Windsor is also dead. They killed each other. Now hear this. Now hear this. The Graf, for reasons of his own, has had the Wolfschloss mined. Within the hour, the schloss will go up. He has thrown the switch. Time is short, but with discipline and complete following of my instructions, we can all be saved. The cable car is totally inadequate for evacuation in such short order. It will be utilized only by the guards and crew who have been in control of it. All others will descend into the bomb shelters and then through the tunnels to the countryside. Women and the more elderly will use the elevators to the bomb shelters. All in good physical trim will use the stairs. The hospital will be evacuated; all patients and medical staff will use the freight chopper to escape. The small jet will be reserved for the senior staff. That is all. Remember, cooperation and discipline will enable us to evacuate completely. Any deviation from my instructions will mean disaster. We will rendezvous in Vaduz for final severance pay and distribution of other funds coming to you. Carry on!" She turned back to the others.

Jerry looked at her thoughtfully. "Are there such bombs?"

"No. But I had to clear them out of here before they got the idea of looting."

"Will they believe you?"

"Yes," she said. "I've been in this job for ten years and I have never lied to any member. I've built up an impeccable record of confidence. Now I'm calling on it. They'll be shocked when I don't turn up at that rendezvous in Vaduz." She looked at Sepp. "You'd better start packing our, ah, luggage; we're heading for Tangier. No extradition there and Interpol will be after us by tomorrow. We should be able to take eight large bags. We four can carry two apiece down to the jet. We're not in too much of a hurry. We want everyone else cleared out of the schloss before we cross the enceinte carrying those bags. You might start with that gold tray with the brandy, Sepp. For God's sake, don't forget any of the paintings small enough to go into the bags; forget the others, no matter how valuable. I'll go to the Grafs private rooms and to the wall safe. I know the combination."

The impassive Sepp stuck his gun back into his clothing and, taking up the gold tray, left the room.

Jerry said to her, "How do you know that any of us can fly a jet?"

She was unperturbed. "Frank, here, told us that he had studied to be a pilot."

Jerry was looking at her in puzzlement. He said, "Why did you make the choices you did?"

She shrugged. "It was all falling apart. You were right, the Graf was all but bankrupt. I found out very early in my relationship with Lothar that in this organization one looks out for oneself. Very well, I have looked out for myself. Had your offer gone through, I might have gone along. The Graf would probably have taken me into retirement with him. As it turned out, when Peter went berserk, I had to play it by ear."

She turned and left.

Frank glared at Jerry Auburn. "You damn fool, suppose that gun hadn't been jimmied? We'd all be dead."

The other grinned at him, a glint in his blue eyes. "Sometimes you have to take chances. When I saw that gun on his wall, I decided that it was useless. Sooner or later, here in the sanctum sanctorum of the Graf, somebody would have done something to it. Besides, in narrow quarters like this, you can often take a man with a gun before he can finish you off. Why did you think I asked for this bottle of guzzle?" He grinned again. "I'm a crack shot throwing a bottle."

Frank Pinell took a deep breath. "All right," he said. "How did you pull off that skin-color change?"

The other shrugged. "For a long time we've had chemicals that can change complexion, either lighter or darker. I've known blacks who passed that way, and I once knew a white news reporter who circulated among blacks getting inside information hard for a white man to acquire. He turned himself darker. No big thing."

Frank said, "All right," again. Then, "Windsor got what was coming to him. So did the Graf. I get my inheritance. Margit and Sepp get to loot this place, which should enable them to retire, I suppose. What is there for you, Jerry?"

The other shrugged it off. "For me, there's always the brandy bottle," he said, reaching down for it.

Aftermath

When Jerry Auburn stopped off at Lee Garrett's suite in the Palazzo Colonna, she was gathering her things preparatory to a Central Committee meeting.

She flashed him a smile and said, "Hello, darling. So you're back. Sheila was afraid you wouldn't make it. Where have you been?"

He smiled back at her, which would have been difficult not to do. Lee Garrett, as always, was radiant. He said, "I was just checking out a few things. A few things like the American National Data Banks. Honey, you still make a lousy agent provocateur, spy, or whatever."

She stiffened and then stared at him, at first uncompre-hendingly, then slowly it dawned. "Why… why, you're that… what was his name? Hamp. Hamp, something or other, of the Anti-Racist League. But he was a black and you're white!" She was completely confused.

He grinned at her. "Actually, I'm kind of gray," he said. "Over the generations, I've become so racially mixed I don't know what I am, except that I'm rabidly anti-racist. But to get back to the National Data Banks. It seems that you had a boyfriend. A pretty close boyfriend, which makes me a little jealous of course, since I've been planning on a permanent relationship with you, Lee. And it seems that he had a ranking job in the data banks."

"Why, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Like hell you don't, girl of my dreams. The fact is that you've got a nicely high I.Q. ,and Ability Quotient but not quite that high."

She stared at him, dismayed.

He said, "Your boyfriend jollied around with the equipment so that you were a cinch to be sent here to Rome for a job with the World Club. I doubt if even you expected it to be quite as good a job as this, though. Now, come on, honey, what are you really doing here and who was it that you were really reporting to? And don't tell me your mother."

She was defiant. "It was my mother. She's as opposed to the World Club's meddling as I am, and as strongly as my father was. He fought it all of his life and neither my mother nor I am satisfied about the way he died."

That took the smile from his face. "They were at it that far back, eh? So what was his case against us?"

"He wasn't entirely against eventual world government but he was opposed to it being under control of a handful of Western billionaires, plus a high-ranking police bureaucrat, and a religious fakir. He was of the opinion that such a government would stifle healthy competition, which is the source of much progress. He was absolutely appalled that a State Church was being considered, not to speak of Mercenaries, Incorporated as a possible world police. At any rate, mother and I schemed to have me infiltrated into the World Club to keep an eye on developments and possibly help expose them."

Jerry ran the back of a hand over his mouth ruefully. "Maybe we're not as far apart as all that," he said.

She was still confused. "But you were a member of the Anti-Racist League."

"Still am, honey. However, some time ago it seemed to me that the World Club might offer a quicker way to end racism, so I got into it, too. As a matter of fact, I belong to various other outfits. One of them is African-based. They're fighting racism there—against whites. There's quite a bit of anti-white bullshit going on in parts of Africa." Then he murmured something that made no sense to her. "Pod Hampton, I wonder if you ever dreamed what the hell you started when you ripped off that silver." He looked at his wrist chronometer. "But we'd better go to the meeting."

As they walked the corridor to the conference room, he looked over at her and said, "How was the news of my supposed accident on the Riviera received?"

"At first, we were upset," she told him. "We were all aghast—" she hesitated—"except possibly Sheila, Chase, and Moyer. But then, of course, your announcement came through that it was all a case of mistaken identity."

He grunted. They reached the Central Committee's conference chamber and a page opened the door for them.

Inside, all the rest were already seated around the heavy oaken table. They were chattering among themselves, two or three more heatedly.

Sheila Duff-Roberts looked up from her papers and said tartly, "Well, Jerry, late as usual, I see."

Jerry Auburn slid into his chair, while Lee took her place next to the committee's secretary. He said, "This will be the last time that will irritate you, Ms. Duff-Roberts."

The majestically proportioned woman looked at him, frowning. "What do you mean by that?"

The buzz about the table fell off as the committee members turned their attention to the two.

Jerry said evenly, "The body of Pamela McGivern has been discovered. After you fired her she began motoring home to Dublin. She was overtaken by a car driven by professional assassins, and run over a mountainside. This type of killing seems to be the latest thing among the pros these days. At any rate, the corpse was hidden, but inadequately."

"That's terrible," Sheila said, seemingly shocked.

"It certainly is," Jerry told her. "It looks as though our Pamela knew too much, so she was turned over to the mercies of Peter Windsor and his boss, the Graf."

All eyes were on him now, a beginning of alarm in those of Harrington Chase and John Warfield Moyer.

Jerry said, "Both Windsor and the Graf are now dead, and Mercenaries, Incorporated dissolved. I was present and heard their last words."

The amazon secretary's face was ashen.

Jerry Auburn went on. "By Central Committee rules, any three members of the committee can remove a secretary. Members Mendel Amschel and Fong Hui got together with me before this meeting and we duly removed Sheila Duff-Roberts."

She was on her feet in fury. She turned blazing eyes to Chase and Moyer, who sat side by side. "Are you going to put up with this?" she demanded.

The big Southwesterner was glaring at Jerry. "It seems precipitous! The rest of us have not been consulted."

Jerry said, completely at ease, "The case of Pamela McGivern is not unique. Harold Dunninger's kidnap death was also engineered by Peter Windsor's men, and that attempt on me which resulted in the death of my brother. In short, ladies and gentlemen, we have narrowly missed imposing on Mother Earth a World Police State, a state more ruthless than any in history, if only because of its universal scope."

Mendel Amschel said quietly to Sheila Duff-Roberts, "And now, if you will leave? If any changes are made in our actions involving you, you will immediately be informed."

She stormed from the room.

The international banker turned his eyes back to Jerry Auburn. "And now, if you will go into the various matters you discussed with Mr. Fong and me earlier today?"

Jerry made himself still more comfortable in his chair. He looked around at the committee members one by one. "If you will excuse the youngest member of this body taking so much time, I will excuse myself by pointing out my recent escape from planned assassination, because I was opposed to certain tendencies recently developing in the World Club. I was also, ah, active in removing the late Lothar von Brandenburg, and it was my agents who discovered what happened to Pamela McGivern."

"Go on," Nils Norden, the Swedish industrialist, said impatiently.

Jerry said, "It has been pointed out that the Central Committee is composed almost exclusively of males, of whites, of westerners, especially Americans, and totally of the wealthy."

"That's as it should be!" Chase boomed, his voice belligerent.

"Is it?" Jerry looked at him. "We meet today to elect a new member to replace Grace Cabot-Hudson. I suggest that we replace not one but four of our membership. I am of the opinion that our goals have shifted from the founding days of our organization and that we should return to them. A world state I think desirable, but not under the domination of the World Club. We should return to investigating the possibilities of the future and even making recommendations, but forswear any attempt to come to power ourselves."

"That's nonsense," the usually taciturn Moyer blurted.

"Who could be more capable than ourselves to govern a world state?"

"Who are we to say?" the Chinese murmured softly.

"I propose," Jerry said, "that we invite a representative of the Space Federation of Lagrangia and the Asteroid Belt Islands to join the Central Committee. It is ridiculous to divorce them from Earthside affairs. Secondly, I suggest that we invite a member of the Wobblies, preferably a woman, since we are so short of female members."

"The Wobblies," Chase boomed. "Those subversives! Those half-assed radicals! They're against everything we stand for."

"That's why we ought to invite them in—to get opinions other than our usual conservatism. Thirdly, I think we should have a representative from the Anti-Racist League. We are talking about a world social order, and surely the so-called colored races are in the overwhelming majority."

"Now I know you've blown a fuse, Auburn," Chase shouted. "A representative from the Anti-Racist League! He'd undoubtedly be a black. We've already got a kike and a chink on this committee and that's too much! Now you'd invite a nigger!"

That ran across the grain with even the usually conservative Nils Norden. "You can be repulsive when you really try, Chase," said Norden.

"Fourth," Jerry pressed on, "we should have another woman representing women's rights. There's still a great deal to be done in that direction, especially in the more backward countries that will eventually be part of the new world society."

The chunky Moyer said, his voice reasonable, "Central Committee rules allow for only ten members on the Central Committee so that it doesn't become unwieldly. Only one is resigning—our respected Grace Cabot-Hudson. Where is the space for all these nominees of yours, Auburn?"

"I propose that three of us resign."

"Who?" Chase blurted, still red of face. "I suppose you are thinking of me! Well, think again!"

Jerry was cool. "I propose that the three be Harrington Chase, John Moyer, and myself. If such resignations are not immediately forthcoming, I shall go further into the details of the deaths of Harold Dunninger, Pamela McGivern, and the attempt to assassinate me."

Silence fell. And continued for long moments.

Finally, the heavyset Chase pushed himself to his feet. He growled to Moyer, "Done! Come on, John, let's get the hell out of this madhouse. They've gone completely around the bend."

When they were gone, there was still long silence.

But then, "Why you, Jeremiah?" It was Fong Hui, his voice typically gentle. "I have always thought of you as. a dependable younger member of the committee. Too many of us are elderly."

Jerry looked over at the aged Chinese. "Because, my honorable friend, had I not offered my own resignation, then undoubtedly Chase and Moyer would have fought, and then everything would have broken into the open and possibly the new World Club would never have seen the light of day. Indeed, the oJd one would have probably gone under." He looked off info an unseen distance and added, his voice low, "Frankly, I'm a mixed-up sonofabitch. And you want to know something else? I suspect so is everybody else. That is, everybody who's trying to make rhyme or reason out of this world we've got on our hands today."

Meyer Amschel said, "It is with regret that I accept your resignation, Jeremiah. However, it occurs to me that perhaps you have some suggestions on those replacements for our suddenly depleted members."

Jerry nodded at that and came to his feet. "I strongly suggest that Ms. Lee Garrett, though with us for such a short time, be appointed secretary to replace Duff-Roberts. She seems to have the qualifications."

Lee sucked in breath in surprise.

"Further," Jerry went on, "to represent the Space Federation, Ian Venner, who is at present in New York. I have no suggestion for the representative from the Wobblies, since I am not very well acquainted with their organization. And, of course, I can hardly recommend a representative for women's rights, though I suggest she be an Oriental."

Fong said, "And the representative of the Anti-Racist League?"

Jerry Auburn said, "From them I would strongly suggest a certain Horace Hampton."