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The amphitheater covered an area of some six or seven acres. Overall, it measured slightly more than six hundred feet by five hundred feet, but the arena itself, the fighting arena, was two hundred eighty feet by one hundred seventy. There were comfortable seating facilities for approximately fifty thousand persons, but on an occasion such as this—national games—they could, and did, pack in as many as seventy-five thousand spectators.
There were those who disgustedly contended that the place was just too confoundedly large. That a fan in the upper tiers of seats could hardly make out individuals in the fights below, could certainly not follow the more delicate nuances of the combat. Be that as it may, the arena never failed to play to a packed house—a packed and over-packed house. Ultimately, those who were allowed to buy seats were chosen by lottery, and it was figured that you had one chance in a hundred of winning an upper-tier place; one in a thousand of actually getting one along the podium.
This was the final day. The play-off, so to speak. Whether or not the arena had been packed over the past week, it was overflowing today. As he looked up from the shade of the recess behind the Portal of Life, preparatory to the grand parade, Denny wondered briefly how many of those, squeezed tightly in aisles, sitting on steps, jammed into the area supposedly to be utilized exclusively by the band, had got in through bribery or other trickery. He had heard that tickets were being black-marketed. That scalpers were getting as much as a month's income for even upper-tier seats. He had even heard that one brave entrepreneur had forged tickets, a hundred or more of them, all for the same choice seat, one located within a few yards of the Master of the Games, and had made himself a fortune, before, by almost impossible coincidence, approaching the bearer of the real ticket.
Denny was hardly happy about the situation confronting him. He'd had the good luck to survive thus far, he'd had the bad luck to draw the equipment of a Secutor. He was fully aware of the percentage. The cognoscenti would offer odds of five to three in favor of a Retiarius against a Secutor, all other things being equal. And all other things were equal today. Yes, he'd survived the week. Here he was on the last day of the games. That meant a good deal. However, he cast his eyes to right and left, so had all the rest of them lining up for the parade, half of them equipped as Retiarü, half as Secutores.
As a Secutor, his equipment consisted of a breastplate, helmet and armor on his right arm and his left leg, the left arm and right leg were bare for the sake of agility. He bore a shield and a sword and was considerably less mobile than a Retiarius who was equipped solely with a net and a trident. That was where the disadvantage lay, the weight of his armor hampered his mobility.
He cast his eyes back over the rest. Twenty-four of the most excellent physical specimens in the land. Half Secutores, half Retiarü. And within the hour, at least half of them would be either dead or hors de combat as a result of wounds.
The Secutor next to him growled, "When's that confounded band going to begin to play? I'm getting worn out just carrying this tin shop."
A Retiarius behind them laughed. "In that case, I hope we stand here a couple of more hours."
Denny looked at the Secutor who had complained, and recognized him. From time to time, during the week of games, they'd been thrown together. The day there had been a mock battle between the Macedonians and the Persians, they had stood side by side in the Macedonian phalanx. And the day of the chariot fights, the other had taken his charioteer and a good one, too; the casualties taken by both sides that day had been brutal, but they'd managed to survive.
Denny said now. "Last day, Zero. Good luck. I hope you make it."
The other looked at him. It was hard to make out features through the helmet slits. He said, "Denny, eh? Same to you. But it's going to be rugged. The first day and the last day are the worst. That gong won't ring until half of us are sprawled out on the sand, a full half of us."
The band struck up a lilting marching tune. One of the assistants to the Master, said, "All right, lads, let's go. Make this a good one, the crowd wants action."
"Care to join us, you fat funker?" Zero growled at him.
They swung across the sanded arena floor, marching in perfect order, in perfect time to the music, and deployed before the judge's stand and the Master of the Games. He was flanked today by prominent citizens, both male and female, whose polite applause was drowned in the shouts of the multitude in the stands.
The Secutores lifted high their swords, and the Retiarü their tridents and the chant was in perfect unison.
"We who are about to die…"
The Master of the Games gestured with a modishly limp hand, knowing his voice would never penetrate above the yelling, screaming fans in the seats behind, above and to each side of his presiding box. A trumpet sounded, and both band and crowd fell suddenly hush.
A Retiarius Denny vaguely remembered seeing from time to time during the past week, said to him, "All right, friend, let's go. It's going to be a long, long time before that gong sounds and there's no use stalling."
Denny looked at him, "Nobody's stalling, fisherman. Let's see what you can do with that net."
All about them, netmen and Gauls—the popular idiom for Secutores—were squaring off. From the side of his eyes, Denny could already make out a hapless Secutor caught in the meshes of his opponent's net, struggling to extract himself before the other could dispatch him with his sharp three-pronged trident.
Denny shifted his shoulders within the breastplate and shoulder armor of his right arm, and took stronger hold of sword and shield. He sized up his own opponent. The man's name was Philip, something or other; or perhaps that was his last name. He'd won through to the last day of the games, which automatically rated him one of the most efficient fighters in the nation. But, for that matter, it came through to Denny now, with almost a feeling of surprise, so had he, and so, in turn he, too, was one of the most efficient killers in the land.
Unfortunately, in the training he had taken in this particular form of combat, he'd been more inclined to practice as a Retiarius, with net and trident, rather than as the slower moving Secutor. It had been bad luck for him to have been selected to take this part. However, at least he knew all the tricks of the netman's trade and could watch out for them.
And now, Philip was slowly circling him, his net held for the cast. It was of heavy mesh and fringed with small lead weights, so that when thrown it opened up and then settled quickly. It looked innocent enough, as weapons go—and wasn't. How well Denny knew it wasn't. The amateur spectator in the stands, although there were few of those in the amphitheater today, might think the highly armored sword-bearing Secutor was the more satisfactorily equipped of the two, but Denny knew, and so did Philip.
Philip made a tentative cast, but Denny took a quick step backward, catching the edge of the net on his shield and tossing it off. Had he had time, he would have taken a slash at it with his sword. Sometimes it was possible to cut up a Retiarius' net to the point that it became largely useless.
Philip growled, "Come on, fish. Let's get going. You heard what the man said, the crowd wants action."
Denny was too old a hand to exhaust himself chasing his lightly clad opponent. He grinned, shaking his head. "Come in and get me, fishermen. "I'm…"
The other, who seemingly was rearranging his net, suddenly cast it, underhand, and came dashing forward to take immediate advantage of Denny's predicament. The cast had been a perfect one, impossible to avoid.
Denny lashed out wildly with both shield and sword. The mesh was about him in a confusion that he knew from experience could take long desperate moments to get out of, and the Retiarius was coming in fast.
Denny cut wildly at the net, slashing it in several places, even as he tried to stumble backwards. Seconds were precious. If he could just…
The trident darted at him, struck his wrists sharply. In a quick agony of realization, Denny knew that he was lost. He'd dropped his sword. Even as he stumbled back, extricating himself from the net, Philip gave the weapon a kick which sent it spinning away.
And now the other came in for the finish, stalking the unarmed fighter. Philip's lips were pulled back over his teeth, in a killer's snarl, and he muttered, "All right, this is it, friend," as he began his lunge.
Denny stooped suddenly, took up a handful of sand and threw it even before straightening up. It hit the other's eyes, and Philip, not unaware of the desperate trick's usage, tried a quick sidestep, a double sidestep. But Denny was slogging through the sand toward him. Philip slipped, fell to one knee, shook his head, rubbed desperately with his left arm across his bleared eyes.
Denny was on him. He brought the shield down in a crushing rabbit punch across the other's neck.
Without bothering to check whether or not his opponent was dead, Denny, breathing deeply, made his way to where his sword had been kicked, and recovered it.
He took stock. Somewhere in the fight he'd taken two or three minor jabs from the trident. He couldn't remember when, now. In combat, you seldom feel the pain of a wound. The pain comes later—if you survive.
Of the twenty-four men who had marched into the arena a few minutes before, some four or five had already been eliminated from the fray. Ring attendants were hauling two of them out of the Portal of Death.
The fighting had spread throughout the whole arena, most individual fights, although in one case two Secutores had combined forces and were fighting back to back against the two netmen who were tormenting them. Two or three fighters, like Denny himself, had dispatched their men, and were standing momentarily alone and uncommitted while recuperating. This wouldn't last long, Denny knew. In short order, the screaming mob in the stands would demand they face each other.
This was the last day of the national games. The final elimination day. This was the day during which the victors of the combats of the week fought it out for the final triumph. There was to be no hanging back, no giving of quarter, no pulling of punches.
As was to be expected, the greater number of those who had been eliminated already, were Secutores. The slower moving swordsmen were proving easy game for the Retiarü. And now, not far from where he had so shortly before terminated his own first fight, Denny caught sight of a fellow Secutor at bay and trying to fight off two netmen at once.
There was nothing against it in the rules. This was a fight of elimination. When, and if, the Retiarü eliminated all the Secutores they would then be obliged to fight it out among themselves, if the gong had failed to sound by that time. Meanwhile, though, so long as the more heavily equipped Secutores continued to survive at all, the Retiarü devoted their efforts to eliminating these easier opponents.
The single swordsman was in a hard way, trying to avoid two nets at once, and the two tridents continually jabbing at him. He had taken his stance fairly near the podium wall so that he could have at least his back secure, but it was a matter of only moments.
It was none of Denny's concern. It was each man for himself, and the sooner others were eliminated, the sooner the gong, the desperately longed for gong, would sound, ending this year's games.
But somehow he found himself plowing, as quickly as he could in his weight of armor, through the sands to the other's succor.
The netmen, intent on their prey and on the immediate brink of success, failed to see him coming up behind.
Their Secutor foe was thrashing wildly, entwined in not one but two nets. He cut desperately, hopelessly, before they could dispatch him with their needle-pointed tridents.
Denny yelled, "Hold on, man!" And was upon them from behind. This was no time for nicety. No time for challenges and gentlemanly fair play. If the two netmen eliminated the Secutor, they would surely turn on Denny in his turn, and he had no doubt about the results of that eventuality.
Both the Retiarü twirled in quick alarm, but Denny's sword leaped forward, in jab rather than slash, and the blade entered one of his foemen's belly, ramming upward. The netman crumbled to the sand, bleeding heavily.
His companion, wide-eyed now, and without his net, ran quickly backward, to reorganize.
The crowd screamed, and Denny looked up at them.
The fallen netman held his hand up in the sign for mercy. Denny knew that if it was awarded him, that the ring attendants could get the man safely to the arena clinic to staunch the flow of blood and save the other's life.
But this was the last day, and the bloodlust was upon them as never before. Was it because there would be no more slaughter the following day, that now they must quaff the cup of death to its dregs? Was it because for the full week this fallen fighter had survived, survived a hundred deaths, and had made it to the finals? Did they find intensity of pleasure in the fact that so near success, he had found defeat?
They screamed their bloodlust, their thumbs jabbing down, down, or some of them inward toward their own vitals, as though gesturing here, here, give it to him here.
There was no doubt about the crowd's desire. Denny looked toward the judge's box, and the Master of the Games made the signal of death. Denny cut the netman's throat, as quickly as possible.
His fellow Secutor had managed to disentangle himself from the two nets. He turned to Denny and chuckled, "Thanks."
It was Zero.
Denny said to him sourly, "Let's polish off this other one, before he gets himself another net."
Zero said, "Oh it's you, Denny. Well, thanks again."
They set upon the remaining Retiarius mercilessly. This was neither time nor place for mercy, nor for anything other than kill or be killed. This was the final day, and all bets were down.
He backed against the wall desperately. Equipped now with only the trident, he jabbed, and again and again. First toward one of them, then the other. Then desperately back again.
They came in from opposing sides, bent forward and a bit low, their shields outstretched to take his thrusts.
He was almost within range of their short swords, when he slipped and fell and the two co-operating swordsmen dashed in to eliminate him. But even as he went down, he thrust wildly and caught Denny in his unprotected thigh.
Zero finished the netman off, and turned quickly to Denny. "How bad did he get you?"
"Pretty bad."
Zero's eyes darted quickly around the arena. There seemed to be more men on the sands than still standing. He grimaced. In the stands, the mob was already screaming frenzied instructions to them.
Denny had dropped to one knee when the trident had first ripped into him. Now he came to his feet again. This was the final day. The day of elimination. There was no wound sufficient to allow you to drop out of the fray. If you went down, the crowd was in no mood for mercy. He had seen the short shift they had given his fallen netman a few moments earlier. If he went down now, it would be the same for him. Thumbs down.
He muttered to Zero, "Well, no gong so far. Let's get over there and see if we can find somebody in worse shape than we are." He tried to grin. "I'm about at the stage where a sixty-year-old dwarf could take me with a slingshot."
Zero said, his voice low, "No. Listen, Denny. You've had it. You can hardly walk. Listen, that gong is about to go. Any minute now. You and I. We'll fight. Right here. We'll fake it until the gong sounds."
The crowd was screaming at them. Demanding they get into action. Demanding blood.
Only briefly, Denny wondered whether or not the other was setting him up for an easy victory. This was no place for gratitude, friendship, or even mercy. The final day of the national games. Dog eat dog. Each man for himself and the devil take the hindmost. He'd saved this Zero fellow from the two netmen, but they were bound by the rules of the arena to fight any comer, and if they failed to do so, the ring attendants themselves would finish them off. But possibly the other was right. Possibly enough of their fellows had been eliminated that the Master of the Games would signal the end. After all, the supposed ultimate purpose was to find the ten most competent combat men in the nation. The Master wouldn't allow it to continue until none survived at all.
"Let's go," Denny said. He shifted his shoulders again in the breastplate, grasped his sword, and advanced his shield and armored left leg. And even as he took his fighting stance, he felt the blood flowing from his thigh, and weakness ebbing up through him.
That portion of the crowd nearest them was screaming hysterically. They had seen the one Secutor rescued from a seemingly impossible situation by the other. Had seen the two combine to eliminate both netmen. Now these two were at swords' points, fighting it out.
Zero, even as he came in, whispered harshly, "Make,this look good as possible, Denny. Make it look good, or they'll see it. Then we're both sunk."
Denny swung at the other, even as he did so, realizing his weakness of arm. It was both the exhaustion of the fighting and the loss of blood. His sword clanged meaninglessly against. Zero's shield, and the crowd shrilled its contempt.
Zero in turn whacked at him, and struck again. He came in closer, so that their movements would be the more difficult for observers to follow.
"Cover, confound it," he growled- "Cover yourself. I could've got past your guard that time."
The mob was howling for the kill now. It was obvious that Denny was faltering. They screamed for Zero to give him the death blow.
Denny muttered, weakly, "I… I'm blacking out… I…"
Zero cut at him twice more in a blur of motion, trying to make it look good, deliberately hitting him upon shield or breastplate. "Stall, Denny. Stall. That gong will go any minute now. Hang on."
His sight had gone hazy, and now he could no longer bear the weight of shield or sword. He could feel first his left leg crumble beneath him, and then he was on the sand.
For the moment, his sight cleared again. All was clear again. He stared up at Zero who was looking at him in an agony of despair.
The crowd was screaming again. Again? When had it ceased, even for a moment, since first they had entered the ring, so long, so long ago? So long minutes ago.
He made a supreme effort and held up his right hand in the plea for mercy.
But there was no mercy in them today. If there was ever mercy in them. A thousand thumbs were jabbing down, down, down. Ten thousand thumbs were jabbing down, down, down.
Zero shot his eyes to the judge's stand, his face working. And then resigned despair spread over it. He looked down at his fallen companion. "Sorry, Denny," he said. "I tried." The point of his sword descended.
From the side of his eyes, Denny could see an excited telly reporter on the podium, zeroing in on Denny's face, even as the moment of truth, the moment of death, was upon him. Zeroing in on his face with a zoom lens so that the tens of millions of viewers throughout the country, unlucky enough not to have been able to win tickets to the final games, could watch his last split second of life, and how he faced black death.
It was then that the gong sounded.
Zero dropped his sword, swearing endlessly, tried to pick him up, and found insufficient strength in his own, combat wearied body. He glared up at the stands, where some of the fighting buffs were still screaming for the kill, either having not heard the gong which signified the ending of the games, or not being aware of the fact that the split timing of the situation had rescued the swordsman they had condemned to death. Zero snarled up at them, then yelled for the medics.
It wasn't as bad as all that. Denny had lost blood, but that was a simple matter; Only one of the wounds had been serious, and the arena clinic was more than ample to handle any wound known to the games.
When he came out of anesthetic, Zero was standing next to the bed, garbed now in every-day civilian wear. He grinned down at the other, then put a hand forth.
"The name is Jesus Gonzales," he said, pronouncing it hey-zeus, Spanish style. "Zero to you."
Denny shook. "Land," he said. "Dennis Land. Denny to you. And thanks."
Zero grunted self-deprecation. "No thanks called for. I was in the dill there, when you came galloping up to the rescue." He pulled up a chair. "We're the only two Secutores who made it. And six Retiarü. I'd like to get my hands around the throat of that Master of the Games, the curd. Only eight of us allowed to come through. Eight! He could have made it twelve."
He looked at Denny. "You're not a pro, are you?"
"Me? Zen, no. And what's more, that's the last time I'll ever be in the arena, believe me."
Zero grunted. "You could make yourself a fistful of Variable common shares in exhibitions, you know."
Denny snorted contempt.
Zero looked at him oddly. "How'd you ever get sucked into the games, if you're that against them?"
"Sucked in, was the word. I'm a Etruscanologist, I guess you'd call it, and…"
"What in the name of Zen is a truscanologist?" Zero interrupted.
"An Etruscanologist. A historian, anthropologist, what not, specializing in Etruscans. At any rate, I've always been fascinated by the ludi, as the Romans called the original games. They got the idea from the Etruscans, you know, although their version was a much less rugged one. And ancient arms and their use, they've fascinated me, too. I've even written a book on the subject. Nobody bothered to read it, so far as I know. Now I'm working on another one."
"What's that got to do with you winding up in the national finals?"
Denny grimaced ruefully. "Like a cloddy, I used to attend the local gladiatorial club school, to pick up material, since they use the identical weapons the Romans used to. I took the drill, worked out three or four times a week, with the club members. I even used to appear in the local meets. You know, where you have the electronic weapons and armor, and if you touch a man in a vital spot, a light goes on and he's eliminated."
"I know," Zero said.
"Well, at any rate, when it came time, this year, for our club to name half a dozen members for the first elimination meets, the stupid"—Denny shot a quick look at the other, before going on—"Upper who's the head of the club, nominated me. I tried to back out and nearly got myself demoted to Low-Lower, not to speak of having my appropriation killed."
"Appropriation?"
"As an Etruscanologist. It's nonproductive, so I have to get a special appropriation pushed through for my expenses. At any rate, my patriotism to the West-world, the Welfare State, was questioned. So I reversed my engines in short order."
"Why didn't you take a dive in one of the early eliminations? The crowds aren't tough in those local meets, especially when you've got a lot of friends and relatives up there in the stands. You can cop yourself a minor wound, then drop out."
Denny grunted. "It didn't work that way. Everything went wrong. Or, right, I guess you might say, since I survived. My opponents evidently had the same idea. At any rate, they were all falling down before me, before I could fall down in front of them."
Zero was laughing.
Denny said, "No joke. By the time I got around to a situation where I could have funked out, I probably would have got my throat slit, with the buffs giving me a thumbs down. I had to go on. How about you?"
Zero was evasive. "I guess I wanted the prestige," he chuckled. "It'll mean promotion for me. Maybe even get bounced a caste." His voice took on a slight tone of deference. "I'm only a Low-Middle. I suppose you're…" Denny brushed it aside. "I'm only a Mid-Middle myself." Zero said, "At that, we were probably the highest ranking combatants to make the finals. Once in a while, you'll get some dilettante Upper who'll participate, in the earlier eliminations, just for the glory of it…"
Denny snorted.
"… But most of the cloddies out there are Lowers, and Low-Lowers at that. Making their fling for a bounce in caste and some extra common shares to make life a bit more bearable." The subject was getting a bit sticky for two persons who knew each other no better than they. Zero cleared his throat. "Well, at any rate, I suppose all of us can use the extra stock."
Denny shook his head. "Not for me, thanks. I'll donate my prize to whatever organization there might be that works for incapacitated gladiatorial veterans, or their widows and children."
The other's eyebrows went up. He was a dark man. Mexican, Denny decided. Mexican, or possibly a Cuban. More Indian blood than Spanish, and stockier built than the average. Stockily built, but with the quick, lithe movements of the Latin. His face was inclined to be open, and in amusement transformed itself in such wise that no companion could but wish he smiled and laughed more often. Basically, Denny snap decided, a man of good will, and certainly the ideal lad to have next to you when whatever situation you were in had pickled and you were in the dill.
Denny said, feeling that he was striking a ridiculous pose before the other, "It smells too much of bloodmoney for my well being."
Gonzales considered him. "It's easier to have such compunctions, I imagine, when you have the unalienable basic stock issued to you that a Mid-Middle rates, than if you're a Low-Lower."
"I don't deny that," Denny said in self-deprecation. "Ideals come easier to those who can afford them. There is little ethic code on an empty stomach."
Zero laughed suddenly. "For a couple of lads who were wildly swinging ancient swords a few hours ago, we're waxing awfully philosophical. Look, the Category Medicine character outside said you needed rest. I'll take off. When'll I meet you again?"
Dennis Land hadn't been surprised that the other had dropped in to see him. After all, they owed their lives to each other. On the other hand, they undoubtedly had little in common, beyond their brief companionship in the arena. He wondered at the other's desire to continue their relationship. Or, perhaps it was just polite conversation. He said, "Oh, around. I do most of my work at the University."
Zero's eyes went up. "You're Category Education?"
"That's right. Category Education, Sub-division History, Branch Research, Rank Professor."
"Rank Professor!" Zero blurted. He laughed suddenly. "And a finalist in the national games! Zen! The first time in history." He had come to his feet, but was still chuckling.
Denny didn't think it was that funny. The whole thing hadn't been funny. Unless your humor ran to the sick and you found laughable the comedy of errors that had taken a student of ancient weapons, ancient customs, from the security of his ivory tower of research into the blood, gore, terror and desperation of the modern gladiatorial games.
Still chortling amusement, Zero moved toward the door. "I'll be seeing you when you get out of that bed, Prof."
Dennis Land looked after him, even When the door had closed. There was something about the dark complected man that didn't quite come through. On the face of it, they were indebted to each other, comrades in arms, so to speak, by right of blood shed in defense of each other's very lives. But while he, Denny, had revealed his position in life, the nature of his work, his address, and even his views on various subjects, Zero had said remarkably little about himself. He hadn't even mentioned his category. Perhaps it was Military, since he had hinted that he might achieve a bounce in caste as a result of being a finalist in the national games. But he didn't quite seem the soldier. He didn't have the soldier's stance. Besides, Denny knew enough about the Category Military to know that an old pro wasn't foolish enough to participate in the national games. The percentages were too bad, and an old pro doesn't become an old pro, in the Category Military, by failing to consider the percentages.
Dennis Land shrugged. He wasn't really interested in the mystery of Jesus Gonzales. What he was interested in was getting out of this bed and back to his work. He suspected that his victory in the games was going to cut very little ice at the University. In fact, old man Updike, the Academician heading the department of history, would undoubtedly take a dim view of one of his research men becoming involved in anything quite so crude. As an Upper born, Ronald Updike had little patience with his caste and rank inferiors who, in whatever manner, so distinguished themselves that his own prestige, his place in the sun, was threatened. Long since, such as Professor Dennis Land had learned the art of the yes-man; had learned to bestow on Academician Updike the greater credit for anything discovered or otherwise accomplished while working in that worthy's department. Dennis wasn't overly bitter about this aspect of life. He was used to it. He had been born into a stratified, status quo society and accepted it, adapting as best he could, as did everyone else.
There was one thing he was sure of. Dennis Land was not going to jump a caste as a result of his foray into the gladiatorial meets. Not in Category Education, which was as frozen a field as could be found in the West-world. He had been born a Mid-Middle, in the Category Education, and he had no doubt but that he would die a Mid-Middle. Theoretically, he could cross categories into one of the fields in which taking a bounce in caste was possible, such as Military or Religion, but he had been raised in the atmosphere of the University, his father, grandfather and great-grandfather all having been teachers before him. His abilities had been such that he had reached the rank of full professor before any of his forebears, it was true, but his chances of bouncing his caste to High-Middle, were remote indeed. As they taught the Lowers, in slogan, what was good enough for Daddy, is good enough for me.
He wondered, as he sat there, whether his refusal of the prizes due him as a surviving participant in the national games made sense. Dennis Land was not a pacifist, certainly not in the usual sense of the word. If the cause was strong enough, he believed in fighting for it, to the death, if necessary. However, he was certainly no fracas buff, a fan of the fights covered so well on telly and in which hundreds and even thousands of mercenaries were killed in the small-scale wars between corporations, between union and corporations, or between two rival unions fighting a jurisdictional fracas. He found no pleasure in either dealing or witnessing death, and was considered somewhat of a fuddy-duddy even by university colleagues, as a result.
No, he wanted no profit from the blood he had spilt in the arena. He had rationalized his appearing in the games at all. As he had told Zero Gonzales, he had been unable to avoid the situation. Hardly before he could realize what was happening to him, he had been pushed into a spot where it was either kill or be killed. And Dennis Land was a high survival type. He had not created the institution of the national games, and it was beyond him to end it. When the institution struck him, personally, he survived as best he could.
But, no, he couldn't take the stock shares he had won as a result of the deaths of so many. He would donate them to whatever suitable agency he could find. Actually, he had little need for extra income. Besides his University pay, as a Mid-Middle, he had been issued his basic Inalienable common stock shares upon birth. The income from these was sufficient to allow him to live in modest comfort, even modest luxury compared to the lot of, say, a High or Mid-Lower, not to speak of the squalor of a Low-Lower.
It was the Welfare State, People's Capitalism, so-called, and there was security for all from the cradle to the grave. The most improvident fool had no manner in which to squander the Inalienable basic common stock shares which were issued him, according to the caste into which he was born. Each month, his dividends were deposited to his credit account, nor was there any way to steal his Inalienable stock, nor to gamble or con it away from him. Each citizen of the West World was secure if he wished to be or not. Medical care, education, even entertainment, was free. Entertainment above all, and the overwhelming majority spent the greater part of their lives before their telly sets, sucking on their trank pills for happiness, watching the screen for the excitement of the ultimate entertainment—violent death, as to be witnessed in the fracases and the gladiatorial games.
Of course, given ambition, and given the good fortune to be born into a category which still offered chances at employment, having not been completely automated out of existence, it was possible to acquire additional shares of common stock. Such shares could be bought and sold, and, even in the face of all but confiscatory taxes, an ambitious man could place himself in position to increase his basic income considerably—given a chance to work. However, it could prove difficult for one who was born, say, in Category Food Preparation, Subdivision Cooking, Rank Chef, since cooking was no longer done by individuals. Automation had taken over with a vengeance in this field, and such recipes as were newly developed were done in huge research laboratories and by competent technicians who had studied food for the better part of their lives, before even being allowed to innovate.
Dennis Land stirred in his bed. He wondered why all this was coming back to him. He had accepted it throughout his life. Was it, perhaps, that the past couple of months, when he had been face to face with death almost daily, had brought him to the point of questioning some of the aspects of his existence, which he had never thought to question before?
It was considerably worse than he had expected; his interview with Academician Ronald Updike upon his return to the University. Actually, Dennis Land's position as a professor doing historical research was one that he valued considerably, and one which he had no wish to jeopardize. Teaching per se, had little charm for him. It was seldom, these days, that one found a student in a class who was truly scholar material.
Perhaps that was the fault of society, rather than of the individual student, although to have voiced such controversial opinion would not have been wise, even among his colleagues. One simply didn't criticize the government, nor the institutions of the West-world. But what was the incentive for a student to buckle down to his studies when no matter how successful, it was unlikely that such study would improve his lot either financially, or in his place in society? You were born secure, and you were born into the social niche into which you fitted for all your days. What need was there for study?
Of course, there was always the exception, like Dennis Land himself, who studied for the pure pleasure in seeking knowledge. He sometimes wondered why there were so few who were similar. Many of his fellow instructors, he knew, actually resented having been chosen, by the computers, to fulfill the task for which they had been trained. Education was one of the few fields that still stubbornly refused to yield completely to automation, though certainly there was plenty of it in the form of telly lectures, and such. As a result, while a citizen born into Category Mining had less than one chance out of a thousand of ever being called up to perform his function, a person born into Category Education, had at least one chance in four. And yes, Dennis admitted, many of them resented the few years they must devote to the Welfare State.. Most would have preferred to take their positions, along with the Lowers, seated before their telly sets, sucking their trank pills, and living their lives away in a haze of happy satisfaction, untouched by reality.
Yes, his interview with Ronald Updike, hereditary aristo crat, Upper by birth, and one of the few Academicians the University could boast, was far more satisfactory.
Upon his convalescence, Professor Dennis Land had appeared for interview, following his protracted leave of absence to participate in the games. He had stood, much like a recalcitrant grade schoolboy on the carpet for too free use of his peashooter. His superior glared at him, his head high, his nostrils all but flaring. Academician Updike had fully learned that aspect of the aristocrat, down through the ages, in which an inferior could be eyed in a certain puzzled manner as though wondering what made the fellow tick.
He said finally, "I suppose, Professor Land, that you are unaware of the fact that during the past two weeks the campus had been literally flooded with gaping, gawking, drooling idiots."
Dennis Land didn't get it.
"Fracas buffs!" his superior snapped. "Gladiator fans, seeking the merest glimpse of one of their latest heroes."
Oh, oh. Denny might have foreseen that aspect.
"Nor is that all! Telly reporters. Fracas buff magazine columnists. Tri-Di movie scouts. Even some moronic publicity men from some munitions corporation or other, seeking endorsement!"
Denny gestured with his hands in an attempt at placation. "Sir, this isn't of my doing. I had…"
"Not of your doing, you blithering cloddy! Do you think these cretins would be overrunning the entire school, not to speak of just our department, hadn't it been for your confounded stupidity in participating like a drivel-happy Lower, in those idiotic…" The Upper caught himself in mid-sentence. Even one in his position didn't openly challenge an institution as firmly entrenched as the games. He switched subjects, rapped his desk sharply with his knuckles. "I assume you have some sort of excuse, for turning yourself into a public entertainer and deserting your duties as a research historian, Professor Land."
Dennis Land tried to get a word in. "Sir, it all began with that project I told you about some time ago. The book on ancient arms and their usage, which was to be published under both our by-lines."
"Are you attempting to lay this at my feet, Professor Land!"
"Sir, all I was saying was that the study would have been quite a unique one, and probably widely commented upon. For instance, the long debated length of the pike used by Philip's Macedonians in the phalanx. For years, popular belief among historians was that the rear phalanxmen wielded an eighteen-foot pike. But my research, on the spot, actually drilling with ancient weapons, learning their usage, proved to me that the tradition is ridiculous. Such a spear would be absolutely unwieldy, and certainly would have caused more difficulty in the ranks than harm to the enemy. You could hardly carry one, not to speak of running with it, in charge."
"What in the name of Zen, has this got to do with your antics as an actual gladiator?" Updike bit out.
"It was this very research that caught me up in a position where I couldn't refuse to participate. I had joined one of the more prominent clubs, a gladiator club, in which the membership, as amateurs, gather to fence, to practice archery, to amuse themselves in learning to throw javelins. By the way, sir, I also discovered that the alleged accuracy of the Roman and Etruscan spear-thrower must have been greatly exaggerated."
"Land! You're a featherbrain. A featherbrain, understand? You keep drifting away from the subject. The fact is, that you have made this university notorious. A professor of history, winning in the national games. What sort of scholastic reputation does this add up to?"
It came to Denny, suddenly, that the other was on mescal-tranc. His eyes had that dull gleam, if that description makes sense. Mescaltranc, reserved for the usage of Uppers, the supply being such that less exalted castes were forbidden its pleasures. And he suddenly understood, too, the man's real motivation.
It was simply impossible for Ronald Updike, Low-Upper in Caste, Category Education, Sub-division History, Rank Academician to see another, Dennis Land in this case, the center of the stage. Denny had no doubt that substantially the other's complaint was correct. Denny was a celebrity such as this school had never before produced. For the balance of this year, at least, he would be the focal point of scores, if not hundreds, of telly reporters and other news and magazine men, seeking stories. He would be the focal point of countless fans, seeking autographs, seeking souvenirs, and, amongst the women fans, seeking to date him.
No, it was beyond Updike to bear seeing another subjected to this adulation—no matter that Denny wanted it not. He wondered now what the other was going to do about it. But that wasn't long in coming.
Updike snapped, "I've discussed this with my colleagues, Professor Land, and it has been decided that the situation is intolerable. We have decided it best that you take an indefinite leave of absence from the University."
"Indefinite?"
"At least a year, professor. Possibly, just possibly, by the end of that time, we shall see fit to consider your return."
Dennis Land said hurriedly, "But, sir, wouldn't it be possible simply for me to go abroad? To do some field research in central Italy? My appropriation for Etruscan research is such that I could easily spend a full year…"
"Professor Land, I am afraid that the staff has seen fit to reverse your appropriation. Frankly, I was never particularly impressed by the value of the subject you chose to pursue, that is, the effect of the Etruscan civilization on early Rome. No. No, I am afraid, professor, that the funds involved have already been diverted to other, and more practical work. Now, as you know, I am more than busy. More than busy."
Busy sitting here over-tranking yourself, Dennis Land thought bitterly, resignedly. There wasn't a chance. Never a chance. He knew his department superior despised him, and always had. The man had no intellectual curiosity himself, but bore his position simply for the prestige that redounded upon him. The man was a cloddy. Academician, he might be, but Denny wondered bitterly who had done the actual work that resulted in that highest of university degrees. Well, what difference did it make? Ronald Updike was an Upper born, a gold spoon tucked carefully into the side of his mouth, at birth.
Denny turned and left, without further words. What use were further words?
The only thing in the world he really wanted to do. The only thing he really cared about, was barred to him. He had no illusions. Without the university's facilities, he was in no position to continue his work. In fact, he doubted if the authorities wanted him in the vicinity of the campus at all, and the university was the only place this side of Rome where the raw materials of his study were available.
A year! Ha. Updike's real meaning was clearly understood. Dennis Land would never return to the university. After a year, or after ten. He was persona non grata in the field to which he had devoted his life.
Yuri Malyshev had flown in late the day before, on the rocketplane from Alma-Ata. He could have reported to Chrezvychainaya Komissiya headquarters at that time, or any other time, for that matter; the ministry originally founded to combat counter-revolution and which had now spread to deal with espionage and counterespionage as well, never slept. Obviously, could never sleep. However, Yuri Malyshev was on the piqued side. In a world where few devoted more than ten hours a week to their livelihood, he, Colonel Yuri Malyshev, hadn't had a vacation in nearly a year.
So instead, he checked in at the Hotel Gellert, there on Geltert Ter at the foot of the Buda hills and the edge of the Danube. The Gellert was one of the older hostelries of the capital of the Soviet Complex, but the colonel consistently used it. A former spa, it had an air of the less gaudy, less shiny, less raucous Budapest of long years gone by. Besides that, the well-situated terrace restaurant provided what in Yuri Maly-shev's belief was the best haldszle fish soup, and rostelyos, potted round steak in paprika sauce, in town, and Yuri considered himself a gourmet. For the food, the Tokay Aszu wine, and, of course, for the music, he could bear Budapest; for the rest he hated the bureaucratic capital city.
Following dinner, he strode across the Szabadsag-hid bridge, and then along the Corso where the night spots clustered. He had to admit, despite his scorn of Budapest, that it offered considerably more in the way of nightlife than did say, Moscow or Peking which were inclined to be on the stolid side. Yuri Malyshev was seeking music, gypsy music, and he found it in the terrace club of the Duna hotel. Over a chilled bottle of reisling, he sat and listened.
Of Cossack blood, the colonel was in his early thirties, was tall for a Russian, and classically handsome. Though he was in mufti, his bearing was such that any observant person would have fingered him immediately for a soldier, a soldier who had known combat. Even hadn't it been for the feint scar running from temple to chin point, an observant one would have felt the colonel had known combat, and many times. He had no doubt that he could easily have found feminine companionship, here at the Duna tonight, but there was a lassitude on Yuri Malyshev. Confound it, he had a vacation coming to him, and here they'd put through a hurry call to report to the highest offices of the ministry. That meant, if he knew the Chrezvychainaya. Komissiya, and he did, an assignment of considerable import… and danger. Yuri grunted. He would have found less danger in life had he remained in the Pink Army, rather than going into counterespionage.
He dropped the line of thought, poured himself more of the slightly greenish, slightly effervescent wine, and forced his attention to the violins.
In the morning, he had the hotel assign a hovercar to him—his priority being high enough to drive in the city—and drove leisurely over to the Pest side of the capital. He paralleled the river until he reached Margitsziget Island, then turned right on Szt. Istvankorut to Marx Square, which he crossed to emerge on Lenin. Even at this time of the morning, he noted, the traffic was brutal.
He turned left off Lenin and onto the less busy Rudas Laszlo Utca, with its foreign embassies and governmental buildings. That housing the offices of the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya was on the far end of the street, facing on the park, and from the entry one could see the national museum and the colossal bronze of the Magyar warriors of antiquity.
Colonel Yuri Malyshev recently had been working out of the ministry's offices in Alma-Ata, Lhasa or Peking, and occasionally Moscow, not here in Budapest. There had been various changes in top personnel since he'd been in Budapest. However, he was known well enough that the two sentries came to the salute upon his approach, in spite of the fact he was in mufti. Nor did the preliminary receptionist in the main foyer ask for his credentials. The colonel marched through and to the corridor beyond, marble floored and with long rows of classical statutary, and Hapsburg period tapestry. It came to Yuri Malyshev, all over again, that the offices of the Komissiya had many aspects of a museum.
Before the offices which were his destination, he stopped at the door and snapped to the plainclothesman stationed there, "Colonel Yuri Malyshev. On appointment."
"Yes, colonel." The other opened the door for him, closed it behind.
It was a reception room, bare of other than two or three chairs, and a desk behind which sat a male receptionist in the uniform of the MVD.
He outranked the other, but in these highest of echelons, rank sometimes meant less than elsewhere. Very possibly this captain was in position, given reason, to pull the rug out from under such field men as Yuri Malyshev. As a consequence, the colonel made no effort to pull rank. He said, evenly, "Colonel Malyshev. My orders were to report immediately to Comrade Kodaly."
The captain said, "Very well, Comrade Colonel. If you'd just wait for a moment." He gestured at the chairs.
Yuri sat down and crossed his legs. He wondered vaguely what it was this time. Actually, the nature of the ministry for which he worked had changed considerably in the long decades since the original revolution. He wondered whether Felix Dzerzhinsky the Pole who had originated the Cheka, back in Lenin's day, would recognize the organization it had become. The full title then had been, Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counter Revolution, Sabotage and Speculation, a mouthful even for the Russia of 1917. And the others who had followed in those years of torture, execution, sadism and fanaticism. Menzhinsky, who at least was probably sane; Yagoda who lasted for two years of sadistic power; Yezhov who supervised the great purges, and wound up himself purged; Beria, the last of Stalin's butchers, liquidated in his turn when he attempted to step into his late master's shoes. Ail the list was a long one.
The name had changed from time to time, down through the years. Cheka, GPU, OGPU, NKVD, MVD, and this department and that department within the Komissiya, the MGB, the KGB. And, for that matter, the ministry's tasks had changed. The peasants, who had once been purged in the millions, were now tranquil—if, indeed, one could call them peasants any longer.
The colonel recrossed his legs. This was the way of bureaucracy. They hurried him all the way from Siberia as though the whole Sov-world was afire. Then he sat in an outer office, cooling his heels.
He cooled them for another full hour, and began to wonder about his lunch. The captain at the desk ignored him, going about his business.
At long last, the door to the inner sanctum opened and…
… A giggling young comrade in the uniform of a sergeant of police, emerged. The uniform was not quite straight; nor was her lipstick. What remained of it.
She looked at the captain at the desk, giggled again, straightened her skirt, shot Yuri Malyshev a brazen, rather than defiant, glance, then took her leave.
The captain said, without inflexion, "You may enter now, Comrade Colonel."
Yuri had winced at the girl's first appearance. Now he came to his feet and his face fell into the same expressionlessness as that borne by the captain. He marched to the door leading to the office beyond, squared shoulders, took the knob in hand and entered. It was the first time he had actually met his ultimate chief, Ferencz Kodaly, who had recently been given this post.
His ultimate chief, who was said to be Number One's closest companion, sat behind his desk upon which sat a bottle of barack at least two thirds empty. To his right was a serving cart covered with Hungarian hors d'oeuvres. It had been well but messily sampled. There was a couch on one side of the room and the colonel's eyes avoided it, though when he had first entered he had noted its messed condition.
Although in mufti, he came to attention before the desk. "Colonel Malyshev, sir."
The other stared at him, blearily. "Oh. Malyshev, eh? Heard a great deal about you, Comrade. Great deal. Have a drink."
One didn't refuse to have a drink with Ferencz Kodaly. Besides that, Yuri Malyshev felt he could use a drink.
"With your permission, Comrade Commissar." He stepped forward to the open office bar which sat to one side, took up a three-ounce glass and turned back to his superior. "For you, Comrade Commissar?"
The other mumbled something that ended in barack, which Yuri took for assent. He poured a stiff jolt of the apricot brandy, distilled down to the point where the taste of the fruit was gone and the liqueur as dry as vodka, placed it before his chief, then poured another for himself.
He held it up in toast. "The final goal, Comrade."
"Worl' revolution," the other slurred, in the formula reply. Kodaly knocked the drink back over his tonsils, in practiced stiff-wristed style. Before putting the glass down, he filled, it again from the bottle before him.
"Now then, eh, Colonel…"
"Malyshev. Yuri Malyshev," the colonel said. He tried to keep from staring at the other,
"Eh. Of course. Well, what could I… I do for you? Very busy, actually. Always busy."
The man was drunk. There was no doubt of that. Yuri's eyes went to the window, as though to check. It could be no later than eleven o'clock. At this time yesterday, he had been in Kazakhstan, in Alma-Ata, its capital. The orders he had received had been most definite. To repair to Budapest, highest priority, and report for an immediate assignment. He had thought he was being bold to the point of almost insubordination in not turning up at headquarters the evening before. But now…
He cleared his throat and said, "Colonel Yuri Malyshev, Comrade Commissar. Field agent, recently working out of Lhasa or Peking. My orders were to drop everything and report immediately to your offices."
His ultimate commander stared at him.
Finally he said, "Well, don't just stand there. Have another drink. Heard a great deal about your efforts. Imperialist spies, down in… Hanoi… wherever. Good job, Colonel Malyshev."
Yuri Malyshev had never been to Hanoi. He'd never even been to Indochina. He had a feeling of desperation beginning to manifest itself. He covered by pouring the second drink his superior had offered him, although he hadn't quite finished the first. Yuri Malyshev prided himself on being a disciplined drinker. He seldom took alcohol before afternoon, and usually not until nightfall.
The tiny TV screen on the desk's inter-office communicator lit up and Ferencz-Kodaly stared glassily at it. He muttered something, then clicked it off with a curt gesture.
He looked up at Yuri Malyshev. "Assignment, eh? Course. Course. Very important project. Important. Details given to you by assistant. My assistant. Like another drink?" He half closed one eye, as though offering an indiscretion. "One for the road, as the British say, one for the road, eh?"
Yuri came to attention again. "Thank you, Comrade Commissar, but if my wits are to remain sharp, I should avoid it."
The other grunted at him and eyed the brandy bottle again, the loose mouth working.
Yuri stood there, not knowing whether or not he was meant to leave. Finally, when the other said nothing, he said, "With the Comrade Commissar's permission," and turned and left the room.
The captain's face was as expressionless as it had been when the girl sergeant had left earlier. He said, flatly, "There was evidently a slight mistake in your appointment, Comrade Colonel. You were to see Comrade Korda rather than the Commissar. He has been trying to locate you."
"All right," Yuri said, keeping testiness carefully from his tone. "Where do I find Comrade…"
"Korda," the captain said. "Zoltan Korda. One of the men in the corridor will take you to his office."
The office of Zoltan Korda contained neither bar, serving cart of dainties, nor couch. It contained very little besides Zoltan Korda, his desk, two chairs for visitors and several filing cabinets. However, the outer office was pack jammed with desks, clerks, communication equipment and other office paraphernalia.
Yuri was hurried on through, without pause or wait, and when the door of the smaller inner office was closed, the noises of the commotion without were cut sharply off.
Zoltan Korda eyed him, up and down. The other was a smallish, nervous man, inclined to bore his eyes into yours. His suit looked as though it had been slept in, and he was a chain smoker, lighting one off the other, seldom waiting long enough between cigarettes to need a match.
Korda said, "Nikital Colonel, where have you been?"
Yuri Malyshev had heard of the other, vaguely. Kodaly had brought him along with him when assigned to this post. An office drudge to whom the Commissar handed over routine. Evidently efficient enough, but just one more bureaucrat in a world of bureaucrats.
He said wearily, "My orders were to report to the offices of Commissar Kodaly immediately, for an important new assignment. I did."
"To the offices of the Commissar—not to the Commissar, himself. You should have… Well, never mind. Sit down. I have just been reading your dossier. It is an impressive one."
"Thank you, Comrade."
The other suddenly peered at him, questioningly. "You've been drinking. At this hour of the morning?"
Yuri cleared his throat, and ran a finger down along his facial scar. He said, ruefully, "The Commissar…"
"I see. Well, have you ever been to the West?"
There was a stir of excitement within him. "To America?"
"Possibly, eventually, but actually no further than Common Europe, to begin with."
"On various assignments, Comrade. And on various occasions on vacation. To Paris, Rome, once to Nice."
"This time you're on assignment, Colonel Malyshev. Probably the most important of your career. Colonel, I'm going to refresh you with some background material most of which you undoubtedly already know. However, in the way of preliminary, what does the term frigid fracas mean to you?"
"Frigid fracas? Why it's West-world idiom. In the early days following the Hitler war they called the relationship between the Soviet Complex and the Imperialist nations a Cold War. As their slang, they call it, shifted, the terms fracas became popular, and cold war evolved to frigid fracas."
"Quite correct. Now, what point would you say the frigid fracas remains at currently?"
Yuri Malyshev shifted in his chair, not having the vaguest idea what the other was leading to. "I'd say, it's truly frozen now. With the Universal Disarmament Pact, and complete inspection, the earlier dangers have been eliminated, Comrade."
The other nodded, lit a new cigarette from the old. "By the way, are you a Party member? Your dossier doesn't tell me so."
Yuri shook his head. "I didn't have the fortune to be born into the Party."
"Neither am I. Do you know the derivation of the salutation 'Comrade'?"
Yuri shook his head again. Zoltan Korda, he found, was a confusing man. But then, Yuri Malyshev had usually found the spicy Hungarians confusing people.
"In the early days, the very early days of such pioneer socialists as Marx; in Germany, Engels; in England, DeLeon; in America, the term was used to designate fellow fighters for the cause. Whether or not the goals for which they aimed have ever been achieved, and that is debatable, the fight is no longer being fought. I find the term somewhat ridiculous, particularly when not being used by Party members… who still hang onto it."
Yuri Malyshev was inwardly surprised. This was not the way one talked in the Sov-world. At least not in the echelons with which he was familiar. He said, blankly, "Yes, Com… that is, sir."
Korda tapped the dossier, open on the desk before him. "I am somewhat surprised you are not a Party member. I note that your illustrious grandfather, Vladimir Malyshev, was one of the earliest companions of Lenin, and a founder of the Bolsheviks."
Yuri said without inflexion. "He was executed in 1938 as a Bukharinist Rightist Deviationist."
The bureaucrat shot another glance at the papers before him. "Whatever that means," he said wryly. "But he was rehabilitated more than a decade ago, his body exhumed and reburied in the Kremlin wall, beside those of his old comrades."
"However," Yuri Malyshev said, his voice still even, "my father was not a Party member, and, as a result…"
"Yes. Of course. By the way, what does the term, Trotsky lives, mean to you?"
Yuri looked at him and finally shook his head. "Why nothing."
"Well," Korda said dryly, "if you ever hear it, make note of the speaker and report him to this office."
Korda returned to the subject, after inhaling deeply and expelling clouds of heavy smoke through his nostrils. He was probably smoking the dark Bulgarian tobacco, Yuri decided, wondering how the smaller man's lungs could take the punishment awarded them.
"In the early days of the, ah, frigid fracas, the situation was a fairly uncomplex one. We had our two great powers, the West, which consisted of the United States and her satellites, and Russia and hers. There was also a sizeable number of neutrals, which were at that time poorly organized and carried little weight in world controversy."
Thus far he had said nothing unknown to the most dullard schoolboy. Yuri held his peace.
Ash dropped unheeded to the other's suit. "But times have changed. While the Soviet Complex has, after various difficulties, amalgamated into one cohesive whole, most of the satellites of the United States, grown strong through the very support the Americans gave them, finally broke away and joined into what we now know as Common Europe, complete with some satellites of their own, largely in Africa. And the Americas, of course, slowly amalgamated too, so that now it is a United States of the Americas which we confront. In short, the West-world."
Yuri was nodding. There was still nothing new.
"And, of course, the neutrals, forced by necessity, if their voice was to be heard at all, strengthened their ties considerably and now operate as a strong block. Colonel Malyshev, instead of the two great powers confronting each other, as in the early days of the Cold War, we now have what amounts to four. The world is currently divided in four."
Yuri Malyshev said, "The Neut-world hardly counts. They never developed nuclear arms, nor rocket missiles. Of course, since the Universal Disarmament Pact we don't have them either, nor does Common Europe nor the West-world. However, as everyone is aware, we have the know-how to build them, and quickly."
It was his superior's turn to nod. "Yes. And who is so foolish to doubt that if war broke out between any, or all, of the great powers, that the race would be on to get into production. A-Bombs, H-Bombs, missiles to carry them, anti-missiles to intercept them. None exist. Though all exist in blueprint."
Yuri Malyshev shifted again. This was still all very elementary. Did the other think him uninformed?
The Hungarian ground out his cigarette, and his eyes bore into those of his subordinate. "Colonel, what would you say if I told you there is a present danger that the frigid fracas, the cold war, will warm up?"
Malyshev stared at him.
"No. No, sir," he said finally. "We've reached a static status quo. The Soviet Complex is self-sufficient, and we are only now so conquering our problems that the goals we set so long ago are being met. We were handicapped, compared to the West-world, by starting so far behind, and by having such masses of population on our hands, particularly in China. But we're self-sufficient, and neither want nor need war. And the West-world?" He shook his head again. "They have their Welfare State, their People's Capitalism, as they call it. They've solidified into a stratified society that wants no change, brooks no change. They, too, are self-sufficient. And their government has become so Xenophobia minded that it discourages prac-tically all communication, not only with us, but with Common Europe and even the Neut-world. What reason would they have for allowing their own position to be threatened—by taking the chance of precipitating war?"
Zoltan Korda nervously lit another cigarette. "You haven't mentioned Common Europe."
Yuri looked at him. They had obviously come to the point.
Korda pointed the cigarette. "It is quite true that both the Sov-world and the West-world are self-sufficient. Neither needs either raw materials from abroad, nor markets to sell surplus production. We can both go-it-alone as the expression has it. But Common Europe is another matter. As you'll remember, following the Hitler war this comparatively small area of the world's surface debouched into the second industrial revolution with an elan far and beyond anything seen through the rest of the capitalistic world. With their industries largely demolished by the bombing, they could only build anew, and, obviously, built the most ultra-modern, automated plants that their scientists and engineers could design. As first the Common Market, and later Common Europe, evolved their production passed even that of America."
He seemed to switch subjects. "Colonel, why did the United States and Japan fight during World War Two?"
Yuri scowled at him. "Why… why the Japanese navy attacked their naval base at Pearl Harbor…"
His superior was shaking a hand negatively. "No. That was the immediate spark which set the war off. Perhaps I should have said, why did the Japs attack Pearl Harbor? Pearl Harbor was no more the reason the war started than the kidnaping of Helen precipitated the Trojan war."
Yuri Malyshev was based firmly enough in the Materialist Conception of History to know what the other was driving at. "You mean there were basic economic reasons behind the conflict."
"Of course, and, actually, fairly similar ones to those that brought on the conflict between the Hellenes and the Trojans. The Trojans, as you'll possibly recall, dominated the Hellespont, the straits through which the Greek merchants' ships must pass to get to the Black Sea and the profitable trade there. It was intolerable to the Greek economy that they be forbidden this passage, or overly taxed for it. In our modern times, the Japanese were attempting to so unite all the Far East that they could stake it out as their own private domain, milking mainland China, Indonesia, and all the rest of their raw materials and utilizing them for dumping ground for Japanese manufacturers. The United States had no intention of allowing the Japs to so dominate such a large and profitable area of the world. Fabulous quantities of military equipment were sent to China to help in its fight against the Japanese invasion, and finally such volunteers as the Flying Tigers, who, of course, were pilots trained in American government flying schools, and flew the latest of U.S. Military aircraft. Toward the end, it is recorded that the American government could hardly wait for the Japanese to perform some overt act which would allow full hostilities to begin."
Malyshev said slowly, "Sir, what has this to do with the current situation?"
Korda twisted his mouth. "You find me long-winded perhaps. Believe me, the matter is most pressing. The thing is that neither the West-world, nor the Soviet Complex, with our present socio-economic systems, are pressed for either sources of raw materials nor markets for manufactured surpluses. But that does not apply to Common Europe. For some years now, their long-term boom has been slackening. That area once known as Germany currently can produce as many hovercars and trucks among other examples as could be utilized by all Common Europe. So does the area once known as Italy, and that once known as France. They've gone into what economists once called a depression." The bureaucrat snorted. "Rather, going further back still, a business panic. They must have more outlets, more sources of raw materials. The Gaulle knows it very well, and would seem to be making plans."
Yuri said slowly, "Obviously The Gaulle is not so mad to contemplate attacking either the Soviet Complex or the West-world."
"Dictators, whether or not they are considered benevolent dictators, are unpredictable," his superior murmured. "However, I am inclined to agree with you. No, there is just one source of outlet for him and his Common Europe. The Neut-world, with its teeming populations, and its underdevelop-ment."
Yuri was shaking his head, even as he ran a finger down the line of his scar, in thought. "There is just one difficulty. Neither the Soviet Complex, the West-world, nor the World Court would permit such a descent of The Gaulle and his armies on the largely defenseless Neut-world countries."
His superior had let his cigarette go out, now he lit another, nervously. "We get to the point, and the reason for your being here. Earlier we mentioned the fact that although neither West-world, Common Europe, nor the Soviet Complex actually possessed nuclear weapons, missiles, nor anti-missiles, we had them in blueprint and could hasten into production given a breakdown of the World Court and the Universal Disarma-
ment Pact. As it is, we are balanced, all in the same position, and hence safe. However, suppose that any one of the three should come up with an anti-missile missile?"
Yuri Malyshev's face was blank.
Zoltan Korda leaned forward. "The theory in nuclear, missile warfare is that the attacker fires his nuclear warhead rocket at his foe. The foe protects himself by attempting to intercept it with an anti-missile rocket interceptor. But what if the attacker has sent on ahead, anti-anti-missiles to protect the warhead-bearing rocket?" He shook his hand again in a gesture of negation. "Oh, never fear, had the arms race of the 1950s and 1960s continued, both sides would have ultimately developed such destroyer escorts of space missile warfare. Now, it would seem, one of The Gaulle's more brilliant minds has devised such a missile today."
"I see," Yuri muttered.
"Your task…" his superior began.
Dennis Land, late a professor at the University, late an Etruscanologist of growing repute, stood in the middle of his Mini-Auto-Apartment, his hands thrust deep in trouser pockets. He gazed at the shelves of books and tapes; the desk, still littered with his work; the disorderly piles of notes; the current chapter entitled "The Tarquin Gens and Its Origins." This work was to have made him the world's recognized authority on the subject—he and Academician Updike, of course. Both of their names would have been on the volume. Ronald Updike's, first. Academician Updike, who didn't know an Etruscan from a Carthaginian.
For a long moment he stared into his little, glass enclosed museum. The dozen or so shards of pottery he had picked up personally at Etruscan tomb digs. The small black vase which had been presented to him by Professor Uccello, curator of the Etruscan museum in the Villa Borghese in Rome. The tiny, corroded bronze statue of an Etruscan warrior which Denny had bought at a fabulous price from one of the shady dealers in antiquities whose shops string along the Via Condotti. In spite of the cost, he sometimes had his doubts about the warrior. However, it made the museum.
He turned abruptly and took a step to the auto-bar in the corner. A practicing athlete, as well as a scholar, Denny's auto-bar was more for social occasions than solitary drinking, particularly serious solitary drinking. But now he extracted his credit card, put it face down on the small telly-screen, and dialed himself a John Brown's Body. The foot-square serving slot sank into the bar, arose again bearing the fourteen ounce glass, garnished with its mint and half slice of orange.
"The fruit salad," Denny muttered, "will be unnecessary." With a finger he fished the mint and orange out of the glass and threw them to the floor. He tilted back the glass, and half emptied it.
But that ended the gesture. His desire to drown his sorrows in alcohol left him; he was too much a realist not to know that they didn't drown, but were pickled. He put the glass down, picked up his credit card and took it to the telly-phone, flicked it on, held the card to the screen and said, "Balance check, please."
After a short moment, the robot voice reported, "Twenty shares of Inalienable common. Six shares of Variable common, current market value thirty-thousand, three hundred and forty-four dollars and eighty-six cents. Current cash credit, three hundred and forty-five dollars and thirty cents." The screen died.
So. He had his Inalienable common stock which guaranteed him an income sufficient to maintain himself decently as a Mid-Middle. He had, besides, his life savings of six shares of Variable common stock, the income from which was enough for emergencies—even marriage. Enough to add those little things to life that counted so much. Rare books, vacation trips, an art object or two, an occasional descent on the flesh pots of the town.
But enough to sponsor his research to the point of a year or so in Tuscany, and then sufficient to publish the heavy tome he'd had in mind? No. Not with prices they were today.
Face reality, Denny Land. As a scholar, you've had it. Sure, you could have fought. Old Updike wasn't the final word. Denny could have taken it to the highest echelons of the Category Education. But where would it have gotten him? You can't fight the establishment. Suppose the higher echelons had reinstated him at the University, re-established his appropriation. Could he have operated in open defiance of his department head? No. Updike, enraged, would have put obstacles in his way which would have made work impossible, and probably would ultimately have found some other reason for dismissing him. As it was, there was a slight chance he might be recalled, in a year or so, after his notoriety had been forgotten. The fracas buffs and gladiatorial fans were short of memory when it came to their heroes.
The telly-phone tinkled and lit up, and Denny sighed and sat to answer it. He didn't recognize the face but the background was obviously that of an office. She said briskly, "Professor Land?"
"That's right."
This is the Bureau of Investigation. You are requested to appear in Mr. Hodgson's office at your earliest convenience."
"Bureau of Investigation!" Denny blurted.
"In the Octagon, of course."
"But… but what's the charge?"
"There is no charge, professor," she said. The screen died.
Octagon Building? Bureau of Investigation? He? Dennis Land? He stared at the screen. But it obviously was no hoax. He shook his head, in mystery. Well… He reached out to dial a vacuum-tube taxi, not owning a hovercar of his own. He could have rented one, of course, but evidently this Hodgson, whoever he was, was in a hurry, and who wanted to irritate an official of the Bureau of Investigation? Greater Washington was a distance.
By the time he had shrugged into his jacket, a small light had flickered on the closetlike door, set into the wall immediately next to his auto-bar. He opened it and wedged himself into the small vacuum tube two-seater there, bringing the canopy over him and then dropping the pressurizer. He hadn't the slightest idea what to dial, so he ordered vocally into the telly-screen, after pressing his credit card to it.
He could feel the sinking, elevator sensation, which meant his cab was dropping to tube level to be caught up by robot controls and shuttled back and forth through the mazes of vacuum-tube transport labyrinth, preparatory to being shot to his basic destination. After a few moments the taxi came to a halt and Denny closed his eyes in anticipation. He might be one of only eight survivors of the national games, but he hated that initial thrust as much as the next man. No hero he, when it came to roping down a mountain side, parachuting from an aircraft, or facing the sudden nausea of vacuum-tube transport. He wondered if anybody ever got used to it.
He sank back into the pressure seat, then slowly forward again, straining against the safety belt. Greater Washington.
The shuttling started up again, and he had to go through a few traversing shots, which meant nothing. At last a green light flashed on the dash, and he undid the belt, killed the pressurizer, slid the canopy back, and opened the door to emerge in the king-size reception hall of the hush-hush Bureau of Investigation.
A bright eyed, nattily attired stereotype of a Category Government young man stepped up to him. "Professor Land?" he said. Denny hadn't expected such immediate recognition. In fact, had steeled himself for an extended period of red tape and being hustled from one desk to another until at long last reaching his destination. Evidently, there was to be none of that. This Mr. Hodgson obviously was really in a hurry to see him. He still couldn't imagine why.
He followed the young man—probably a Bureau of Investigation agent, Denny decided—across the reception hall to a heavy wooden door beyond, through it and down a lengthy corridor. A very lengthy corridor. Oh, it was the Octagon, all right. He wondered vaguely if considerable time wouldn't be saved by having some sort of vehicles in these halls.
He took in his guide from the side of his eyes. He'd heard about the highly trained Bureau of Investigation agents. In fact, he'd seen telly shows based on their activities.
The other surprised him by saying, "Just thought I'd tell you I wasn't able to get a seat at the amphitheater, but I followed the games on telly. Zen, sir, that was a fight you had with the Dimachaeri on the third day. For a while there, you were really in the dill."
Denny could hardly fail to remember what the other was talking about. Dimachaeri fought with daggers in both hands, a form of gladiatorial combat with which Dennis Land hadn't been very familiar. He'd won out by the skin of his teeth.
However, he was amused inwardly now. At the same moment he had been feeling awe at the other's accomplishments in the way of Bureau of Investigation training as an agent, evidently the agent was feeling awe at him, due to his skill in the use of the weapons of antiquity.
"It's more luck than anything else," he said now. "Lots of men better than I went down in that arena."
"Luck you can always use," the other said, admiration still in his voice. "But luck alone doesn't get you through the finals of the national games. It won't even get you to the finals."
Denny grunted in sour amusement. "I had another ace up my sleeve, I'm afraid. You see, I had access to the greatest library on primitive, ancient and medieval arms and their usage, in the world. Books on Roman military drill, scrolls on actual gladiatorial fights which became classics due to some tactic or other on the part of the participants. In short, when I entered that arena I knew more about the use of the weapons we were carrying, than any other man present."
Denny paused, then added, "However, I still needed the luck."
They had pulled up before a heavy door. His guide knocked, then opened and stood aside for Denny to enter. He didn't follow.
It was a small anteroom, and the woman at the desk was she who had phoned him earlier. She was, to Denny's surprise, evidently a receptionist. A live receptionist, not too young. Offhand, he couldn't think of any task that a robot couldn't fulfill that a live…Well, ostentation could be taken just so far. He wondered who this Hodgson could be.
She looked up, her features birdlike. "I'm Miss Mikhail," she said briskly. "Mr. Hodgson is awaiting you, professor. Right through that door, there."
Denny said, "Thank you," even while feeling the words inane. Thus far, he knew of no reason to thank anybody involved in this. He had been brought, at his own expense, hundreds of miles for some cause he knew nothing about. In fact, as a citizen in good standing of the West-world and the Welfare State, he wondered if he shouldn't "be getting indignant in here somewhere.
He opened the inner door, closed it behind him.
Jesus Gonzales said, "Hi Denny."
Dennis Land stared at him. "Zero! Are you…"
"Am I Hodgson? Me?" Zero laughed. "Mr. Hodgson, may I introduce Dennis Land, Category Education, Sub-division History, Branch Research, Rank Professor, Mid-Middle." He waved a hand in the direction of the other side of the room. "Denny, meet Frank Hodgson, Category Government, Subdivision Bureau of Investigation, Rank Secretary…"
The surprise at seeing Zero Gonzales had prevented Denny from noticing the tall older man who stood there, looking at him questioningly. He had a strange stance, carrying one shoulder considerably lower than the other. He also had a heavy office pallor and an air compounded of what would seem artificial langour and actual weariness.
Denny murmured some banality at the introduction, and the other seemed to come to some decision he'd been withholding and came forward, hand outstretched. "Welcome aboard," he said easily, almost lazily.
"Welcome aboard?" Denny said blankly. "Aboard what?"
Zero chuckled, and plunked himself down on one buttock atop the edge of the smaller of the two desks the room held. He said to Hodgson, "Afraid I can't finish your introduction, sir, I don't know what your caste is. High-Middle? Low-Upper?"
"I don't believe I remember," Hodgson murmured easily, even as he made his way around the larger desk and sank into the chair there. He was completely gray of hair and obviously far beyond the age at which most, in the West-world, retired. With the surplus of manpower that applied, why should anyone continue working beyond the age of forty-five? Frank Hodgson had.
Denny was still staring at the oldster. Didn't remember what his caste level was? Why everybody knew their caste rating; you knew it as well as you did your own name.
Hodgson looked up at him. "Please have a chair, professor." He smiled softly. "I must admit, it is not everyday one meets a professor of anthropology who is at the same time a young man who has just won through the finals of the national games." He held up a hand to cut Denny short. "Zero explained the circumstances under which you were, ah, sucked into the games. But that you were physically qualified at all astonishes me."
Denny shrugged inwardly and found a chair, undoubtedly all this would be cleared up in good time. He said, "My father before me was quite a student of Etruscan, Greek and Roman life. All three of these peoples considered physical attainments as important as mental ones. They did not consider a man wise who devoted full effort to his mind, but ignored his body. My father raised me in that tradition. I've possibly made a fetish, by present standards, of keeping myself fit."
Hodgson was nodding, pleasantly. "Zero told me of your studies of the Etruscans. A fascinating civilization, so I understand."
"My former studies," Denny said sourly. "I have just been given indefinite leave of absence from the University and my appropriation for research has been rescinded."
"I see. As a result of the notoriety you gained by participation in the games, undoubtedly. Possibly we can do something about that at a later date, professor. Ah, I think I shall call you Denny. You seem much too young to carry the heavy rank of professor. At any rate, Denny, what do you think of the theory that the Etruscans established trading stations along the Iberian coast, at what is now known as the Costa del Sol of Spain, even before the Phoenicians or Greeks sailed those waters?"
Denny, in spite of the strangeness of the setting, was indignant. "Ridiculous. The Etruscans were competent seamen, but they established ports no farther from Etruria proper than the town of Luna, in what is now Northern Italy. Liguria, to be exact."
Frank Hodgson smiled gently. "Nevertheless, Denny, we plan to send you on an expedition to Southern Spain to investigate the possibility of such early Etruscan trading stations. Ah, Zero, here, will be your assistant."
Dennis Land was not slow minded. He looked from one of them to_ the other. "I assume you have some espionage or counterespionage game in mind. I can't imagine why you thought I'd be interested. But whatever the reason, no thank you. I am not interested in cloak and dagger…"
Hodgson held up a hand to still him. "Denny, when you signed up for the games, you volunteered, in case of victory, to remain for one year on call of the West-world…"
"Yes," Denny blurted. "But that's in the unlikely case the World Court rules for a trial of combat. Not…"
"The West-world is now calling, Dennis Land."
"Don't you think you might ask for volunteers on a…"
"We are asking for volunteers, Dennis Land, in the old army method of asking for volunteers. You, you, and you. Your country's situation has pickled, Dennis Land. It needs your services desperately. You are. Professor Dennis Land, Etrus-canologist, internationally respected in your field. A perfect cover for the mission we depend upon to pull us out of the dill. You also are a perfect physical specimen with abnormally quick reflexes, or you would never have survived the games. The Bureau hasn't another agent with your qualifications, Denny."
"Hey," Zero complained. "I survived the games, too. I keep telling you, Frank, you underestimate me."
His superior snorted. "I ought to have you demoted, you cloddy. You could have gotten yourself killed in that confounded slaughter."
"I told you I'd make it," the other laughed irrepressibly.
"However, you aren't a known historian who might be doing research on the Iberian coast. As an assistant of Professor Land, you'll have some protective coloring. If we sent you alone, someone in that espionage conscious Common Europe would spot you the first week."
Denny Land said impatiently, "I'm simply not available."
The elderly bureaucrat swung to right and left in his swivel chair, his face tolerant. He said, "Listen to my fling before making a decision, Denny."
"I'll listen, but I'm not interested in crossing categories from Education to Government."
"That wouldn't be necessary," Hodgson said easily. "Denny, would you say the world is stable in so far as politico-economics are concerned?"
Denny looked from the older man to Zero, then back again, scowling. "Why, of course. They've been stable for decades, ever since the Universal Disarmament Pact and the establishment of the World Court. The re-establishment of the World Court, I suppose I should say."
Hodgson was shaking his head gently. "No. Popular belief to the contrary, there is no field so fluctuating as that of socio-economic systems. No matter what the surface appearances, there is continual flux. This applies not only to our"—he half-smiled—"People's Capitalism, but to the Sov-world, the Neut-world and, especially at this time, to Common Europe as well."
Denny felt argumentative, though he didn't know why. "I can't see any changes that have taken place in the West-world in my lifetime. And I can't envision any in the immediate future."
"No?" the other's voice was dry. "Let's use but one example, the gladiatorial meets both you and our friend Zero, here, just came through." Hodgson made himself more comfortable. "As a historian, you will of course, see the parallel between the original Roman games and our own."
Denny said, vaguely unhappy, "The purpose was different. Their games were purely for entertainment of the mob…"
Zero chuckled, but said nothing.
"… Ours are for selecting the most competent combat men in the West-world, to defend our cause in case the World Court calls for a trial by combat in some international disagreement."
The bureaucrat was gently shaking his head. "Denny, when the Roman empire evolved to the point that the wealth which poured into Rome was so great its populous need no longer work but existed on free food issued by the government, and the bounty of enormously wealthy patricians who bought their votes, it was found that slobs do not live by food alone. Frustrated by the meaningless, useless lives they led, something else was needed to keep them from explosion."
"Bread and circuses," Zero murmured.
"This is hardly news to me," Denny said in irritation.
"Of course not. The evolution of our own society was foreseen by a good many politico-economists half a century and more ago. Automation, the second industrial revolution, gave us an abundance of food, clothing, shelter, medical care, education, the other necessities and even luxuries, for all. At the same time, fewer and fewer employees were needed in industry, especially unskilled employees. They were soon all but eliminated. To keep these unemployed from starving… or from revolt… the rapidly evolving Welfare State provided unemployment insurance, pensions, relief, a score of different ways to get something for nothing. And slowly the most incompetent members of our society sank to a little more than brute level. Trank was devised to keep them, ah, happy. Telly violence, the final aspects of which could have been seen when the medium first developed, increased and increased again."
The aged bureaucrat twisted his mouth ruefully. "A friend of mine once put it, the jerks had at last inherited the earth. Given safety from reprisal, Denny, the brute will come out in the slob. It's been shown over and over again. One example was the Roman mob and the ludi, the games. A more recent example, just in case you're inclined to say, but that was two thousand years ago, were the Nazis. Never forget the Nazis. When Hitler gave his people carte blanche to dispose of their, ah, racial inferiors such as the Jews, the Poles, the Gypsies, the Slavs, they responded with vim. Not just individuals, but as a people."
Denny said, "If society hasn't first degraded these people, they wouldn't have had the neuroses which demanded sadism to give them the necessary emotional release."
"Are you sure you aren't putting the cart before the horse? At any rate, in our own society their sadistic demands were met in modern fashion. The fracases evolved, fighting between corporations and union, between union and union over juris-dictional squabbles, between competing corporations. Mercenaries were hired to do the fighting, and our modern equivalent of the mob drooled over the violence on their telly sets."
Denny said impatiently, "What's this got to do with changes taking place in the status quo, and above all, what's it got to do with me going to Spain?"
The other nodded. "We've got to the point of my example. When you were a lad, Denny, just how big were the gladiatorial meets?"
Dennis Land scowled at him. "Why, I don't even remember…"
"Of course not. They're a fairly modern innovation. The fracases got to the point where it took whole divisions to fight one. The country was being bled white, as Rome was once bled white to support its games. So slowly it was realized that we must taper off the fracas, and build up a considerably cheaper method of satisfying our drooling, trank sucking, potential mob."
"But the World Court…"
"Was with us before, too. This method of resolving international problems by resort to trial by combat, is comparatively new. Keep in mind, that it is not just the West-world that needs bread and circuses to keep the mob happy, but the Sov-world, Common Europe and the Neut-world as well. The Sov proletarians, as they call them, also glory in watching telly violence.
"To wrap it up, Denny, the fracases are slowly withering away, their place being taken by gladiatorial combat. Now do you see that changes are taking place in this world of ours?"
The telly screen on his desk lit up, and Denny could see Miss Mikhail's elderly face. She said something and Frank Hodgson said, "Very well, send her in, please."
When the door opened, the three came to their feet.
Hodgson said, "Bette, may I present Professor Dennis Land. Denny, this is Bette Yardborough, the third member of your expedition to be."
It was a strange introduction, Denny thought. No mention of Category, Sub-Division, Rank, nor even caste. The girl herself was quite startling. She, well, projected herself. She bore an aura of not exactly excitement, but of energy. Her handshake was firm and decisive and she looked into your eyes when she acknowledged introduction. Looked into your eyes as though attempting to go beyond them and to the inner you. Not that she was unattractive. She was probably in the vicinity of thirty, only two or three inches less than Denny, the athletic, rather than the bedroom type, red of hair, disturbingly green of eye, and small of mouth. The mouth, Denny decided, didn't live up to the rest of her, especially when pursed in exasperation as it was now.
She said brittlely, "A pleasure, professor. I understand that you, as well as this cloddy Zero…"
"I surrender," Zero chirped.
"… Participated in that disgusting display of vulgarity last week." Before Denny could answer that, she had spun on Frank Hodgson who had sighed and resumed his chair. "Do I understand that you are sending me to be a junior third member of a team, one of whom has never been on an assignment before?"
Hodgson chuckled in deprecation. "I wouldn't put it that way, my dear. On the surface, Denny will be in command, as Professor Land, doing historical research. Zero will be his self-effacing assistant and you will be his secretary. In actuality you will be working as a trio of equals."
"Who will be in command when decisions involving the assignment are to be made?" she snapped.
The bureaucrat said gently, "I suggest you consider yourselves as a team and utilize the—these days much disparaged—democratic principle."
"Oh, Zen! This will be a project," she snapped, sinking abruptly into the chair Zero held for her.
"Will you marry me, Bette?" Zero murmured.
"Not though they bounced me to Upper-Upper," she snapped back.
"All right, all right," Hodgson said. "You'll have time for horseplay later. We have arrived at the point where you'll wish instructions."
Denny said, "I keep telling you I have no desire to play at cloak and dagger in Spain, or elsewhere."
"Fine," Bette said brittlely. "I can probably handle this much easier if both of you remain right here and play with your swords and spears."
Hodgson said, "Before you came in, Bette, I was proving to Denny that far from the world being stable, it is in a continual condition of flux. Whether we wish it, or nay, socio-economic institutions are ever changing." He twisted his mouth wryly. "The best we can do, is attempt to direct them somewhat."
The three of them realized that he was about to drop a bomb, and he did just that. "It would seem that The Gaulle continues to enjoy the favors of the Goddess of Luck. At a time when his freewheeling economy demands expansion into new markets—new sources of raw materials—he has found a method whereby he can descend upon profitable areas of the Neut-world without risking retaliation by either the West-world or the Sov-world."
Zero said, for once no undertone of amusement in his voice, "Either or both of us would have to retaliate. If Common Europe could add the Neut-world to her apron strings, she'd eventually completely dominate. The balance of power would be over."
"Exactly," Hodgson said, nodding. "And The Gaulle knows it. At this point he isn't motivated by that long a range development. It is simply that his economy is on the verge of collapse, on the verge of a depression such as hasn't been seen since the middle of the Twentieth Century. Depressions are a thing of the past in the West-world, and never applied to the Sov-world, but Common Europe didn't take the same path either of us did."
"What's this method you speak of?" Bette said, worry in her voice, now.
"An off-beat research engineer, you might call him, a certain Auguste Bazaine, a Belgian, has devised a workable anti-antimissile. With it, The Gaulle could defy the World Court and world opinion. Both the West-world and the Sov-world, lacking such a weapon in their arsenals, would have to stand to the side while he carved out what portions of the Neut-world he desired. By the time we could develop our own, we would be faced with a fait accompli."
The bureaucrat swung in his swivel chair, to left and right, slowly, though thoughtfully. "The thing is that some sort of wheel has come off in The Gaulle's plans, according to our Paris agents. This Auguste Bazaine evidently refuses to communicate with governmental officials of Common Europe. It is the unsupported suspicion of our agents already there, that Bazaine alone has the complete know-how for constructing his anti-anti-missile, and is being temperamental."
"Soooo—" Zero said.
"So you are to repair immediately to Barcelona. There we have hired a small sailing yacht which you will take down the Spanish coast to Torremolinos, where Bazaine is sulking. You will stop very briefly at say, Tarragona and Cartagena, as though testing the possibility of Etruscan merchant ports having been established at those points, before the arrival of the Greeks or Phoenicians. However, you will get to the Malaga area as quickly as feasible and make contact with Auguste Bazaine."
Bette said, frowning, "I thought you said he'd gone to earth. Had dug sort of a hole and pulled it in after him."
Hodgson was nodding. He looked at Denny. "It would seem that friend Bazaine is an amateur anthropologist himself, specializing in Phoenicians and Carthaginians. I trust your mutual interests may prove an in."
Zero said, "All right. So we get to this mad-scientist type, whose new device could set the whole world off, eventually. Then what do we do?"
Hodgson looked at him dryly, "I hardly expected that question from you, my impetuous Zero. You work off the cuff, of course. If you can simply steal his blueprints, if there exists such items, do so. Given such a set of his plans, we once again are in balance of power. If there are no such plans, perhaps kidnaping might be in order. You will have the yacht, which is large enough for sea voyages, and the crew, competent agents. If neither is feasible… well, Auguste Bazaine is expendable in this world of ours."
"Oh, great," Zero muttered.
Denny said, "I haven't agreed…"
Hodgson looked at him impatiently. "What is the name of your superior in Category Education who had you dismissed, Denny?"
"Updike. Academician Ronald Updike."
"Very well. Upon your return, following successful termination of your assignment, steps will be taken to have you reinstated, and possibly take over the seat of this academic foe of yours."
Denny stared at him. "Updike's a Low-Upper."
Hodgson said confidently, "We'll find a way. Are you in, Denny?"
"I'm in," Denny said lowly, after only brief consideration.
The aged bureaucrat looked suddenly very tired. "Very well. Miss Mikhail will give you some details. Zero will see to your equipment, Denny. You'll leave for Barcelona to join your yacht, soonest."
They stood to go.
Hodgson said, "Just one other thing. The information may be incorrect, but the grapevine has it that Yuri Malyshev has been given the same assignment you have. That is, to get to this temperamental Bazaine before The Gaulle makes his peace with him."
Zero hissed through his teeth, unhappily.
"Who's Yuri, whatever his name is?" Denny growled.
Bette said slowly, "The most competent, and certainly the most ruthless, uh, hatchetman they used to call them, of the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya"
"What's that?"
Zero chuckled sourly. "It's the same as this department, only without a conscience. They lost it, some seventy-five years ago."
Hodgson finished with, "I needn't tell you what it would mean for the Sov-world to have the anti-anti-missile, while we didn't."
The three of them spent an hour or two with Miss Mikhail, who, evidently, Denny Land decided, was much more than the traditional office receptionist. He wondered, vaguely, what her category, rank, and caste would prove to be, but didn't ask. This Bureau of Investigation seemed to be the most slipshod project with which he had ever become acquainted. However, even in its lack of what could be called system and discipline, there was an elusive efficiency at work. For instance, Miss Mikhail had already made arrangements on the rocket-plane for passage to Barcelona, and evidently the yacht which they were to use in the supposed exploration of the Iberian coast was already crewed and waiting. On the face of it, Frank Hodgson had not even considered the possibility that Denny would absolutely refuse to go on this mission.
They spent an hour or two with Miss Mikhail, getting details, and then Zero, grinning at them both, said he had some odds and ends of jobs that he had to clear up before leaving, and that for Denny to be good and not to take advantage of his absence to get next to the woman he loved.
Bette snorted indignation. "Over-tranked again," she snapped. "Delusions of grandeur." Zero waved, and was gone.
Denny looked at her. He'd better make his peace with this fireball of feminism-rampant. He was going to have to bear her company for possibly the next couple of months, like it or not. He simply was not so constructed as to be able to continue the running raillery that seemed to exist between her and Zero. He wondered what their actual feelings toward each other were.
He nodded after the other, when he had gone. "Quite a guy," he said, letting the words mean anything.
Bette Yardborough surprised him by saying, "Don't get a wrong impression of Jesus Gonzales. He's the second best agent in this bureau."
"Second? Who do you consider the best man?"
"The best agent. The best agent isn't a man. It's me."
"Oh," Denny said. He hadn't quite got the grammar, but the idea came through. He said, "What say we go for a drink somewhere, and discuss this whole project further?"
She looked at him and said suspiciously, "I don't suppose you're the amorous kind."
"Only on occasions other than this type," Denny said stiffly. "I'm new to the field, and admittedly a bit nervous."
"All right, let's go. There's a bar in B.12 corridor that makes the best Far Out Coolers in Greater Washington."
Denny let her lead the way for a moment, then caught up. Behind her, he couldn't keep his mind on their assignment, and he didn't want her to get a hold on him, certainly not so soon in the game. Denny Land was susceptible enough to feminine attractions, but the project they were embarked upon didn't allow for dalliance.
At the auto-bar, they found a table easily enough at this time of day, and before Denny could bring his own credit card forth she had slipped hers on the telly-screen, and dialed two Far Out Coolers. She muttered, "I sometimes wonder about this complete elimination of coinage. For even the tiniest of purchase, you use your credit card. Can you imagine the number of telly-screens and computers involved in reading your card and deducting from your account, even, say, the purchase of a single aspirin? Why not have at least minor coins?"
Denny shrugged. The question had never occurred to him. The use of the universal credit card had been with him all his life. He said now, disinterestedly, "It's all done by automation, so the amount of work involved isn't particularly important. Besides, the moment you have actual legal tender, it can be lost, stolen, conned away from you, gambled away from you, and so forth and so on. Each month, my dividends are deposited to my account. Only I can spend them, and on whatever I wish. My rent, my utilities, all those basic expenses are automatically taken out. Zen! It works. Why change it?"
She said impatiently, some of her former brittleness returning, "It seems to be the slogan of our day, why change it? However, to get back to Zero. It might do your long-term morale good to realize that Frank Hodgson isn't as easy-goingly gentle as he just loves to project. When he sends a team out, it's composed of just the elements he thinks needed for the job. He's seldom wrong. Zero is unsurpassed as a bureau operative."
Denny said uncomfortably, "But why pick on me?"
"Hodgson told you. First, your perfect camouflage, second, your proven ability in action. But third, probably most important of all, as an archaeologist dealing with Bazaine's favorite period, you'll probably open gates to get to him."
He looked at her anew, realizing, as though for the first time, how really pretty a girl she was. No, not pretty—beautiful. There's a considerable difference. It came out without his thinking, when he said, "That accounts for Zero and me. How about you?"
Her mouth tightened, but then relaxed and took on an impatient twist. "You might have figured that out for yourself. If I know Frank Hodgson, he decided we needed an extra in, in case your fling pickled."
Denny frowned at her.
She snapped impatiently, "This Auguste Bazaine has two hobbies, archaeology and mopsies."
Denny was embarrassed at her straightforwardness. He said, "Nobody would say you were a mopsy, Miss Yardborough."
She suddenly smiled, it was the first time he had seen her smile, and then laughed, it was the first time he had heard her laugh. "Wait until you see me go into my act," she said, then added, sober again, "If necessary." She looked at her watch. "I've got an appointment before too long."
Dennis Land's first impression of Bette Yardborough had been one of dismay. He disliked aggressive, domineering females, his taste running to the placid type. His life had been such that he had found little time to devote to worrying about his sex life and the usual complications involved. He just didn't want to get embroiled in emotional situations. He liked quiet girls, good-looking but not necessarily startling beauties; get a great beauty on your hands and, sure as Zen, sooner or later complications arose.
But Bette Yardborough fascinated him. She was obviously a top Bureau of Investigation agent which seemed incongruous at her age, and with her physical qualifications.
She said now, "What was all this about you being dismissed from the University because of participation in the games?"
He gave her a brief rundown on the situation. She had heard Hodgson's promise to have him reinstated, so he didn't have to mention that.
She was indignant. "You mean this Lower-Upper curd had you kicked off the faculty for no other reason than that you had been drafted, in spite of yourself, to fight in the games?"
Denny's eyes had widened. In spite of his scholastic and athletic accomplishments, he had led a sheltered life. Never in his days, had he heard a woman who must have been at least a Low-Middle in caste, use profanity. He wondered if he were blushing.
He said, "That's about it."
"The scum!" she railed. "But it's just what you have to expect. A hereditary aristocracy! Have you ever heard in history, of a hereditary aristocracy that was worth a last year's credit card? Sure, sure, the first generation slugs its way to the top. He's an outstanding warrior, or possesses an unusually agile mind. Then the second generation comes along, inheriting the old boy's titles, position and wealth, and he's a second rater, raised by his father, but shaded by him. Then comes the third generation, and he's a molly. By time you get to the fourth generation, you get types with the hemophilia of the Romanoffs, the withered arm of the Kaiser, the chinless wonders of the Hapsburgs; Zen knows what their brains were like."
Denny was bug-eying her. Never in his career had he heard this open an attack on the caste system of the West-world. Not even as an undergraduate, that freest of life's periods.
He cleared his throat and said mildly, "There have been examples of remarkable ability being handed down from one generation to another. For instance, Philip of Macedon, a military genius, and his son, Alexander, an even greater one."
She turned her wrath to him. "Trying to find excuses for the very cloddies who exploit you, eh? Anything to maintain the status quo, eh? Don't rock the boat, something worse might happen to us. So far as Alexander is concerned, I've often wondered. At a time when the Persian Empire was on the verge of collapse, depending on hired Greek mercenaries to defend it, Philip trained the most competent army the world had yet seen, and developed such top general officers as Parmenion, Nearchus and Antipater. Alexander inherited it, and the decadent Persians fell apart before him. But how much did he really have on the ball? And what happened to his children, this third generation of Macedonian aristocrats?"
"They had their throats slit," Denny admitted. He didn't know how they got on this kick.
Evidently, neither had she. But now she said, "I'm afraid I've got an appointment, Dennis. I'll have to go. As I understand it, we meet tomorrow at Zero's place all ready to depart for Barcelona." She arose.
"That's right." He came to his feet, too. "Mind showing me the nearest vacuum-tube pick-up? I'll have to get back to my place, pack and make various arrangements."
"Come along," she said briskly, but pleasantly.
Bette Yardborough, Denny decided, could turn the charm on and off like a faucet. He shuddered, inwardly, at the thought of being married to her, even as he hurriedly followed after.
Bette had turned out of the small auto-bar, into the main Octagon corridor beyond. Out of his sight, for a moment, Denny sped up to catch her. Sped up and caromed off a pedestrian hurrying along on his own business.
"Ooops, sorry, friend," Denny blurted. He caught the other, to steady him, then let go and turned to follow Bette.
"Just a moment, friend," the other rasped.
Denny turned back, in a sweep of the eyes taking in the well-cut material of the other's dress, the air of arrogant indignation. The… Well, what is it that the born aristocrat has which types him wherever and whenever?
Oh, oh.
"Have you no regard for your betters? No respect for the color of my shirt!"
Oh, oh. Thus far Denny had failed to note that. The blue shirt. Symbol of labor. Not only was the other an Upper, but a labor leader as well, the touchiest, most class conscious of them all.
Bette Yardborough had returned. The charm was turned on at full blast, a Niagara of charm. "Oh, sir, it's all my fault. Bette Yardborough, Category Government, Sub-division Bureau of Investigation, Rank Special Agent, Upper-Middle. Professor Land here, the hero of the national games, has been given an assignment with our department. I'm afraid we're in such a rush…"
He was not even partially placated. Denny could tell from the sheen of his eyes that the other had been taking mescal-tranc, even at this hour of the day. It didn't help his disposition, though it should have. Possibly he was tapering off after a long binge.
He was rasping now. "Some examples should be made of you brash young Middles—I assume you're a Middle, you act more like a slum-element Low-Lower—who make some ridiculous pretention to notoriety and seem to think that automatically runs you up several castes. Let me tell you, young man, bluffing your way through the national games does not put you on a basis where you can brush citizens of Upper caste from your path."
Denny wet his lips. "No, sir. It was entirely inadvertent. I…"
"The dignity of labor has been forgotten in this benighted country. Let it be known that I'm David Hoffaman the sixth, Mid-Upper, Category Transportation, Rank Labor Leader, and I demand I be treated with the respect due me!"
"Sir, I…" Denny began.
"Sir, I am sure…" Bette said, smiling her all but cringing self-deprecation.
"No, no, you've made it clear how little respect you have for the institutions of the West-world. Let me have your full name, category and rank. We'll just see how a drop of a caste or so will influence your outlook, young man."
That was all he needed. Reduction in caste to Upper-Lower, or wherever. With that, he could never aspire to a professorship again, not to speak of an appropriation for historical research. However, Denny sighed and said, "Dennis Land, Category Education, Subdivision History, Branch Research, Rank Professor, Mid-Middle Caste."
The other, still in a rage, was noting it down. "Professor indeed. Mid-Middle indeed. A gladiator, I understand. A ruffian, fit only to participate in the games. We'll just investigate these ranks and castes of yours, professor."
Bette said urgently, "But sir, the professor is on a particularly urgent mission for the Bureau…" She was all but fawning on the indignant smaller man.
He said, snapping arrogance, "You're both dismissed!"
They turned and left.
Denny's face was gray. Bette's eyes blazed.
When they had got beyond voice range of the feisty little man, Denny blurted, "A parasite. Of all the useless members of present-day society, it's a labor leader. At long last, labor, as known in the old days, has been eliminated. Scientists and highly trained technicians handle, for all practical purposes, all the human effort needed in industry. Labor has finally got to the point where even the position of labor leader is feather-bedding. Let's face reality, Bette. We've got to the point where not only are the Lowers no longer useful members of society, but neither are the Uppers! We Middles do everything needed to produce the West-world's needs."
She looked at him, her eyes still blazing their resentment of the situation they'd just been subjected to. "Do you really mean that!"
"Of course I mean it!"
"All right, Zen take it. Come along with me. I told you that I had an appointment."
He frowned, some of his ire leaving him. "Come along to where?"
"You'll see."
By routes that only later occurred to him were somewhat devious she led him, eventually, to what would seem to be a neighborhood games room, in what was probably a Low-Middle section of town. Low-Middle, barely above Lower caste. He wondered at her interest or her acquaintance with such a neighborhood. He seemed to recall that she had mentioned she was upper-Middle herself. Just one level below the exalted position of Upper.
Caste in the Welfare State, the West-world, went from bottom to top: Low-Lower, Mid-Lower, Upper-Lower; then, Low-Middle, Mid-Middle, Upper-Middle; and finally, Low-Upper, Mid-Upper, and the very top of the totem pole, Upper-Upper. The Low-Lowers were the dregs of society, the un-needed, unwanted, the criminal elements, to the extent crime existed at all any more, the beaten by life, the misfits.
Roughly, the Uppers consisted of less than one per cent of the population; the Middles of perhaps nine per cent; the Lowers of ninety per cent. No longer did Lower caste mean want so far as the basics of life was concerned. But on the other hand, existence was not exactly affluent. There were those amongst the Uppers and even the Middles who contended that a higher living standard for the Lowers would be meaningless to them. Why give a beer drinker a vintage year Burgundy? He prefers beer. Why give a potatoes-and-meat man, Canard Nantais de Colette? He would much prefer a steak, well done at that.
Be that as it may, Bette Yardborough took him to an area of town that could rate no more than Low-Middle, led him through some labyrinth turns, probably, he decided, to confuse him to the point of not being able to find the place again. They entered a community building, and finally approached a guarded door.
To the man at the door, a somewhat nervous, wizened little type, Denny thought, she said, "Progress!"
"It must be resumed," he told her, saying the words as though he had repeated them a thousand times over. He opened the door.
Bette and Denny entered a room containing some hundred folding chairs, and possibly thirty people occupying them. A speech was going on, and as they found seats, several of the audience hissed them to silence.
The speaker, a man somewhere in his fifties, spoke intimately, sincerely, rather than with ardor.
He was saying, "Consider these statistics, citizens. In my youth, the Uppers consisted of nearly two per cent of the population, approximately four million persons. Today, in spite of population growth, they number considerably less than one per cent, and some two and a half million persons. During that same period, the Middles have grown a bit in percentage, admittedly, but the Lowers are not too far different."
Denny whispered to Bette, "What in Zen is this all about?" He felt a certain trepidation.
"Shush," she said. "You'll see." She herself was leaning forward, her eyes shining, and obviously anxious to follow the other's words.
The speaker was saying, "It's an old, old proverb, fellow citizens. The rich get richer, and the poor get poorer. Speaking percentage-wise, it is still so. The vise is tightening. In the early days of the Welfare State, supposedly anyone, on his own ability, could rise to the ranks of the Uppers. But slowly, slowly, the avenues have been squeezed shut. Until today, do you realize, a new Upper has not come from the ranks of the Middles for three full years! The truth is manifest. The Uppers have frozen the status quo. Their children become Uppers, receive Upper education, Upper privileges, but so far as allowing their despised underlings to ever aspire to their positions of opulence and power, they have closed the gates."
Denny whispered to her, "He can't say that. Category Security will be down on this gathering like a ton of bricks. We'd better get out of here, Bette."
"Oh, don't be a funker, sit still. Allow yourself to hear something new for a change. These Sons of Liberty meetings are held all over the country."
"Sons of Liberty?" he said blankly.
One of their neighbors was angrily hushing them, but Bette said, "Good Zen, Dennis. Have you been so wrapped up in that Ivory Tower of yours that you didn't realize there was an active underground in this country?"
Wide-eyed, now, Denny went back to the speaker. "All our instincts are against change. Change means upset of whatever security we have accumulated. Change means unknown problems to face. Besides our instinctive fears of it, all the means of molding public opinion have been utilized from our very births to disparage change. Our children, hardly before they are out of the cradle, learn slogans such as You mustn't speak against the government, and What was good enough for daddy is good enough for me.
"But there comes a time when the status quo becomes intolerable, when no matter what our instincts, no matter what our deepest training, we are forced to change. Our world, fellow citizens, is in full stagnation. A major percentage of our population, an overwhelming percentage, is either completely unutilized, or working at nothing-jobs, make-work jobs. Whatever happened to our dreams of conquering space? What foundered all the projects of the late Twentieth Century? Well, one thing that foundered them was that such projects threatened the status quo. When you start such major developments, you never know where they might end.
"It is something like the old wars. You started a war, with definite aims in view, but before it terminated, you might end up with anything. Take World War One. The powers launched into the conflict over issues involving foreign trade, sources of raw materials. Germany wanted her place in the sun, equal to France and England, who had launched into colonialism centuries before the Germans got going. But I doubt if any of the powers involved realized that before the war was through, half the crowns of Europe would be rolling in the dust, and nobody to pick them up. Above all, the Russian bear had overthrown the old and was embarked on a new and frightening theory of socio-economics."
Bette whispered to Denny, "Well put."
The speaker went on. "Now, our present regime, our Upper Uppers in control, wants no new startling developments, either political or scientific, which might start a snowball rolling that they could never stop. Thus all is clamped down. All that makes any difference. Fellow citizens, let us face reality. We must organize to overthrow the Welfare State if man is to resume his march of progress. Certainly, his destiny is not to stagnate, fuzzy with trank pills and spending the greater part of his waking hours staring at telly, and particularly the gladiator games and fracases which are the most popular programs by far. No, we must organize. Organize behind the banner of the new Sons of Liberty and…"
And then there was a scuffling outside, three shots, probably from a revolver, and somebody shouted from the door. "You're all under arrest! This meeting is under arrest for subversion. Any resistance will be met with whatever measures are necessary!"
"Holy Zen!" Denny snapped, immediately the man of action. "Let's get out of here. If we're taken in, we'll be bounced down to Low-Lower!"
Miraculously, there was a tiny automatic in Bette Yard-borough's hand. "Get out how?" she muttered, but without a tremor in her voice.
The room was in complete confusion and Category Security men, in uniform and heavily armed, were pouring in from the entry through which Denny and Bette had come, not fifteen minutes before.
"Come on," he snapped, "There must be at least one rear entrance. Some way to get down to the cellar, or up to the roof. Let's go." He led the way, as though a quarter-back going through a broken field, pushing the members of the audience this way and that, as they milled about, indecisive themselves. Bette, as cool as he was, was immediately behind. He had no doubt whatsoever that she was perfectly competent and willing to use the vicious little gun she carried.
There was indeed a rear door. In fact, two of them. There was no reason to spend time debating which one to take. Denny made a snap judgment and pushed through the left one, Bette still behind. He wondered if the speaker, and the members of the committee who had been sitting behind that worthy, had managed to escape. If so, he didn't see which way they had gone. At any rate, he took the door to the left, moving fast. In a moment he had dropped the personality of the member of an audience, listening to a lecturer, and become the lithe, quick reflexed athlete who had won through, by his own abilities, to the final gladiatorial games of the whole nation.
There was a corridor beyond. A long and empty corridor, with another door at the far end.
"Let's go!" he yelled at her over his shoulder.
Just as they reached the far end, they could hear the door behind them open, and a voice yelled, "Halt, or I fire! Category Security commands you."
Bette, cool as sherbert, whirled and flicked two shots into the woodwork, not half a dozen inches above the other's head. That worthy gasped, darted his eyes up at the near miss, made a quick retreat slamming the door behind him.
Bette made a contemptuous moue. "Funker," she muttered.
Denny had the door open. There was another corridor beyond, one lined with a succession of doors. He began to snap, "Let's hurry…"
But another voice interrupted, pleasantly. "All right, you two. You're under arrest for subversion. Drop that gun, sister!"
Bette blurted, "Zero!"
"Holy Jumping Zen," Zero Gonzales yelped. "What are you two doing here?"
Bette had spun and shot a bolt in the door through which they had just passed. Now she snapped, "If we had time for pleasantries, we might ask you the same thing."
He bit right back at her. "I came along with some of the lads to raid a meeting of subversive crackpots."
Denny said, "Well, we're two of the crackpots."
"Oh, great! Come on," Zero snapped. "Let's get out of here. If they nab you, it'd take a month of inter-departmental Sundays to get you cleared."
"Lead on, lead on, and minimize the chatter," Bette told him.
Zero had spun and was speeding down the corridor. "Throw that confounded gun away," he told her. "These Category Security lads are all armed and trigger happy. If one of them spots that peashooter he'll open fire and blow you…"
"Not if I see him first," Bette said grimly. "You just keep leading the way."
Even as they ran, Zero turned his eyes upward in resigna-" tion. "Oh, fins. Hodgson is going to love this. Three of his operatives in a gun fight with Category Security agents on a raid. Oh, great!"
They came to a turn in the corridor, with a door immediately beyond. Zero skidded to a halt, and held up a hand. His voice was a whisper now. "Listen, I can't be seen. I came along on this raid more or less for laughs…"
"Some sense of humor," Bette sniffed.
"… And, of course, the Security lads all know I'm along. Any rate, there are two of them on the other side of this door. Both armed with handguns. Denny, you're going to have to take them alone. They can't be allowed to see me."
Bette proffered the gun.
Zero snapped. "You can't shoot them, for Zen's sake!"
Denny said, "O.K., get ready to open the door for me. And do it quickly."
Bette shot her eyes from one of them to the other. "You said there were two, with guns. What are you trying to do, Zero, you funker, get Dennis killed?"
Denny growled, "When I flick my hand, get that door open quickly, and get yourself out of the way."
Zero had his hand on the knob. "Right."
Bette gnawed on suddenly dry lips. "Boys… listen…"
Denny, in a half crouch, flicked his hand in signal, Zero jerked the door open, standing back and to the side.
Denny dashed through, screaming, "Sut!" in a Kiai yell. Bette watched wide-eyed, as he bounced to a halt before the two startled Category Security agents who stood there, talking. One carried a gun, holding it negligently in his right hand, the other's was holstered at his side. Her original idea had been to bring up the rear, ready, if necessary to bring her own weapon into the fray. It took only split seconds to realize that Dennis Land was not going to need her backing.
He had dropped into the Kokutsu-dachi, layout position, his left foot forward, toes pointing straight forward and knees slightly bent. Even as the gun-bearing agent began to bring it up, he blurred into action, screaming, "Sut!" again. His left hand chopped out to the inner wrist of the other's gun hand, thrust it to the side; his right foot lashed out to the agent's groin; simultaneously, his right hand, pointed spearlike, thrust forward to the other's larynx. The Security operative dropped as though dead.
Before he had touched the floor, Denny had whirled and gone into the Zenkutsu-dachi, lunge position, before the second agent. The man was no coward, no matter how bewildered by the developments of the last two seconds; it had taken no longer than that for his companion to be disposed of. He knew better than to try for his weapon. This bouncing, screaming madman before him was not going to give him time to whip out his gun.
The Security man threw a quick right punch, which should have connected and didn't. Denny yelled, "Sut!" and chopped against the fist with his left hand. Simultaneously, as he blocked to the left with his fist Okinawa style, thumb side pointed forward, he hit the other on the left ear temple, as he threw his body weight to the left. He brought his right knee up hard into the other's groin, brought his right hand up, knuckles up, under the other's chin. The agent was already collapsing, but Dennis reversed the fist, knuckles down, and slugged him across the left clavical. It hadn't taken five seconds in all.
Denny turned to them quickly. "Let's get away from here," he rapped. "The first one will be out for about ten minutes. The second for possibly fifteen."
Bette was staring from him to the two fallen men, and then back again. She said, "What did you do?"
Zero began to laugh, even as he led the way. He had remained hidden behind the door, until the two guards had been eliminated. He said to Bette, "You'll have to read through Denny's dossier some time. He holds one of the three Black Belts currently in the West-world."
"Black Belt?" Bette said blankly.
"A Karate award," Zero told her, taking her arm to hurry her along.
Denny said, an element of apology in his voice, "It's been sort of a hobby ever since I was in my teens."
"Some professor," Bette snorted. "What do you teach, mayhem?"
"I teach history," he said, feeling defensive. She was still staring at him strangely, as Zero hustled them along. "What was all the screaming about?"
"That's the Kiai yell. It's, well, partly psychological, to startle, even scare, your opponent…"
"Well, it scared me, and I was on your side."
"… And it's partly, well, part of the Karate exercise. It enables you to utilize your full strength."
"Some professor," she muttered again. They had come to a door leading out on the street. Zero opened it, looked up and down. "By pure luck, I parked my hovercar oh a side-street, away from the others," he growled. "Come on, let's go. Look nonchalant. Holy Zen, Bette, ditch that gun before we go out on the street."
Bette's small automatic went back into her purse. She composed her face, lit until now with excitement, and they stepped out into the glare of day.
Denny was still breathing deeply from his encounter with the two Category Security agents, but Zero maintained a running banter as they walked along the street. If any fellow pedestrians turned to look at them, it was for the sake of Bette's inordinary good looks, rather than because the trio appeared out of place.
At the car, the three crowded into the front seat. Zero started up, dropped the lift lever, pressed acceleration, and they were off. As soon as they were immediately away from the scene of the raid, he began muttering angrily to himself.
"All right, all right," Bette snapped back at him. "If you have something to say, say it."
He snarled, "Tomorrow we take off for Common Europe on a top-priority mission. And what do you two do? You get get yourself into a gang of impractical malcontents who are on the subversive list, and almost get caught."
Bette said tightly, "Members of all revolutionary organizations are considered impractical malcontents, until they've put over their revolution, then of a sudden, they're heroic patriots, fathers of their country and what not."
Zero shot a disgusted look at her. "I knew you'd been flirting around with these two by four do-gooder outfits, but I didn't think you were serious. And what the devil were you doing there, Denny? I didn't know you were interested in politics, especially subversive politics."
"I went along for the ride," Denny told him mildly.
The dark complected agent grunted his irritation. "I'm going to drop you off. We're due to leave in the morning. Think you can stay out of jail until then?"
"Yes, daddy," Bette said nastily.
Yuri Malyshev, dressed foppishly as a high echelon Party member, arrived in Madrid at the rocketport near Misasierra on the northern outskirts of the Iberian capital, and put on an act of all but feminine impatience at customs examinations. Common Europe's customs inspections of arrivals from the Sov-world were on the thorough side. Not only was every article of his baggage inspected by eye and hand, but they were then subject to X-ray scanning mechanically. The hidden compartment, the secret pocket or chamber, was a thing of the far past.
For that matter, he thought contemptuously, did they for a moment dream that a real agent, an experienced operative, would be carrying anything incriminating?
Finally cleared, Malyshev hired a chauffeur-driven hover-cab to take him to his destination. It was his first visit to Madrid, and he was mildly surprised at the lack of transport automation. It was evidently true, then, that The Gaulle's economists deliberately made work to keep the potential unemployed busy. The basic theory, as he had heard it, was that a busy member of the lower class was less apt to be prone to trouble. He shrugged. Perhaps they were right, the Lowers of the West-world, and the overwhelming majority of the Proletarians in his own Sov-world, had largely been automated into complete idleness and were a potential volcano.
Maintaining his air of foppish disinterest, he gave directions, then watched idly as they entered town. They drove down the broad Avenida del Generalisimo Franco, named, he vaguely recalled, after an adventurer, who had seized power during the confused early Twentieth Century before Common Europe had amalgamated. This avenue blended into Paseo de La Castellana and after about a mile they went through a plaza with a statue that could only be recognized as that of Christopher Colon. Several blocks further and the next plaza—it seemed to be a city of great plazas—contained a huge statue which brought a scowl of attempted memory to his face. He asked the driver, who told him it was the ancient goddess Cibele, or Cybele. They proceeded down Paseo del Prado, and pulled up before the imposing Embassy of the Sov-world. Ordering the driver to wait, Yuri Malyshev disappeared through the portals.
He was not unexpected. A young military attache, a lieutenant, and a Pole, by the looks of him, Yuri decided, took him immediately in hand and to a suite of ornate offices. They arrived, eventually, at a paper strewn desk behind which sat a beleagured looking, heavy-set man, who had torn open his collar as a concession to Spain's summer weather.
Once through the Embassy portals, Yuri Malyshev had dropped his foppish air. Now, though in mufti, he half came to attention.
The official behind the desk said, "That will be all, Lieutenant Sobieski. See that I am undisturbed until further notice."
The lieutenant clicked heels and said, "Yes, Comrade Colonel." He about-faced and was gone.
Yuri said, "Yuri Malyshev, on assignment from… from Commissar Kodaly in Budapest."
The other grunted acidly. "Zoltan Korda, you mean, don't you?"
Yuri Malyshev said nothing to that. Far earlier in his career, he had learned the pricelessness of silence on delicate ground.
The other came to his feet and extended a hand. "I'm Colonel Valentin Dumitrescu. We'll be working together, on this Auguste Bazaine matter."
Malyshev shook his head warily. "I understood Comrade Matyas Petofe was head of the Komissiya, here in Madrid, colonel. If you'll pardon my saying so, my current assignment is such that I must deal with the highest echelons."
Dumitrescu had waved him to a chair, and settled back into his own. "Are you a Party member, colonel?"
Yuri Malyshev said stiffly, "No."
"Neither am I, colonel. Matayas Petofe, of course, is, this post being such an important one. However"—the Rumanian cleared his throat—"his excellency is so taken up in making, um-m-m, higher decisions, working on over-all policy, that sort of thing, that a great deal of the more mundane matters fall upon my shoulders."
"I see," Malyshev said.
"Yes, indeed," Dumitrescu sighed. "You'd be surprised at the considerable detail work we have here, Colonel Malyshev. By the way, I've heard quite a bit about your activities in the East. Your reputation as a good man in the dill, as the West-world calls it, precedes you."
Yuri nodded his appreciation of the flattery.
The Rumanian sighed again. "Holding down a desk job such as this, can be wearisome, colonel. Particularly here in Spain, the least progressive of all Common Europe. The Spanish are incredibly naive, politically. Why, do you realize that at a reception the other evening I stood in on a discussion in which several of the local politicians, members of The Gaulle's party, expressed the opinion that Trotsky lives on in Mexico."
Yuri Malyshev looked at him a long moment before saying quietly, "And will never die."
The other's eyebrows went up. "So. You are one of us."
It needed no answer.
Dumitrescu said, "It had been a long time since my last visit home. How is the movement progressing?"
Yuri shook his head, traced a finger down his facial scar. "Slowly, Comrade. Slowly. But progress it does. Our greatest strength is the growing weakness of the enemy. Not a month past but I was shown some statistics on the Party and its decline. Do you realize that Party membership is now less than half what it was twenty years ago? This very policy of theirs, allowing only the children of members to become members, is destroying them. Their women are even going through a fad in which they avoid childbirth."
Dumitrescu nodded. "I've heard about that. It's been going on for years. However, we can't wait for them to breed, or rather to fail to breed, themselves out of existence." He suddenly slapped a palm down on the paper laden desk before him. "They ultimately have to be shot out, Comrade Malyshev. They've become parasites on society beyond what the Romanoffs ever were."
Yuri Malyshev twisted his mouth. "I've often wondered where the world would be today, had history taken a different path in 1917. Suppose that Kerensky had never been overthrown by the Bolsheviks and his group had formed a government similar to those prevailing in the West at that time."
The Rumanian grunted acidly. "Or suppose the assassin's bullet had never cut Lenin down, so that the mad-dog Stalin was able to take over his position. What then? Or suppose Stalin had failed in his efforts to destroy the Old Bolsheviks, including your grandfather Vladimir Malyshev. Would they have directed the country in other fashion?"
"I suppose what you are suggesting, is correct. There is no turning back, in history. We must deal with what the past hands down to us and go on from here. The fact that such as Stalin and Khrushchev were guilty of killing those under them by literally millions, from the lowliest of peasants to the actual founders of the Bolshevik organization, the comrades in arms who accomplished the original revolution, is beside the point. Lenin is gone now, Trotsky is gone: But so are Stalin, Beria, Khrushchev and so many of the rest. What we have to do is press on, taking advantage of what they did accomplish. Finish off the Party as it is now, and return to the original principles of the Old Bolsheviks."
The Rumanian rose suddenly from his chair and approached a sideboard. He said over his shoulder, "I do not want to give the impression that I operate like a sot of a Party member, drinking in mid-morning, however, it's been a time since I've met a fellow member of the Sov-world underground. I recently acquired a bottle of stone age Tuica from Transylvania, and insist you try a glass with me."
Yuri came to his feet. "Gladly."
The other poured out two small shot-glasses.
Yuri held his toward the Rumanian. "Trotsky lives!"
"And shall never die! Down with the Party!" They knocked the fiery Rumanian liqueur back over their palates.
Resuming his seat, the Russian agent said thoughtfully, "That brings something to mind. When I was in Zoltan Korda's office in Budapest, he asked me if I had ever heard our secret passwords. I told him no, of course. But it worries me that he knows of them."
"No underground organization can remain completely undetected. They know we exist. As a matter of fact, I am surprised that, to my knowledge, thus far none of us have been arrested."
Yuri grunted contempt. "The Party grows inefficient, lazy, and sodden with their drink and this new escapism they've acquired from the West-world."
"New escapism?"
"It's a chemical euphoria agent, based on mescaline, I believe. At least they call it mescaltranc in the West-world. The ingredients are evidently quite difficult to come by, so that it's expensive and only Party members can afford its use. It's become quite the fad."
"Everything is fad among the parasites these days. Everything but work. However, although the Party itself has grown lax, don't underestimate such as Zoltan Korda. He is neither lazy, nor incapable."
Yuri growled, "He's not a party member, either. I wish he could be recruited to our cause."
"All in good time. Perhaps he will be, one day. Meanwhile, Comrade—I use the term in the old sense, of course, not as though we were Party members—meanwhile, we must get to the matter of Auguste Bazaine, and the immediate threat he poses to the safety of the whole world."
Yuri leaned back in his chair. "Yes. Korda told me you might be in possession of some more recent details of the situation. Frankly, it astonishes me. Is The Gaulle's power so feeble that an individual scientist can defy him?"
The Rumanian scowled unhappily. "It would seem, if my information is correct, that there is conflict between The Gaulle's closest advisers. He is not, of course, an absolute dictator, in the old sense of the word. Though Common Europe is united, it is still composed of a variety of elements, and there is considerable interplay of interests. Those elements in what was once Germany, often have reason to conflict politically and economically with those of, say, Spain, Italy, or Sweden. And, of course, there are the old traditions. When The Gaulle recently officiated at the unveiling of the colossal statue to Hermann Goering and the Luftwaffe, there was considerable ill feeling in that area once known as the Netherlands, and particularly Rotterdam which was leveled in the Second War."
"I realize that there are inner conflicts in Common Europe," Yuri said impatiently.
"Well, this conflict seems to be more important, from our viewpoint, than most of them. It would seem that our Auguste Bazaine actually wishes to build these anti-anti-missile missiles of his."
The Russian suddenly stiffened. "Build them! Build weapons not in use before 1900. Insane! It's against the Universal Disarmament Pact. The International Disarmament Commission wouldn't stand for it, not to speak of the World Court."
The other was nodding. "Yes, yes, I know. It would seem that the blueprints of the device alone would be sufficient for The Gaulle's needs. That actually flying in the face of the whole world by building the things would be unnecessary. At any rate, that is the split that has taken place. One faction wishes to back Bazaine, and go into production; the other wishes to abide by the Universal Disarmament Pact to the extent of keeping the plans of the device as a sword over the heads of both the Sov-world and the West-world, but going no further."
"They're mad!" Malyshev blurted. "This Bazaine, is mad."
The other shrugged. "That will be for you to discover. He is evidently sulking in Torremolinos, refusing to reveal his gadget, or whatever it is, until his demands are met. In the way of useful information, our August Bazaine does not seem adverse to relaxation, being known to have an eye both for a good vintage, and a well filled bikini."
Malyshev chopped out a short laugh. "They should have sent someone better equipped than I, in that case."
The Rumanian grunted, not being long on humor. "Well, let us get down to details."
They stayed not even one day in Barcelona, that industrial center of Spain, if Spain could be said to have an industrial center. From rocketport, they made their way immediately to the port area and the Paseo de Colon. If Frank Hodgson's scheme was going to work at all, they had to get down to Torremolinos as soon as possible, which wasn't nearly as soon as it should have been.
Their basic problem was to get to Auguste Bazaine at all. It was to be assumed that the man was no fool. Even if he were, The Gaulle's counterespionage was not to be minimized. Common Europe would have no intention of allowing a man as important as Auguste Bazaine to be approached by West-world agents.
They had, then, to utilize some of their precious time building up their protective covering. They had convincingly to be Professor Dennis, a noted Etruscanologist, and his party, on research into the question of early Etruscan penetration of the Iberian peninsula. They were going to have to devote a few days to buttressing that supposed truth. Otherwise, they could have moved immediately on Torremolinos. As it was, they could only pray that The Gaulle and Bazaine didn't make their peace before they got there.
The yacht wasn't conspicuously large, being crewed by three persons. Each of these, Denny, Zero and Bette understood, were fellow agents of Frank Hodgson and the Bureau of Investigation of the West-world. They were also, however, completely in character. Supposedly, they were citizens of Common Europe, employed on a charter boat. Two of them spoke, or pretended to speak, English only very brokenly, and throughout the period Professor Land and his two assistants were aboard La Carmencita, never broke character to the point of speaking on any subject other than the working of the yacht.
For that matter, the small craft's skipper, a Miguel Bien-venida, was almost as taciturn. When the three of them came down the narrow gangplank of La Carmencita, he went through the obvious greetings and identification, supervised the coming aboard of their luggage, and when the porters were gone, led them into the salon.
Captain Bienvenida was very brief. He offered them a Fun-dador, then made his little speech. "My instructions are to captain this yacht. We are to sail along the coast to Torremolinos, making a stop or two along the way. I have no instructions beyond these other than that in emergency I, and my men, are to co-operate, taking your orders, whatever they may be. I am told the operation is of Priority One. I suggest you tell me no more of the operation than is necessary, making it impossible for me to betray you."
Denny began to say something, but Zero anticipated him. He said, merely, "Very sensible, captain. I understand you have some equipment for us."
"I have a suitcase to turn over to you. I have no idea what it contains." He grimaced amusement. "Perhaps books."
He was a small man, typically Catalonian, typically a sailor, his eyes narrowed from long squinting into the glare of the Mediterranean, that brightest of seas, his skin like mahogany from long exposure. He would do, and more than do, obviously. Denny wondered how the other had come into the service of Frank Hodgson, then shrugged it away. He doubted if he would ever learn.
The yacht was supposedly a sailing craft but had inordinary auxiliary engines, evidently. They left the dock and departed the harbor of Barcelona at a neat clip.
Zero Gonzales repaired to the depths of the vessel to check the contents of the suitcase Bienvenida had been entrusted with, but Dennis Land and Bette Yardborough stood at the rail, and looked out on the city disappearing behind and the heights of Montjuich and the Castle, de Montjuich which crowned them.
"Holy Zen! But that's beautiful," Bette murmured.
Denny was looking at her from the side of his eyes, thinking, so are you, girl, but he said mildly, "Zen is the, ah, science of meditation or deep concentration, not an individual. It originated in India as the Dhyana school founded by legendary Boddhidarma. Why do people use the word as though Zen was a god or a prophet or something?"
She laughed at him. "Ever the professor of history, eh? Haven't you ever noticed, Dennis, that its priests and strongest adherents to the contrary, a religion invariably evolves, continually changes? Take the Buddah. Siddhartha Gautama actually once lived and taught a not overly complicated philosophy; but after a few centuries his followers had made a god of Gautama, which undoubtedly would have horrified him. Or take Joshua of Nazareth who taught meekness and the brotherhood of man to the poor on the seashores and in the hills. Look what his image changed to in a few centuries."
"Now who's being the professor of history?"
She looked at him quizzically. "You're a queer one, Dennis Land. Are you really a professor?"
He shrugged. "Why not?"
"Now, looking at you, listening to you, I could believe it. You're mild, quiet. Perhaps even gentle is the word. It just doesn't jibe with being a survivor of the national games, nor with holding a… what did Zero call it… a Karate Black Belt."
Denny looked back to the receding shoreline. He said bitterly, "I'm afraid I chose my hobbies poorly. If I had my way, right this moment I'd be back at the University, up to my ears in books and scrolls."
She said nothing, continued to look at him questioningly.
He said, "I made the mistake of deciding that most historians did a poor job of describing ancient warfare, ancient weapons, gladiatorial combat and such, because it was a field in which they knew nothing. So I spent my hours of recreation learning of the world of violence first hand."
Bette said softly, "Between your accomplishments as a scholar, and a… a man of violence, I would assume you have had little time for women, Dennis Land."
Was she joshing him? Denny shot a quick scowl at her. He growled, "I'm no eunuch."
She laughed again, even as she turned away to go below. "After seeing you dispatch those two trained Security lads, I'm sure you're not, Dennis."
He looked after her for a scowling moment, then repaired to the yacht's small bridge, where Captain Bienvenida was at the wheel. The other looked up and said, "There's a copy of El Pueblo on the chart table. It's the largest of the Madrid papers. Has an article about your expedition on the second page."
Denny looked at it. "I don't read Spanish. What does it say?"
"That you're looking for evidence the Etruscans spotted trading stations along here, before the Phoenicians. The Spanish archeologists are quite indignant."
"So am I," Denny sniffed. "What chance is there this will be seen in Torremolinos?"
"The paper's nationally distributed. What's our first stop?"
Denny looked at the chart. "Tarragona. I'll want to take a quick look at the ancient walls there, especially the megalithic ones. There's some argument that they're pre-Roman Iberian, if so, there's a remote chance that they go back to even before Phoenician times. I'll need some data with which to argue, when we reach Torremolinos."
They stopped briefly at Tarragona, and again at Cartagena where there were even fewer remains of antiquity. Had the expedition been a serious one, Denny would have been in despair. On the third day, they pulled into Malaga.
Making contact with Auguste Bazaine proved easier than Dennis Land, or his two companions had ever expected. Denny began to suspect that the bureau dominated by Frank Hodgson was considerably more efficient than he had thought. Word had somehow gone on ahead of them that the Etruscan-ologist Professor Land, on what his colleagues would contend was on a wild-goose-chase so far as archeology was concerned, was also the fabulous Denny Land, one of the eight survivors of the West-world national games. Ranking matadors, usually the idols of the expatriate capital, of a sudden took a back seat. La Carmencita was met at the dock with invitations for Professor Land and his party to half a dozen cocktail parties, dinner parties, and just plain brawls.
Denny, frowning unhappily, took the sheaf of them down to the small lounge and tossed them to Bette. "We seem to be invited everywhere except to Auguste Bazaine's," he said. "I suppose that would be asking too much. I don't recognize the names of any of these people at all. Do you?"
Even as she glanced through the invitations, Zero came in from the bridge. "Just picked up a scrambler message from the chief," he said. "Do you have an invite from a Bill Daly, there?"
"William Daly," Bette said. "Supposedly a cocktail party, but it doesn't even start until seven."
"The chief says to accept it. You two will have to attend."
"How about you?" Denny said. "You're more up on this sinister slinking stuff than I am. You ought to be there. What's our program anyway? What good does it do to go to this party?"
"Hold it, hold it," Zero told him. "How would I know? You play it by ear. I suspect that this Bill Daly is Hodgson's man in Torremolinos. He's almost sure to have an agent centered here, half the big-shots of Common Europe, and quite a few of the Sov-world, either retire here or come down periodically to throw their wing-dings. Did you ever hear the term, sin-city?"
"No," Denny said.
"Nevertheless, and you can take my word for it, this is it. No holds barred. Anything from absinthe to hashish."
Bette said, "I'd still think you ought to attend too, Zero. As Dennis says, he's a tyro."
Zero chuckled. "Not until we find whether Yuri Malyshev is around. He'd spot me. Until we know what the Sov-world agents are up to, I'd better do my snooping around at night, and on the sly."
"How do we recognize this Yuri cloddy when we see him?" Denny said.
Zero grunted. "He has a faint scar down the side of his cheek, all the way from his temple to the point of his chin. I ought to know, I gave it to him. However, don't underestimate Yuri Malyshev. He's no cloddy. He's deceptively easy-going, even gives with an air of being slow moving. Just remember, he's possibly the most dangerous agent Korda has at his command."
"Who the devil's Korda?"
"Zoltan Korda, the actual head of the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya."
"I thought Ferencz Kodaly held that commissariat," Bette said.
"He's only the front man. The Party member who holds the title. Korda does the work. He's a good man—speaking of an enemy, of course."
"I give up," Denny said. "It'd take years for me to get into this line of… endeavor… to the point where I knew what was going on. Very well, Bette and I will attend this cocktail party."
Torremolinos lies eight miles to the south of Malaga, on the road to Gibraltar. Malaga, once Phoenician, once Carthaginian, once Roman, once Visigoth, once Moorish, was the largest city on the Costa del Sol. Torremolinos, its resort neighbor, was the most notorious. Since the 1940s when the town first emerged as an artist-writer's colony, it had grown, boomed, and over and over again. Still, as in the middle of the Twentieth Century, its climate was the best in Europe, its scenic charm superlative, its prices, based on depressed Spanish costs of labor, low by any resort standards.
There seemed to be something in the very atmosphere that attracted the off-beat, the hedonist, the expatriate, the misfit, the seeker of illicit joys, the alcoholic, the sexually unadjusted.
And to Torremolinos swarmed the well heeled barons of steel from the Ruhr, sheiks of oil from the Neut-world, high ranking Party members from the Sov-world, expatriates from the West-world, wealthy refugees from all points on the globe, bearers of long forgotten European titles, and, of course, their hangers-on. It was Saturnalia, on a year round basis, Bacchanalia every day of every week.
Bette and Denny took a hovercab from Malaga to the resort town, Denny noting again the use of such common labor as porters on the dock and an actual human driver. Common Europe, or at least this section of it, had far to go to achieve to the degree of emancipation from drudgery that had the West-world. He wondered if it was deliberate policy on the part of The Gaulle and his authoritarian government, and decided it must be. Which set him to wondering whether the same policy might not be superior in his own country, working on the assumption that anything was preferable to having the overwhelming majority of your citizenry spending their time bug-eying sadistic telly shows and sucking on trank pills to achieve happiness.
Bette pointed out a large nightspot they were passing. "New Pogo's?" she said wryly to the driver. "Where's Old Pogo's?"
He seemed to find nothing amusing in the name. "There was an original Pogo's, way back. Before the Second Civil War and the entry of Spain into Common Europe. You wanted to go to Big Bill Daly's place? It's up here."
Denny said, "You seem to know him. We've never met. What is Big Bill Daly like?"
"The town's oldest resident," the driver said, as though that explained everything.
They pulled up before a monstrous villa, constructed in the old style, the old Andulusian style with its elements of the Moorish. The party, evidently, was already going on.
Denny took his international credit card and pressed it to the telly-screen of the cab's meter, and held the door open for Bette. Bette, in her role as his secretary, had seen fit to minimize nature's gifts, being garbed rather mousily. Which all but disguised her inordinary looks… but not quite.
Denny said dryly, from the side of his mouth, as they mounted the wide steps to a huge terrace where the party was in progress, "I thought you were the second weapon in our arsenal. You know, the mopsy fling you were giving me. Do you really think you're going to lure Bazaine in that getup?"
Bette bit back at him, "We'll use the second weapon after the first has failed, you cloddy."
Their host awaited them at the top of the stairs. He was a huge man, now perhaps in his seventies, but straight and obviously firm. He had a bull of a voice, an overpowering mannerism, in his hail-fellow-well-met joviality.
He either knew, or guessed, Denny's identity, roaring out, even as he pumped the newcomer's hand, "The fighting professor! Dennis Land, the only gladiator in the history of the arena educated beyond the third grade." He threw back his head and roared amusement at his own feeble joke.
Denny said, awkwardly, "May I present my secretary, Miss Yardborough?"
Big Bill Daly shook, took her in closely, obviously saw through her demure clothing, and brought his voice down to a shout, though still bearing his air of amusement, "Always the same. It'll never end. Man's system of picking a secretary."
A robot-bar of a model farther advanced than Denny had ever witnessed rolled toward them, and their host pressed drinks into their hands. For a moment, there were no guests in their vicinity, and Daly said softly, one would never have believed he could speak softly, "Sangria, very weak. You can safely drink it. Bazaine's here. So is Andre Condrieu. I sucked Bazaine in because you were coming, and he wants to argue with you, but I couldn't keep Condrieu away. He undoubtedly has a couple of agents around, too."
"Who's Condrieu?" Denny said lowly.
Daly shot a quick, suspicious look at him. "The chief said…"
Bette whispered sharply, "The Gaulle's right hand man, some say the power, certainly the brains, behind the throne."
Daly added, "Tough as nails. Bad."
Denny pretended to take a sip of the sangria, and nodded approvingly. "Is Yuri Malyshev here?"
"Never heard of him. Oh, yes I have. Sov-world counterespionage laddy. I wouldn't know him. There are some Party members present. They're always as welcome to these pseudo-Bohemian binges as anyone else. It would have been conspicuous if I hadn't invited the usuals."
"Malyshev wouldn't be a usual."
"Some brought guests."
Bette said, "He's supposed to have a scar on his face."
"I haven't spotted him."
Daly wheeled and his voice boomed again, as a newcomer approached them. The other bore a champagne glass, half empty, and though the evening was young, a lilt in his walk. "Augie!" Daly saluted him. "Here he is. Tear into him. The famed Professor Land." He turned to Denny and Bette. "You two'll have to excuse me. I'll leave you in the capable hands of Dr. Auguste Bazaine, down from Brussels. Augie's a scientist, or something, aren't you, Augie? But all right once he's got a few absinthe frappes in him."
Bazaine, evidently enough of an exhibitionist to wear old-fashioned spectacles in the way of affectation, glared at Denny. "I came to this confounded soiree, sir, simply to take a good look at you."
Denny blinked at him. "I'm flattered. But…"
"You shouldn't be! Confounded nonsense, Etruscans preceding the Phoenicians to Spain. Nonsense." He turned his eyes to Bette, ran them up and down. "Ah, my dear."
Big Bill Daly, playing his role of half drenched host, had turned away and was booming at some fresh comers. Denny said, "Uh, Dr. Bazaine, was it? May I present my secretary, Miss Yardborough?"
The Belgian seemed to hold her hand, rather than shake it, nor did he seem to have much intention of giving it up. However, he continued to glare his indignation at Denny.
"I agree with you," Denny nodded. "Nonsense."
Bazaine seemed taken aback. "But the article in El Pueblo."
A newcomer, equipped as all the rest with a glass in right hand, had come up, impassive of face and was quietly listening in on their conversation. Vaguely, Denny recalled the face from somewhere, and decided it must have been on telly—some telly newscast.
Denny said to the feisty Belgian scientist, "As usual with newspaper accounts, their facts were inaccurate. Are you interested in the early trading stations the more easternly civilizations planted here in Spain?"
Auguste Bazaine seemed to think that Professor Land should have recognized his name. He sputtered, "I have done several papers on the subject, sir."
Denny snapped his fingers as though in memory. "Auguste Bazaine, University of Liege. I recall your study on the Carthaginians in Tingis; Tangier as it is called now. Intriguing,
Dr. Bazaine." Denny turned to the newcomer. "You are also interested in Mediterranean anthropology, sir?"
The impassive one took a sip of his drink and said with a heavy French accent, but with no amusement to back his words, "I am interested in anything Monsieur Bazaine is, Professor Land."
Bazaine snapped, "Professor Land, Monsieur Andre Con-drieu. Miss Yardborough, Monsieur Condrieu. Zut! Condrieu, cannot you leave me for a moment? I begin to feel wedded to you!"
"Professor Land's purpose in Southern Spain fascinates me, Dr. Bazaine. Everyone I meet seems to think his expedition nonsense."
Denny pretended to testiness. "It's the confounded news reports. I'll be the laughingstock of my colleagues."
The French Security chief looked at him questioningly.
Denny said, "Obviously, the Etruscans"—he turned to Bazaine—"I am dealing, of course with the city of Volterra, and her port of Populonia, right across from Elba and its iron mines."
The Belgian nodded grumpily. "Their outstanding maritime city-state, of course."
Denny looked back at Condrieu, already obviously out of his depth and hence irritated. "Obviously the Etruscans did not precede the Phoenicians, nor even the Greeks, to Spain. In fact, there is considerable cause to suspect that the Etruscan culture itself came from Phoenician, and certainly Greek, backgrounds. I contend…"
Bette said suddenly, definitely, to Andre Condrieu, "Zen! This is all I hear, day and night. I thought we were coming to a party. Monsieur, could I entice you to acquire some champagne for me, and then to show me about this charming house a bit?" She put her hand on his arm.
"Zut! Yes," Bazaine snapped. "Leave me to my pleasures for a moment, Condrieu!"
Denny went on, as though ignoring this byplay, merely saying to Bette, "Very well, my dear, I am sure you are in good hands." Then, ignoring her and her frowning drafted escort, to Bazaine, "I contend that the Etruscans formed several—at least three trading posts along the Iberian coast, and possibly right here in the vicinity of Malaga, contemporaneously with the Greek and Carthaginian settlements."
"At what date?" Bazaine rapped.
I would say approximately 540 B.C. At the same time the Phocaean Greeks were colonizing what is now Marseille."
"Hm-m-m," Bazaine murmured, scowling his doubt.
Bette and her hesitant French escort had gone off, and for a time Denny and the man whose discoveries were threatening the peace of the world, stood alone. The American's mind was racing. This was going impossibly well, but he wasn't sure what to do with the situation. They were at a party, a drunken party at that. Already, others among the guests were standing about, drinks in hand telling off-color stories in voices too high; still others, gathered around a piano, were bawling out songs of yesteryear. It was an ideal condition under which to talk with the Belgian scientist, but what now?
Bazaine was saying, not so dogmatically now, "But, I assume you have some evidence beyond mere speculation. Certainly it is possible that Etruscan trading ships…"
Denny slipped his hand into a side pocket to emerge with an inch high bronze, highly patinaed but obviously of a warrior of antiquity. He handed it to the other, who was staring.
Bazaine put down his drink on the stone ledge next to them, the better to examine the artifact.
"Where did you acquire it?" the Belgian hissed.
"From a peasant in a small town near Tarragona. Salou, to be exact," Dennis lied. The little statue was from his own tiny museum.
"It's a fake!"
Denny shrugged, as though unhappy about the authenticity of the tiny bronze himself. "If so, a fake Etruscan piece. And while I might entertain the possibility that a peasant of Tarragona might fake some Roman, Greek or even Carthaginian art object, to sell to tourists, I would not expect him to have access to Etruscan objects to copy."
The Belgian was suddenly decisive. "A microscope would soon delve into whether or not your peasant was taking advantage of your gullibility."
"Admittedly. And as soon as I have returned to my University I will…"
"I have a microscope right here in Torremolinos." Bazaine rapped.
Denny's heart was racing now, but his exterior was calm. "Well…" he dragged out "The party tonight, of course. Perhaps tomorrow."
Bazaine snapped impatiently. "Tomorrow I return to Paris with Monsieur Condrieu. I suggest we repair to my villa and my study and dig into this matter right now. I fear you have been, ah, taken you Americans call it."
"I trust not," Denny said stiffly.
"Very well, then come along." Bazaine glanced around in all directions. "We'll have to get out through the kitchens. Condrieu's confounded agents won't let me go to the salle de bain without escort."
Denny followed him. This was, he kept telling himself, going unbelievably well. The first night in Torremolinos and here he was alone with the spicy Belgian. He had no doubt whatsoever that if he could get Bazaine off to himself, he could either talk the other into coming out to the yacht, perhaps on the pretense of showing him still other supposed Etruscan antiquities, or, if not, he could abduct the controversial scientist. With Bazaine physically in their hands, the expedition Hodgson had sent them on was a success.
As Denny followed him down a back staircase, Auguste Bazaine said over his shoulder, "I have a small hovercar. We can take that."
Denny rubbed a nervous hand across his mouth. He wondered where Bette was, and how she would take his disappearance. Well, she was a trained Bureau of Investigation agent and obviously capable of taking care of herself. If he could get the Belgian back to the yacht, Zero and he could worry about Bette later.
They emerged into a parking lot immediately behind the Daly villa. Bazaine was saying something which Denny didn't hear. What he did hear was the quick step behind him, but even as he whirled he felt the blow and knew its nature. He had taken a Judo chop to the top of his spinal column, upon whether or not his assailant had pulled the blow depended whether it was fatal.
All turned black.
When the darkness washed away, Dennis Land found himself staring up into the face of a stranger. A hard positive face, a heavy scar across one eyebrow, one ear strangely twisted, as though possibly partially shot away long years before. It was the face of a man of perhaps fifty-five, but one in top physical fitness.
There was a buzzing in Denny's head that he didn't like, and his eyes seemed blurred.
A voice said, "You're awake, eh? Good. Zero!"
So, Zero was here. At least he evidently wasn't in the hands of the enemy. He wondered where he was. Not on La Car-mencita, this was no ship's bunk he was sprawled upon.
The stranger's face disappeared to be replaced by that of Zero Gonzales. Zero scowled down at him, but there was also relief in his expression. "I won't ask you how you feel," he said. "You look like curd, so I imagine you feel the same. I'll make this brief. Bette saw you going down a back stairway with Bazaine. She followed. When she came out below, she found you on the ground, out like the proverbial light. She and Big Bill Daly managed to get you into a cab, pretending you were drenched. Where's Bazaine, Denny?"
Denny shook his head, feeling highly irritated. His vision was clearing, but his head still rang. "I don't know. How long have I been out?"
"Almost twenty-four hours. We couldn't risk getting a doctor. You sure you have no idea whatsoever about where Bazaine is?"
The stranger's face entered into his scope of vision again. "Any clue at all. Any indication of who got him? This is important, Land."
"I… don't know what you're talking about. Who're you?"
Zero said, "Denny, this is Joseph Mauser. One of Frank Hodgson's closest men. There've been some new developments. Frank sent Joe out with new instructions, but this tears it."
"What tears it?" Denny said, struggling to sit erect.
"Take it easy, lad," the older man growled. "You're still wobbly. Somebody's got Auguste Bazaine. Nobody seems to know who."
Denny was functioning now. He said bitterly, "That Andre Condrieu's got him. He had agents all over Daly's place. They slugged me and grabbed Bazaine."
Mauser and Zero were both shaking their head negatively. "No. Unlikely, at least. Bazaine was one of their own people. They didn't need to kidnap him, right in their own country. Beside, they'd come to agreement and Bazaine was returning to Paris with Condrieu. It doesn't make sense that The Gaulle's people have him. By the way, when Bette let us know about you being attacked, we immediately took chances and went up to Bazaine's villa to ransack it. We were too late, someone had anticipated us."
"This Yuri Malyshev, or whatever his name is?"
Joe Mauser shrugged heavy shoulders. "Possibly. Though we haven't been able to dig up any evidence that he's operating around here."
Denny wondered where he had seen the older man before. Somewhere. It came back to him. "Major Joe Mauser. Didn't " you used to fight in the fracases as a mercenary?"
Mauser looked at him. "A long time ago."
Zero said, "Joe's in Category Government now. Bureau of Investigation, Rank Assistant to the Secretary. Caste, Low-Upper." Zero twisted his mouth characteristically. "Isn't it, Joe?"
Denny shot a look of surprise, if not regret, at the former mercenary.
But Mauser growled, "Yes, but don't let it bother you. I was born a Mid-Lower, and came up the hard way." He lowered himself into one of the room's heavy chairs and looked at Denny. "Are you clear enough to assimilate some developments?"
"I feel like I've got a nest of wasps in my bonnet, but otherwise I suppose so. What developments?"
Zero chuckled sour deprecation.
"Plenty of developments," Mauser told him. "The world's standing on its head. The World Court has been tossed three cases at once. Our government, the West-world, has accused Common Europe of planning to build anti-anti-missile missiles and thus defying the Universal Disarmament Pact. We're demanding that Auguste Bazaine be handed over to a world body and his discoveries suppressed. At the same time, and a bit incongruously, if you ask me, we've charged the Sov-world with abducting Bazaine and attempting to secure his device from him with the intent of building it and thus defying the Universal Disarmament Pact."
"Cut it short," Zero said sourly. "What it boils down to is both of them have filed counter charges of the same thing against the West-world, and against each other."
Denny stared from one of them to the other. "You mean everybody is accusing everybody else of having kidnaped this cloddy Bazaine?"
"That's right," Mauser sighed. "Well, obviously, somebody's lying." All remained silent for a time.
Denny began to feel a premonition. "Look, what's going to happen?"
Joe Mauser came to his feet and walked over to the window to stare out unseeingly. "Isn't it obvious?"
"The World Court will rule for a trial by combat, eh?"
"Probably," Joe said, his voice low.
"And…"
"And you and I and one of the other funkers who sneaked our way through to the very end of the national games, will be nominated to represent the West-world," Zero said, with mock cheerfulness.
Joe Mauser turned and Denny noted a nervous tic at the side of the other's mouth. Mauser obviously wasn't liking this. He said, now, "Willard Gatling, the commissioner of our Bureau, doesn't like to toss this into your laps. But you two are in it already. You know the issues. What's involved. It's possible that during the preparations for the trial, or immediately afterward, or whenever, you might get some opportunity to pick up some information we can use. If nothing else, you've got as good a chance of winning through and defeating the other teams…"
"Teams?'''' Denny said.
"It looks as though they're going to judge it a three-way fight. Nine men to go into the arena, three of ours, three from Common Europe, three from the Sov-world. That side which survives, even if it's only one man, wins and will undoubtedly demand that Bazaine be turned over to them. The demand, of course, will either be met or the world will be in flames the following day. To date, the World Court has never been defied. Let's hope it won't be this time."
After they had gone, in order to allow him further rest, Dennis Land, Category Education, Sub-division History, Branch Research, Rank Professor stared up at the ceiling. They had brought him to a small villa immediately to the north of Malaga, which Big Bill Daly secretly kept rented for potential emergency. He imagined their group would remain here, supposedly continuing his research, until further called upon.
Until further called upon.
What in the name of all that made sense, was he, Dennis Land, doing here? The control of his life seemed to have slipped entirely from his own hands.
The Upper who had insisted upon him participating in the national meets, under the threat of seeing him dropped in caste if he refused.
The horror of the meets themselves. For the greater part of his life he had played at fighting with the weapons of yesteryear, but never to the point of drawing blood, other than accidentally, a mere scratch here and there. It had been fun, educational, still recreational. It had given him material for his volume on ancient arms. He had no real interest in the professional gladiatorial meets, nor in the governing of the West-world and its international relations. These were things apart. He was wrapped up in his anthropological and historic studies and wanted nothing else.
Yes, it had started with the Upper who had been president of the club to which Denny had belonged. Through a miracle, he had survived the games. And to what end? Only to have Academician Updike dismiss him from the position to which he had won through his own abilities and hard work, his professorship and research. Updike! Another mescaltranc bemused Upper, a hereditary aristocrat.
Possibly Bette, indignant Bette, in revolt against the caste system and stagnation of the West-world, was right. What real use were the Uppers?
Even that hadn't been the end of others controlling his life. Frank Hodgson had seen fit to draft him into the services of his cloak and dagger bureau, as though he had no right of selection whatsoever. Perhaps Zero Gonzales found stimulation in this work. But Zero was the adventurous type by nature. He had evidently deliberately gone into the national games, simply to find if he could win, and to gain the prestige involved. Well, Dennis Land was no adventurer, he was, and wanted to remain, a scholar.
And now this. Dennis Land was under no illusions. He could have easily died under the karate blow he had taken at Bill Daly's house, a fraction more power put into the chopping blow and that would have ended all.
But even that was not all. Still he was not to be left alone. This Joe Mauser, evidently another Upper caste, had now appeared on the scene and had given him marching orders he had no desire to take. A representative of the West-world in a trial by combat. Combat to the death, to resolve a problem which tore the world's powers.
Was there no out for him, anywhere, short of death? Was this caste-dominated world he found himself in, never to be satisfied until it killed him?
He rolled over on his side and stared blankly at the tiled wall. Every third tile, he noted, bore a scene from the career of Don Quixote tilting with the windmills; Don Quixote killing the sheep; Don Quixote riding along in his armor, followed by the faithful Sanchez.
Dennis Land fell asleep.
The institution in its origin went back to legend, or perhaps even myth.
When Tullus Hostilius, the third rex of Rome, was at swords points with Alba, it was decided between the Romans and Albans that it was foolish for large numbers of men to be killed in combat between the two evenly matched cities. Instead, it was decided that each side would choose three champions who would fight, and that side which prevailed would be declared the victor and the defeated city must surrender to the other.
Three members of the Horatian gens were picked by the Romans, and the Albans sent three from their Curiatian gens. In the fight, at first the Curiatü warriors seemed bound to win since in short order they killed two of the Horatü and then teamed up on the third. He turned and fled, and the Albans took up the pursuit. However, so the story went, the Curiatü had not gone unharmed in the fight and each was wounded in varying degrees of severity. Soon, the stronger of the Curiatü had pulled ahead of his kinsmen in the pursuit and the weakest trailed far behind. It was then that the surviving Horatian turned and taking them on, as they came up, killed them, one, two, three. And thus won the conflict and the war. Rome assimilated Alba into her already expanding domains.
History repeats itself. Sometimes as tragedy, sometimes as farce.
Whatever motivated the reges of Rome and Alba to so decide their differences, in the days of the West-world, the Sov-world and of Common Europe, it was pure necessity. War in its old sense, had long since been deemed impossible. The Universal Disarmament Pact had decreed that no weapons post-1900 were to be utilized, or even possessed by the armies, police forces or other armed elements of the world powers.
They were not even to be manufactured, nor were there to be plants capable of such manufacturers.
However, there were few so foolish as to believe that given an outbreak of international conflict that all those weapons, forsaken on the treaty table, would not be brought back into usage. The know-how of their construction was possessed by all. And while the war might begin using the conventional weapons of pre-1900, when that side which was losing was confronted with defeat who could doubt that it would take such measures as it could to ensure its victory? And once again the factories would start spewing forth their tanks, submarines, bombing planes, missiles, anti-missiles, and, at long last the race destroying nuclear weapons.
So it was that the great powers, and the small, solemnly gathered at Geneva, repowered the World Court, giving it strength never before known to an international body. And so it was that when disagreement between rival powers could not be reconciled in peace, trial by combat was resorted to. And thus far, no power had dared, in the face of world opinion, not to abide by the results of such trial.
On this occasion, for the first time, the combat was three-way. West-world, Sov-world, Common Europe. Only the Neut-world stood on the sidelines. Stood on the sidelines and shivered in the cold blast of threat of war.
Three champions chosen from each power. The combat to take place in the traditional glade of trees, covering an area of one hectare, not quite two and a half acres. Each contestant to choose one weapon, knife, sword, or spear. Of any design, any historic period.
Dennis Land, Jesus Gonzales, and Alex Cameron debated at long length on the selection of their tools of death, and with old pro Joseph Mauser as adviser. Old pro mercenary Joe Mauser, was under no illusions. There was no reason to believe that the combat men presented by Common Europe and the Sov-world would be in any manner inferior to his own team. The chances of any of these three surviving he was well aware, were remote. His was not an enviable position. He would have far rather participated himself. But he had no illusions there, either. Twenty years ago, yes. He would have taken his stand as one of the three. But the dealing of death is a young man's game, as old pro Joe Mauser understood, one does not become an old pro in the game of death by having illusions.
He wrapped up his advice, briefly. "You lads know combat.
Each of you fought your way through the national games. Statistically, an impossible thing to accomplish. Very well, fight as a team. Not as individuals. But your first task is to survive. Keep that top in your mind. Don't be heroic, at the risk of not surviving. If it is a matter of coming to the aid of one of your fellows, at the risk of your own life, abandon him. One or more of you has got to survive. Has got to be the last man on his feet. You know what happens if this trial by combat is lost."
Alex Cameron, third member of the team, and a professional mercenary and gladiator, looked at Denny and Zero. "If it's O.K. with you, I'll take a boar spear. It can be used either for throwing or as a hand weapon. If we operate as a team, one of us has got to have a spear. Otherwise those curds on the other teams, with spears, could stand back and knock us off from a distance."
It made sense. Denny looked at Zero. "I'm best with a gladius, the Roman short sword with its twenty-inch blade. I'll handle the close in work."
"O.K., with me," Zero grinned, "I'll take a rapier. Some of these Common Europe lads, in particular, are up on their fencing. That Roman short sword might be well enough in close quarters, but some fast stepping molly with a tuck or a bilbo could stand back and cut you to ribbons."
Joe Mauser said worriedly, "A rapier's on the light side, isn't it, Gonzales?"
Zero looked at him. "Deliberately so. It's all in the point with a rapier. You don't hack a man down with it, you puncture him neatly."
"Most of my own sword experience has been with sabers," Joe Mauser admitted.
Alex Cameron said, "There's no way of knowing what these others are choosing, eh?"
"No," Mauser told him. "Not at this point, but I'll work on it. You'll go in from different entries, as teams, and hunt each other out in the woods. You'll be observed, both from above, and through telly cameras spotted throughout the woods." His lips faded slightly when he came to this aspect of it. "There are always the telly lenses. The greater portion of the population of the world will be tuned in to this fracas. I hardly need tell you."
He took a breath, and shook the expression of disgust from his face. Joe Manser in his day, had seen many a telly lens zeroed in on him when he was in the dill. Zeroed in on him, its bright eye gleaming as though in hopeful anticipation of witnessing his confrontation of death.
He said, "You go in at dawn and the scrap continues until one side or other has cut down all opposition. In the unlikely case that it hasn't been achieved by sundown, survivors will leave the trial area, to return the next morning."
Mauser looked from one of them to the other. "If you cop a disabling wound, the medics won't get in to you until either the fight is over, or until sundown. You'll have to get by as best you can."
Alex Cameron hissed between his teeth. "That's bad. They evidently don't want to take chances of a man turning funker and trying to call it quits."
Zero chuckled his usual deprecation. "It's mad, all right. It's worse than the final day of the national games. At least that only lasted for an hour or so, and anyone left alive got immediate care."
They remained quiet, each in his own thoughts for a moment, until the professional gladiator, Cameron, said, "And what do we get out of this, always assuming we get out at all?"
Mauser looked at him. "Needless to say, you'll be top man in your field. Probably bounced at least one caste, issued enough Variable stock to keep you in luxury the rest of your life. And, of course, you'll be a celebrity that every fracas and gladiator buff in the West-world will drool over."
Cameron grunted acceptance of that, with satisfaction.
"All of which things," Denny said evenly, "I desire about as much as I do a galloping case of leprosy."
Mauser looked at him unhappily. "I know," he said, "There's nothing I can do, Land. You three are our best men, and the situation is completely pickled."
Joe Mauser worked along with them to the very moment of entering the glade. He worked along with them as a mother hen clucking after her brood. He put them on a tough training program, supervised their food, supervised their exercise, brought in a dozen experts highly skilled in the various weapons they had chosen. Supervised them until Alex Cameron, at least, was growling against the restraints.
As an old-time professional, himself, the burly Cameron was familiar with the position he occupied, just previous to this world-awaited battle royal. Had he been allowed to go out on the town, he would have been the toast of Geneva, the focal point of a thousand women anxious to please him, a thousand men desirous of buying him drinks, offering him wealth in exchange for endorsements of products, or ghost-written stories of his supposed career.
But Joe Mauser was having none of that. His team was going to go into that glade at the keen edge of fitness, every possible advantage on call.
When the names of the opponent teams were released, he put a score of top Bureau men to work seeking out their background, digging into their dossiers.
He went over each man, individually, with his three champions. On some, those who had participated in telly viewed combat before, he had films. These he ran over and over again for the benefit of Denny, Zero and Alex Cameron.
"Now get this lad, on the left. His name is Janos Horthy, a Hungarian. This is a deal he fought in Prague two years ago. He's a top swordsman, and will undoubtedly choose a sword as his weapon."
"He's good," Zero growled.
"They're all good," Mauser told him flatly. "You're meeting the top combat men in the world. But watch this Horthy. Watch this bit of business where he drops to one knee and gets under his opponent's guard. There! See? He's the cute type. Has a bag of tricks. Be sure you remember his face."
He ran another film into the projector. "This isn't a combat scene. It's a shot taken by one of our agents from quite a distance, but I want you to remember this one's face."
It was a shot showing a uniformed Russian climbing out of a car and then entering a governmental building.
Zero chuckled. "Zen! It's old Yuri."
Mauser looked at him. "That's right, you've had some dealings with Yuri Malyshev, haven't you? But you, Denny and Alex, note this lad. He's probably the single most dangerous opponent you're going to run into in that grove. The others are trained fighting men, top fighting men. But this one combines that with brains. Look out for tricks. Not just cute combat tricks like you'll get from Janos Horthy, but brain tricks. Don't, above all, underestimate Yuri Malyshev. Until he's stretched out dead before you, give him top priority. And then kill him again, because he's most likely shamming."
Zero laughed. "I double that."
Alex Cameron grumbled at him, "You're going to be laughing right up until the split second one of these cloddys sticks his spear in your gizzard."
Zero looked at Cameron. "I hope so," he said.
They had left Bette Yardborough in Southern Spain to track down, if possible, any clues as to the location of Auguste Bazaine, or any indication of who had abducted him, but she showed up the night before the combat trial.
They held a small banquet, rather early in the evening. Joe Mauser wanted them to get at least eight hours of deep sleep. They went through the obvious. Ate well, but not too heavily. Toasted each other and the Goddess Fortune in fruit juice.
All even managed to laugh when the hulking Alex Cameron scowled down into his glass and grumbled, "If I get through tomorrow, this stuff here is the weakest liquid that's ever going to go over my tonsils for the rest of my life. From then on in, it's all going to have a proof content."
They tried to make it informal, and light, but Joe Mauser couldn't refrain from worrying the subject on all minds. He said, in the middle of the entree, "Look. One thing I forgot to mention, although it's obvious. Those other teams are probably going through the same thing we have for the past week. Keep in mind that they've undoubtedly got films of your appearances in the games, back home. If you have any favorite tricks, remember that they know them. That particularly applies to you, Alex, they've probably got films and tapes of you going back for years."
Bette, remarkably quiet for Bette, all during the evening, said suddenly, "Oh, Joe, please." She came to her feet, and left the room.
Denny stood, too, and tossed his napkin to the table. "Pardon me," he said and followed her.
"Hey," Zero called, "don't go making time with my woman, Denny. Not if you figure on leaning on my ample shoulders tomorrow."
Denny found her on the terrace, looking out over Lake Geneva, at the dark waters of the lake, sprinkled liberally with the pinpoints of lights from yachts and other small craft. Joe Mauser had taken the entire upper floor of the aging but comfortable Des Bergues hotel on the Quai des Bergues, to house their party, and the view of the lake was superlative.
She didn't turn to see who it was and for a long moment Denny stood there wordlessly. He knew what she was thinking. Tomorrow at least six men would die, possibly eight, conceivably even all nine. The percentages of either he or Zero surviving were bad.
She looked around at him, her face angry. She made an abrupt gesture with her hand. "Look at them. All down there in their snug houses, their comfortable villas, their tight, luxurious yachts. And what are they waiting for? To watch you tomorrow, the nine of you, slaughter each other."
Denny said mildly, "I'm afraid it's not just these residents of Geneva. The whole world will be tuned in tomorrow, Bette. However, it's one rung higher than solving international disputes by all-out warfare. It's taken man a long time to get this far."
She snorted her rage. "It's not far enough! There is no reason why this has to continue. It would make as much sense just to flip a coin. What is proved by one of your teams of killers finishing off the others?"
His grin of deprecation was wry. "All right, Bette, you've convinced me. Now if you can just convince all the fracas and gladiatorial buffs in the world, we can call tomorrow off and flip a coin. I'm perfectly willing."
She shook her head miserably. "I know I'm being stupid, but there's no need for it."
Dennis Land looked down over the city, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "I'm afraid there is, Bette. The mob needs bread and circuses to keep them from rising up in their frustration and bringing all society down with a crash. So Zero and I, and the other seven who go into that glade tomorrow, are providing the circus. An excuse has been found to hold the very top gladiatorial meet. A meet even bigger than our annual national games."
She all but wailed, "But that's what I mean. Why have we allowed society to evolve this way? It doesn't make sense. The mob has to have bread and circuses, you say, so that it won't tear our present socio-economic system down. But perhaps it needs tearing down. Just as Rome, in its latter days, needed tearing down. It had gone beyond the point where its existence was called for and stood in the way of world progress. And the same has happened to our society, our Welfare State, our so-called People's Capitalism. For the sake of continuing the status quo, our stratified society with its puny number of Uppers at one extreme and a useless mob of Lowers at the other, we put up with things like this!"
"Well, once again, you've got my vote."
She hardly heard him. "It's not just our West-world, it's the whole world. Bogged down. Whatever happened to the world's dreams?"
Zero called from the door. "Hey, Denny. Bed time. We've got a date in the morning, remember?"
Denny looked around at him, and tried to match the other's humor. "Oh, yeah," he said, as though it had slipped his mind.
As he turned to go, Bette said to him, "Goodluck, tomorrow, Dennis."
Zero approached. "O.K. you had your time with her. Now beat it, while I go into my fling. I just thought up a wager. Bette, I'll bet you a king-size buss that I get through tomorrow."
She began to snap something in reply, but Denny failed to catch it. He returned to the banquet room, to find Joe Mauser in a state of excitement. One of his agents had managed to ferret out the types of weapons their opponents were going to use. It gave the West-world team a slightest edge of advantage, to know this far in advance.
But neither Mauser nor Alex Cameron were particularly happy about the choice. The whole Sov-world team had chosen trench knives; the Common Europe trio, javelins.
They called Zero back in, and the three, with Mauser presiding, bent over the table, the dessert and cheese courses forgotten, as they talked strategy. The Sovs would probably plan to make their play in the most heavily wooded area of the grove; the Europeans in the most open. The West-world team, armed with a diversity of weapons, were in between.
Joe Mauser's facial tic was manifesting itself. He said, "It's too late to change now. You've put the past two weeks into training with the arms you selected."
Alex Cameron growled, "I'd stick to my boar spear, anyway."
Zero managed to get out a chuckle even under these circumstances. "What am I going to do with a rapier in a patch of undergrowth, or, for that matter against javelins at twenty paces? I felt sure those Common Europe funkers would choose swords."
Denny said slowly, "My short sword is comparable to the trench knives, except it has no brass-knucks built into the hilt. But we're sure as Zen going to have to avoid those spearmen."
Jesus Zero Gonzales went down to death in the first brutal rush.
In the earliest light of dawn, they had entered the grove from the north gate, knowing that the Sovs were coming in from the East, the Common Europe team from the West.
Although not allowed to enter the enfenced grove, previous to the day of the trial by combat, they had pored over aerial photos of the hectare of wooded land, knowing full well that their opponents would be doing the same. As a result, they had a comprehensive idea of the land's layout. The most densely wooded area was almost exactly in the middle. The most open, at the far south.
Joe Mauser had been left at the gate, with last words of advice. "Work as a team, lads. Alex, I've got the feeling you were considering going off on your own, and going to ground, taking a defensive stand and letting the others try to come in on you. Once you're through that gate, you're on your own, of course, but my advice is that you stick together."
Alex Cameron had growled something inarticulately.
Mauser said, "Zero, Alex, Denny. Good luck, lads. Survive, for the West-world… and for yourselves."
"Zen," Zero grinned. "That's good advice."
"Let's go," Alex growled.
The strategy of all three teams seemed obvious. If one team could avoid early combat with either of the others, the enemy might decimate each other, thus handing victory to the trio that had avoided fight. If the Sovs could find themselves a strong defensive position in the thickets, and simply remain there until Denny and his group and the Common Europe champions had done each other in, they would be able to emerge later and finish off any survivors. So, obviously, was the same situation confronting the other teams. He who fought first, might well never fight again.
They advanced, Indian style, single file with Alex and his heavy short boar spear in the lead. Zero, with naked rapier in hand, brought up the rear.
As soon as they had entered the shelter of the trees, Zero called for a conference. "We're in no danger, yet. They're doing the same thing we are, trying to figure out a way to lie low, until the others have bumped each other off."
Denny said, "This three-way deal has its ramifications. Obviously, if there were only two teams, the thing to do would be find the others and finish them off as quickly as possible. This way, everybody's avoiding the other." Instinctively, even as he spoke, he kept his eyes running about, against possible attack. This early in the day the small woods were still dark. He made out a telly lens, sunk into the hole of a tree, and poorly camouflaged.
Obviously, there would be telly cameras spotted throughout the whole grove, so located that there could be no place where the combat could evolve without being covered for the benefit of the drooling fracas buffs, and their equivalent in Common Europe and the Sov-world. Dennis Land grunted his contempt for the lover of vicarious death.
"Well, one thing's obvious," Alex said sourly. "The Sovs are going to head for the center area, and the others for the south. So where do we go? One thing Mauser said we might reconsider."
"What's that?" Zero asked him.
Alex hefted his heavy spear. "Whether or not we ought to separate. Both of those other teams are going to do what Mauser figured we ought to. Fight as a team. Maybe we'd fool them if we didn't."
"And maybe we'd fool ourselves," Zero told him. "Operating alone, if one of the other teams ran into one of us, that'd be the end. How long do you think you'd last, with that pigsticker of yours, against three javelin men, or, for that matter, against three Sovs with trench knives?"
"I can take care of myself," Alex grunted.
"If you couldn't you wouldn't be here." Zero said, "But you can take care of yourself better with two other lads along. This isn't just another man-to-man combat in an arena. The whole West-world's depending on us to see that device of Bazaine's doesn't get into the hands of either the Sov-world or The Gaulle people."
"All right, all right, save the speech curd," Cameron growled. "I know what we're here for."
It was then that the Sovs rushed them.
How they had managed to get this close before being detected, Denny was never able to figure out later. Even as he swung to meet the attack, Joe Mauser's warning had come back to him. Don't underestimate Yuri Malyshev. Look out
for tricks, brain tricks, not just cute combat tricks like you'll get from Janos Horthy.
And the Sov team's strategy came to him, even as they clashed. Malyshev, who was probably in charge, had anticipated the thinking of Denny and his companions. That the Sovs, with their close quarters weapons, would head for the heaviest underbrush where such equipment as javelins, and even swords, would be handicapped. That they'd head for the thickets, and go to ground, making it necessary for the others to come in after them.
Which was exactly what Malyshev didn't do. Instead, he had obviously entered from the East gate and then set off on the double for the North gate to come to grips with the West-world team immediately. Given a surprise ambush and a quick victory, Malyshev and his men would have not only their own trench knives for in-fighting, but the weapons of Denny, Zero and Alex, as well. It was a desperate try, but a clever one.
The Sovs had evidently crept near, squirmed as near as possible, while Zero and Alex argued, and while Denny's attention was diverted to the argument. Crept as near as possible, and then rushed.
Denny swung, his short sword, the famed two-edged, sharp pointed Roman gladius which had once conquered the world, instantly in use. He could hear Alex yelling a warning, even as the Sov trio smacked them.
Zero Gonzales was the nearest to the enemy, his back turned. He swirled, his long bladed rapier coming up to the defense. Denny had time enough to see the flicker of light on the edge of a trench knife, and Zero's grunt of pain, but then there was no time except for thrust, counterthrust, kick, and elbow blows, thrust and counterthrust, against the dancing, fast moving opponent before him.
In truth, the knife the other bore was almost, in size, as large as Denny's sword. It had the advantage of being a double weapon, brass knucks, and a dagger, but the disadvantage of having a triangular blade, rather than a double or even a single edged one. Denny had no fear of the outcome of his individual part of the fight, if his companions could hold out. His knowledge of his weapon, and its superior quality of having a cutting edge, gave him all the advantage he needed. His opponent was good, but not good enough.
Alex, at least, seemed to be carrying his end of the fight. His bull-like roars were continuing, and his knife-bearing oppon-ent probably was having his work cut out for him, avoiding the professional gladiator's lunges.
Denny side-stepped to avoid a lunge, side-stepped again, stepped quickly forward and jabbed. The sword neatly pierced the other's chest, sliced upward in a ragged gash, even as the Sov fighter screamed his agony.
At the same split second, Denny felt himself struck from behind. Struck, and then, lightning fast, struck again. He spun, his sword slashing desperately, but the other had bounded back. Denny leaped forward, in immediate offensive, tripped over a root, tried to recover, tripped again, and was down on one knee.
He attempted to struggle erect, quickly; all was seconds, a second was an eternity, and could not be afforded an opponent. He felt the cruel ripping edge of the brass knucks crush into his face and all went haze. He could hear Alex roaring in the background, someone else screaming in pain and then even the haze went black.
He felt he couldn't have been unconscious more than moments. Minutes at the very most. He opened his eyes, only to slits. If the Sovs had prevailed and now noticed signs of life in him, they would be quick enough to finish him off.
But the only figure he could make out still erect, bore the uniform of the West-world. He opened his eyes wider, and began struggling to his feet. It was Alex Cameron, his back to a tree, his boar spear in both hands being used as a pike, his eyes darting about, as though in fear of further attack.
Denny lurched erect and tried to take stock of himself. He was bleeding from several wounds and his face felt crushed. One eye seemed completely blind, but that might be only blood.
Cameron stared at him, "I thought you were dead."
"Where are they?"
Alex Cameron gestured with his head at Denny's first opponent. "One's dead. Two took off, back into the woods. One wounded. They took Zero's sword, but had no way of getting past this spear of mine and evidently decided not to try."
"Zero," Denny said.
The professional gladiator gestured again with his head.
Zero was sprawled on the ground. Denny hobbled over to him trying to dash the blood from his blinded eye.
He came to his knees. The other had taken a half dozen or more knife thrusts in his belly and chest. Dennis Land in the past months had seen enough men in their last moments of life to know sure death when he saw it, even though Zero's eyes flickered open.
Zero grinned at him. "That… curd, Yuri… got even for that scar I gave him in Japan… eh?"
"Easy," Denny muttered, "I'll get some bandages on…"
Zero had closed his eyes again. Now he reopened them. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth. "Listen… Denny tell Bette…"
"Yes…"
But that was all.
Dennis Land stayed for a long moment there, on his knees, his face naked of expression.
He felt difficulty in getting to his feet again. He was going to have to take care of his own wounds. As yet, he didn't know how bad they were.
Alex Cameron was standing watching him, questioningly. He held Denny's Roman gladius in one hand, his boar spear in the other.
Denny took a deep breath, "Better let me have my sword. The Sovs might come back, or, for that matter, The Gaulle's team is somewhere around."
Cameron shook his head slowly, but definitely.
"What's the matter?" Denny demanded, uncomprehending.
Cameron said, "With both this spear of mine, and your sword, I'll be able to make out. I didn't even get a nick in that fight. With both a sword and a spear, I can survive."
Denny stared at him. "But then, I wouldn't have anything." He didn't get it. But then did.
The professional gladiator muttered, "Sorry, professor. That's the way the ball bounces. You've had it anyway. If we ran into a fight right now, you'd be more trouble to me than good. As it is, I'll get by."
Denny stared at him.
Cameron growled, defensively, "You remember what Mauser said, If it's a matter of coming to the aid of one of the others, at the risk of your own life, abandon him. I'm afraid that's it, Professor." He turned on his heel and went off, walking in a half crouch, as men do in combat, peering to the right and left, suspiciously.
Dennis Land shook his head to achieve clarity. Not six feet away, a telly lens gleamed dispassionately at him. He snarled at it.
They had brought a minimum of equipment other than their weapons with them, deciding that the added maneuverability achieved by disposing of weight was more desirable man food, or even water. However, each had a very small first-aid packet. Denny fished his out of his clothes, and then, overcoming his distaste of touching his friend's body, that from Zero's pockets.
He made his way over to the fallen Sov combatant and found that he had carried a small canteen. He took it up. At least it would be full, this early in the day. He had hoped for water, but it contained vodka, or some other ultra-strong spirits. Denny took one swallow, used the rest with his handkerchief to swab out his cuts about his face, and to cleanse his other wounds.
They were bad enough, but not as bad as he had first thought. At least, for the time, he would live. Perhaps the vodka was better than water would have been, at that. It made for a better cleansing agent.
He used up all his bandages, then approached the fallen Sov again. It had come to him that he hadn't seen a trench knife in Alex Cameron's possession, before the other had deserted him. Maybe it was somewhere about the corpse.
But no it wasn't. Evidently Yuri Malyshev and his surviving team had taken it along with them. That would mean they possessed three trench knives and a rapier.
As yet, there had been no sign of the three javelin-men of Common Europe. Probably they were to the south. But probably not. In the same manner in which the Sov-world team had done the unexpected, perhaps The Gaulle's champions would attempt some surprise strategy.
He decided to escape from this vicinity. The sounds of the fighting, Cameron's shouts, and the screams of the wounded, would have carried all over the grove. Possibly the Common Europe team would make for the spot, figuring that the West-world and Sov-world teams would have largely eliminated each other. Well, they would be right. He stumbled along a narrow path, realizing that the more sensible procedure would be to avoid paths and stick to the most heavily wooded sections of the two and a half acre sized battle ground. But it was the most he could accomplish to walk again even a path. He wished he had taken another slug of that vodka, rather than using it all for washing.
For a time, he railed against Alex Cameron. The funker, the curd! He'd not only deserted a team mate, but had stolen his weapon as well.
But then he realized that the other had been correct. Their job, Denny, Zero and Alex Cameron, had been to win this trial by combat. To win for the West-world. Nothing else made any difference. There were no gentlemen in this bloodbath, no honorable rules of the game.
However, Zero wouldn't have done it. Nor would he, Dennis Land, have done it, either to Zero or to Cameron.
Professor, the other had called him, just before the desertion. Professor. Had he detected an edge of contempt there? The contempt of the slog for he who has made a mark of achievement in the world of intellect?
What difference did it make, what motivated Alex Cameron? The fact was…
Denny Land brought himself suddenly alert. He'd been letting his mind wander. Instead of watching for his enemies—and there were five of them, so far as he knew, still in these woods—he'd been daydreaming.
He shook his head. Now he wished he hadn't taken that slug of spirits, no matter how good it had seemed at the time. It had merely intensified his thirst and his thirst now was raging.
The thin trail he was following opened into a small glade, and Denny stumbled through before catching, in his hazy vision, the other who stood there.
It was Yuri Malyshev, alone, but armed with spear, rapier, and two trench knives. He was looking at Denny strangely.
The Russian took in Denny's obvious physical condition. He said, slowly, "So, Professor Land, we finally meet."
Denny attempted to wet his lips, found his mouth contained no moisture. He went into the Hachipi-dachi, spreadout position, and waited defensively, his right foot slightly forward, both fists clenched, knuckles downward and held slightly to the side of his waist.
The Russian was shaking his head. "I, too, am familiar with karate, professor." He brought one of the trench knives from his belt, flicked it up into the air and caught it by the blade when it came down.
It hadn't occurred until this moment, to Dennis Land, that the trench knives the Sov-combatants had chosen, were not just two weapons in one, but three. It was capable of being utilized as a throwing knife.
The Russian agent was deceptively fast, considering his size. He made his cast in a blur of speed, and for a brief second Dennis Land's only thought was one of resignation.
Then, immediately behind him, he heard the tinkle of glass.
Malyshev said, then, "Unless I'm mistaken, that's the only telly lens capable of zeroing-in on us, at this particular spot. And the area is too shaded for the cameramen in the hover-planes above."
Denny could only stare at him.
Malyshev said, "I want to know just one thing. Who has Auguste Bazaine?"
Denny shook his head, continued to stare, completely befuddled by this. "You have him. You and your men got him from me in Torremolinos."
But now it was Malyshev who was shaking his head. "No. I observed developments from a distance, through binoculars. You entered the parking lot behind William Daly's, your agent's, villa with Dr. Bazaine. Then two men attacked you and left you unconscious. With the help of still a third man, they hustled Bazaine into a waiting car. Moments later, your agent Bette Yardborough came up to your assistance."
Denny grunted, "What difference does it make? The Gaulle's people have him, then."
"The difference is this," the Russian told him. "Neither the West-world nor the Sov-world wishes to unbalance the present international situation. In this regard we are in agreement. Common Europe does, it wishes to expand into the Neut-world for markets and raw materials. For some reason, which I can't understand, they've kidnaped their own man. Possibly The Gaulle became impatient with Bazaine's temperamental sulking, and has him under duress, possibly torture. Our interests at present coincide."
Denny Land was beginning to get a glimmer, to realize why the other had thus far failed to dispatch him, and why he had broken the telly lens. He said slowly, "What is the standing of the trial by combat, thus far?"
The Russian nodded, seeing that the American was begin-rung to follow him. "You and I are the only survivors of either of our teams."
"Alex Cameron?"
"Went down with a javelin through his guts. He took his opponent with him." Malyshev hefted his spear. "That's where I got this."
"Then there are two remaining Common Europe men."
"And two of us," Malyshev said simply.
Dennis Land looked at him.
There came back to him, all that he had heard of Yuri Malyshev these past weeks. Bette saying, The most competent and certainly the most ruthless, uh, hatchetmen, they used to call them, of the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya; Zero saying, Don't underestimate Yuri Malyshev. He's no cloddy. He's easy-going, even gives with an air of being slow moving. Just remember, he's possibly the most dangerous agent Korda has at his command; Joe Mauser saying, Look out for tricks, brain tricks . . . he's probably the single most dangerous opponent you're going to run into in that grove.
Denny said, "I don't trust you."
The Russian was able to laugh. A short, choppy laugh. "I don't blame you, Professor Land. However, you have no alternative. It would be easy enough for me to finish you off now. But the thing is, our interests coincide. You of the West-world have a word for it. We're in the dill, Professor Land. We cooperate, or we go down."
"You're at least as highly skilled a fighter as these Common Europe lads. Why don't you simply finish me, like you say, and then take your chances with them?"
"Because the world can't afford any chances, professor. Either the Sov-world, or the West-world, has got to get Bazaine and suppress his discovery. I would naturally rather it be the Sov-world. But if not, at least your nation isn't going to upset the balance of power.
Denny said slowly, "This is supposedly a three-way fight to the finish. By the rules of the game, we're not allowed to cooperate…"
Yuri Malyshev gave his short chopping laugh again. "I assure you, professor, like most in Sov-world government, I am a student and admirer of Niccolo Machiavelli."
"What happens when and if we eliminate the others?"
The Sov-world agent ran a finger down the side of his face, tracing out a scar, the scar, Denny remembered, that Zero claimed he had put there. In turn, the Russian, not a half hour past, had killed the irrepressible American. Yes, it came back to Denny now. It had been Yuri Malyshev who had killed Zero Gonzales.
Malyshev said slowly, "We could then fight it out between us."
Denny grunted in contempt. "You're in better shape than I am. You want to let me live just long enough to help pull your chestnuts out of the fire then finish me."
The Russian was nodding. "True. Obviously that isn't a fair alternative. What would you suggest?"
In spite of himself, Denny felt drawn into this scheme. If nothing else, it meant at least immediate survival. He said, "It must be something so that both of us live."
"All right," the Russian said decisively. "The rules of the match are that we fight on until only one or more of the same team are still on their feet. We shall endeavor to eliminate the common enemy, then we will sham a fight between us. One of us will go down, in supposed defeat. The other will then be winner of the trial by combat, and the medics will dash in to save the wounded."
Denny said slowly, "Fine. But which one of us shams defeat and allows the other to be proclaimed winner?"
They stared at each other. Stymied.
The Russian agent's face worked. He said finally. "You can be the winner, with the understanding that following the fight, you and your Joseph Mauser will meet with me and Zoltan Korda my immediate superior, and iron out our difficulties behind the scenes, and on an equal basis."
He's probably the single most dangerous man you're going to run into in that grove … Look out for tricks, brain tricks.
"All right," Denny said. "You're on. We co-operate. Now let's divide up those weapons."
But the Russian was considering him. "You're more badly wounded than I thought, Professor Land."
"I can still operate," Denny said defensively.
"But not well enough. You have, what do you of the West-world call them? Pep pills?"
"No," Denny shook his head. "They're against the rules of the trial by combat."
Yuri Malyshev grunted amusement, and unscrewed the bot-torn of his remaining trench knife. Three white pills fell into his hand. He offered them to Dennis Land. "You'd better take all three. They'll bring you to a peak of efficiency for possibly half an hour, but then you'll collapse. A half hour should be enough."
Dennis took the pills, looked from them to his new ally.
"They could be poison."
The Russian chopped out his sarcastic laugh.
Denny took them into his mouth. They had a bitter taste, something like aspirin. He had difficulty getting them down, his mouth and throat dry as they were. They had no immediate effect, he still felt desperately weak.
"Now, how do we divide the weapons?" he demanded.
The Russian considered. "We have two trench knives, a spear and this fencing sword. I suggest we both take a trench knife."
Denny said, "I've been training with a sword. Not a rapier, but still a sword. I suggest I take that."
"Very well." Malyshev handed over the knife and the rapier originally carried by Zero Gonzales. He went to the destroyed telly lens and recovered the second trench knife.
"How are we going to explain what's happened here?"
The Russian shrugged. "I'll simply tell them that I threw my trench knife at you and missed, breaking the telly lens. Then you rushed me. I stumbled and you grabbed a sword and trench knife and ran off into the brush before I could throw my javelin at you."
"Good enough," Denny said. He hefted the sword. Already strength was beginning to ebb through his veins. The rapier felt light, after his short sword.
Yuri Malyshev's face worked in thought. "We're going to have to get going. Already we've been here, off lens, for a suspiciously long time. The two Common Europe men are probably in some defensive position. They've lost a man, and have witnessed two deaths on our teams, but for all they know, they still have four enemies on their feet. We'll have to seek them out."
"Right," Denny said. "Suppose I head east, and then south. You head west, and then south. When we join combat, we first take them on. If and when we finish them, if we both survive, we turn on each other. I clobber you one, say with the trench knife, and you pretend to be knocked unconscious."
"Very well." The Russian turned quickly and disappeared into the trees to the west.
Denny looked after him for a moment, then turned on his own heel and retraced his movements along the path for a hundred feet or so, and then turned south.
His strength was completely returned now.
He made his way carefully now. With the trees this thick, he had no great danger from the javelins but he knew that the Common Europe champions were also in possession of Cameron's short boar spear, handy as it was for close-in work, his Roman short sword, and one trench knife, a sizable arsenal. Actually, they had an edge on him and Malyshev.
Denny made his way carefully, senses highly alert. He wondered at the efficiency of the drug the other had given him. Give the Sov-world credit for development of such. When it came to the devices of espionage-counterespionage, they had them in profusion.
He spotted the two nervous Common Europe champions before they spotted him, and slipped behind a tree to devise strategy. They were in what amounted to a clearing, at least as near to a clearing as the wooded hectare provided. They were standing back to back.
Malyshev had been right. These two had no idea how many opponents still remained.
And then, Denny made out what he was looking for. A slightest stir of movement in the thicker woods to the far side of the glade. It could only be his reluctant ally. He had to admire the training the Sov-world men had evidently gone through pertaining to woodsmanship. They had done a superlative job of sneaking up and ambushing Denny and his team, in the earliest moments of the fight. Now here was Malyshev, snaking through the trees invisibly. Hadn't Denny known what he was looking for, and the general direction from which the Russian would be coming, he would never have detected him.
Now the problem was to co-operate with the other, but in such wise that the million-multitude watching on telly, all over the world, would never suspect. Given such suspicion and the fat would be in the fire.
Denny glanced upward. There was a hovercraft not fifty feet above the glade. He could make out the excited telly reporters, their lenses zeroing in on every aspect of the rapidly developing situation below. Nor were they all, of course. There would be other lenses, on the ground, spotted here and there working automatically. Oh, this trial by combat was covered as though by blankets. Not a motion but would be caught.
Dennis Land had to make his play. The pep pills were so geared as to give him a half hour of top performance. He couldn't afford to allow their power to fall off until the action was over.
He darted forward from his position of hidden vantage behind the one tree, to another, as though attempting to get nearer to the Common market duo without them seeing him.
But his movement, as it was meant to be, was spotted. They both turned in his direction, apprehensively. They had seen him, but knew not if he was accompanied. He pretended he didn't realize they had made him out, and hustled forward to the shelter of a tree still nearer.
He had their full attention now, at least for a second or two.
But the two champions of The Gaulle were neither inexperienced, nor fools. It struck one, almost immediately, that Denny's movements might be a distraction or feint. He began to whirl, to check behind him.
Too late! On his feet, dashing toward the two, was Yuri Malyshev, javelin in hurling position, lips back over his white teeth in a grimace of physical exertion. He came within casting distance, threw, then fell to the ground and rolled.
The spear caught the second of the two in the shoulder, throwing him back and to the ground. The other, unbelievably quick of reflex, made his own cast, and missed the rolling Russian by sheer inches. Malyshev bounced to his feet, and wrenched the fallen javelin from the sod. The point had been broken. He threw it aside and pulled his trench knife and came in, in a knife fighter's crouch.
Denny Land was making his play now. He came running forward, rapier in his right hand, the trench knife held as one would hold a poniard, in his left.
The Common Europe champion whirled, his face in dismay. His eyes darted to the javelin of his fallen comrade, but there was obviously no time. He pulled from his belt the Roman short sword, which had originally come into the grove in Denny's hands, and backed rapidly, seeking a refuge where he could meet his opponents one at a time.
They came in on him as though rehearsed a dozen times. Denny feinted, his rapier, considerably longer than the other's short sword, flicking in, and all about. The other, desperate, chopped, and chopped again at the fencing blade. By the luck of a wild blow, he succeeded, and Denny's sword broke, an inch from the hilt. He dropped it, and bore in with the trench knife.
But it was Yuri Malyshev who struck the other down. His triangular blade stabbed deep into their single opponent's back… and the man screamed his agony… stabbed again, and the other began to fall even as he attempted to whirl to meet his second assailant.
Denny plunged forward at the other, swinging the trench knife, now being used in its aspect as brass knucks. He connected against the Russian's left cheek, ear and temple, and the other dropped as though poleaxed.
Denny stooped quickly and picked up the Roman short sword, dropped a moment earlier by the last Common Europe champion. His eyes darted about the clearing. All were down, except him. The one Malyshev had speared was threshing out his death throes, twenty feet away. The second was already dead, undoubtedly one of the Russian's blows had hit his heart.
Denny looked down at Yuri Malyshev, unconscious but still breathing, breathing heavily.
The point of the short sword hovered over the Russian agent's unprotected throat. No one else could testify to the deal the two had made. If he finished the man off, the trial by combat was won, won by the West-world and no tags.
Besides, this was the man who had killed Zero Gonzales.
Dennis Land shook his head, and tossed the sword aside. He spread his arms, palms up.
A voice boomed from the hovercraft and out over the grove. "All your opponents are felled, Dennis Land. Make your way to any of the enclosure's four gates. You need only to walk out, on your own feet, to have won the trial by combat."
The nearest gate would be the West Gate, through which the Common Europe team had originally entered. Denny began to stride in that direction. It could be no more than a hundred feet or so.
And it was then that the potency of the pep pills began to fall away. Malyshev had warned him. A half hour, and then he would collapse. He set his face in a grimace of determination and stumbled forward. He considered attempting to run. No, already his eyes were clouding. A sudden suspicion came. Had the Russian, in truth, poisoned him? Did the pep pills give you a last lease on life but end in death? No. No, that couldn't be it. The Sovs had brought those pills into the grove on the off chance of needing them themselves.
His legs were buckling. He could make out the high wire fence which surrounded the fighting grove. It was before him. Short yards away. But where was the gate? He had to get through the gate on his own feet. If he failed. If none of the combatants were able to leave the grove under his own power, the whole trial was a draw and must be fought over again.
Fought over again! He suppressed a cry of pure anguish.
His eyes were dimming. His legs were as water.
He made out the gate now. Farther down the fence. Perhaps thirty feet. No more.
But thirty feet were as though thirty miles to Dennis Land. The black flooded in, and he stumbled forward, came to his knees and then pitched onto his face, unconscious.
From a thousand miles away he could hear a voice calling him. "Dennis… Dennis…"
Ridiculous. Couldn't he be left alone? All he wished was to be left alone. Left to die. At least, at the very least, left to sleep.
"Dennis! Dennis…" and then something else, which he couldn't make out, didn't wish to make out.
Where was he? It was black. He was desperately weak. He wished only rest.
"Dennis… you've got to…"
He knew the voice now. It was Bette Yardborough. Though far, far away. Bette. There was something he had to tell her. Something Zero had told him to tell her. Or had he? Zero was dead, wasn't he? He seemed to remember that Zero was dead.
"Dennis! You've got to get up. You've got to make it."
She was nearer. She was as though next to him. But that couldn't be. Noncombatants weren't allowed in the grove during a trial by combat. Didn't she know she wasn't allowed in the grove? Finally he forced his eyes open.
Bette stood on the other side of the wire-mesh fence. Not six feet away. There seemed to be others behind her, but he had trouble enough making her out.
There were tears in her voice, as she called his name.
He shook his head. He could make out the gate. Mere yards away. There were a multitude of people on the other side, but he could see none of them as individuals.
All right. All right.
He struggled to his hands and knees and began to crawl. From time to time, he fell, and all went black again. But the persistent voice, Bette's voice with its tears, was always there. Nagging him on. Wasn't there something he had to tell Bette? He couldn't remember.
Mere feet from the gate now. For some reason he had to get through the gate. Then he was allowed to… Then he was allowed to die. But first the gate. First the gate, then one other thing. He couldn't remember the one other thing. But he had to remember it.
Another voice came through to him then. No tears in this one. A shouting voice. A voice of command. And dimly he recognized it, too. Joe Mauser. Joe Mauser, shouting at him in a voice of commanding thunder. Joe Mauser.
"ON YOUR FEET, DENNY! ON YOUR FEET! YOU SLOB! YOU FUNKER! ON YOUR FEET! YOU'VE GOT TO COME THROUGH ON YOUR FEET!"
Slob? Funker? He was capable of the faintest, faintest of indignation. He had fought, hadn't he? He fought the good fight. He and Zero and, yes, Cameron.
Then it came back to him, the other thing he had to do. First he had to get through the gate, then he had to talk to Joe Mauser, before anybody else got to him. Especially before any medics got to him. And that was the trouble. There'd be medics aplenty on the other side. On the other side of the gate.
He pushed desperately hard at the ground, came to his knees and stared at the gate before him. Joe Mauser was there on the other side. And Bette, too. He staggered erect, and toddled, as a child taking its first steps toddles. Toddled forward and into Joe Mauser's arms, as he fell again.
He whispered, even as he felt the haze flowing in again, "Joe… listen…"
The other was letting him to the ground. "Yes…" Undoubtedly, Joe Mauser thought his faint words the mutterings of a man in delirium. But he had to get it through to him. "Joe… listen… I mustn't be… allowed to be examined by medics… except… ours…"
And just before he fell off into unconsciousness again, he could feel Joe Mauser's arms tighten. Joe Mauser was no cloddy. Joe Mauser would come through.
When consciousness came again, he was in bed. A hospital bed. It was getting to be a habit. He'd spent more time in bed, recovering from injuries these past three months, than he had the rest of his life. A Category Medicine doctor, Joe Mauser and Bette Yardborough were in the room.
Evidently he was in better shape than he would have expected. His hard time, there at the gate, had largely been the aftermath of the pep pills he'd taken. They gave you the energy, all right, all right. But when they'd worn off, you paid. He assumed that he was up to his eyebrows in stimulants now, which probably explained the clarity and strength he felt.
Mauser was looking down at him wryly. He said, "I think you'd survive Armageddon, Denny."
Denny said warily, "Any one else get through alive?"
"Yuri Malyshev. I know he would survive—Armageddon, I mean. As soon as you got through the gate, the medics charged in, but the only one who had any signs of life left in him, was Malyshev. Funny thing was, except for a slight concussion you gave him when you slugged him with that trench knife, he was untouched. It was nip and tuck, you winning."
"I know," Denny told him. He looked at the doctor, and then at Bette Yardborough. He said, "I want to talk to you alone, Mauser."
The doctor shrugged and left the room. Bette frowned at him, unbelievingly.
"You, too, Bette," Denny told her.
She looked at Joe Mauser, who made a motion with his head. Bette snorted her indignation and followed the doctor.
Joe looked down at him. "Why didn't you want any medics except ours to work on you?"
Denny said, "By any remote possibility could this room be bugged?"
"No. We're in the West-world embassy. But beyond that I had the boys go over this room to the points that an ant couldn't be hidden in it. Why no medics except ours, Denny?"
"Because I was full of pep pills. They possibly would have detected it and declared the fight null and void. I couldn't take that chance."
Mauser's characteristic tic began at the side of his mouth. "Our team didn't take any pep pills into the grove. Where did you get them?"
"From Yuri Malyshev."
Mauser was nodding. "There when you met him earlier. When the telly lens was shattered when he missed, throwing that knife at you."
"He didn't miss," Denny said.
Mauser was nodding. "No, I can see he didn't. I was following it, of course, on telly. I'd given you up. A few minutes later, you came on lens again, in another area of the grove, armed with rapier and trench knife. How are you supposed to have got them?"
"The story is that I hold a karate Black Belt. I rushed him and wrested them away and escaped before he could get me with his spear."
Mauser was still nodding. His eyes were slits now, but his mind was obviously racing ahead, faster than Denny's revelations were coming. "So he gave you pep pills and weapons. What did you give him in exchange?"
Dennis Land looked into his eyes. "We made a deal. Teamed up against The Gaulle's men."
"But then you finished him when they were eliminated."
Denny shook his head. "No. He took a dive. That was part of the deal."
The tic was more pronounced. "And now?" Was there an element of contempt in old pro Joe Mauser's voice?
Denny said evenly, "Now we get together with the representatives of Malyshev's ministry and decide what to do about Bazaine."
With a sudden motion of violence, Joe Mauser socked his right fist into the palm of his left hand with a blow so hard that the room resounded with the noise. "Zen" he snarled. "But we had them."
Dennis Land was shaking his head again. "You told me to survive. Very well, I survived, the only way I possibly could have."
"I warned you against Malyshev and his double dealing!"
Denny's voice was still even. "He played the game right down to the finish, Mauser. He stuck to the arrangements we made, there was no double dealing."
Colonel Yuri Malyshev was on the carpet.
In full uniform now, an inconspicuous flesh colored bandage on the upper portion of the left side of his face. He wore only one of his decorations, the Hero's Award. Yuri Malyshev had come to the conclusion years before that the more medals and ribbons one wore, the less effective they became. Any third rate Party lout of upper rank in either the military or in civil government could cover his chest with medals and ribbons until he looked like a fruit salad. But when one wore the Victoria Cross, the Congressional Medal of Honor, Pour le Merite, or the Hero's Award for distinction in combat, other decorations faded into nothingness so far as prestige was concerned. And at this moment Colonel Malyshev could use prestige. He was on trial for his life.
He stood at attention, eyes full ahead, and listened to Ferencz Kodaly rail at him. Ferencz Kodaly, Minister of the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya, said to be Number One's favorite drinking companion, said to wield more arbitrary power than any other person in the Sov-world other than Number One. Ferencz Kodaly, one of the few left who needed neither court nor judge when it came to trials.
A bit to the rear and to one side of the commissar, sat Zoltan Korda, who had originally given Yuri Malyshev his assignment to find Auguste Bazaine, and by whatever method prevent him from turning his device over to The Gaulle's technicians. His eyes bored into the colonel's but he said nothing, so long as his superior was still speaking.
Kodaly was roaring, "I watched it all, you understand, Colonel Malyshev. Watched it from beginning to end. Never have I seen such sloppy handling of a major assignment. I tell you now, Colonel, Number One is incensed. Given an adroit handling of this from your position of trust, we would have been in possession of Bazaine and his discoveries. You only, Colonel Malyshev, have prevented our success."
There was something the matter with the other's eyes, Yuri Malyshev decided inwardly. The man was either so enraged that he had lost control of himself, or was on some narcotic. What was the name of the current fad from the West-world that Party members were all following? Mescaltranc, they called it. In the West, only the Uppers could afford it; in the Sov-world, only Party members. Yes, the commissar was quite probably high on mescaltranc.
"I watched your mishandling, Colonel Malyshev, from the stupidity of choosing trench knives, rather than some good traditional Sov weapon such as yataghan…"
The colonel inwardly winced. He could just picture himself going into combat with such experts as Zero Gonzales, armed with one of the clumsy curved yataghans. Besides, unless he was mistaken, the weapon was Turkish in origin, rather than Russian.
"… Through your ridiculous attempted ambush on the West-world team. True, I can only guess what happened when the telly lens was broken and somehow, somehow, Colonel Malyshev, you allowed the wounded Dennis Land to overcome you to the point of wresting two of your weapons away. Then, the final action. When victory was in your grasp. When you had eliminated the remaining Common Europe men, you allowed the all but dead Dennis Land to knock you uncon-scious and hence win the trial by combat. You are a fool, Colonel Malyshev, and an insult to the uniform you wear!"
"Yes, Comrade Commissar."
"Shut up! Were it only me, I would have you liquidated in the manner you deserve. Happily for you, Colonel Malyshev, it seems my assistant believes that you may still be of some value to the fatherland."
Zoltan Korda said, "The international press would undoubtedly take notice of the disappearance at this time of the colonel, Comrade Kodaly. After all, he did survive the trial, the only one besides Dennis Land. On top of that, he, personally, eliminated three of the contestants. A larger score than any one else, including Land. The international press is treating him as a celebrity, in spite of the fact that, by a trick of fate, Dennis Land was able to deal the colonel a lucky blow which felled him at the trial's crucial point."
Kodaly turned his glare from Malyshev to his assistant. "Very well, Zoltan, as usual, I'll leave details to you. Needless to say, this matter is not at end until either we have Bazaine or his plans, or preferably both. Number One is following this matter, Zoltan. I need not remind you that heads will roll if it is not eventually wound up in success."
Zoltan Korda was nodding placating. "The better half of the ministry's agents are working on it, Comrade Commissar."
The other stood suddenly erect. "I have an appointment, an entertainment, with some of my equal numbers from Common Europe and the West-world. Geneva is swarming with representatives of the Bureau of Investigation, and the Ministere de Surete, from the highest ranks to"—he looked contemptuously at Colonel Yuri Malyshev, who still stood at rigid attention—"cows undeserving to be called intelligence agents."
He turned and stamped from the room.
Korda pursed his lips, his eyes seeming to all but burn holes in his special agent. Yuri Malyshev remained at attention.
Zoltan Korda said, "All right, relax. Take a chair. You could use a drink, I suppose. Here." He approached the desk, which Ferencz Kodaly had recently deserted, and fumbled in the drawers. "Yes, it was sure to be here." He emerged with a half empty bottle of barack, and looked at the label. He pursed his lips again, appreciatively, this time. "Laid down by Neanderthals, undoubtedly." He brought forth a glass and poured a generous portion. He handed it to Yuri Malyshev.
Malyshev threw the potent apricot spirits back over his palate.
Korda brought forth cigarettes, lit one for himself, offered one to his underling. There was no ashtray on the table. Evidently, the commissar didn't smoke. The colonel refused. Right now, he didn't even want tobacco.
Korda said conversationally, "Why didn't you tell him what really happened?"
Yuri Malyshev looked at him. "He wasn't thinking very deeply, if you'll pardon my referring to the commissar in such a manner. I think he would have me shot. I don't know how I escaped, as it is. He seemed all but rabid."
Korda nodded pleasantly. "If the truth be known, I had a hard time arguing him out of it. Kodaly doesn't often become involved in the detail work of. this ministry. I suspect that Number One had a few disparaging things to say to him. What did happen?"
Yuri Malyshev told him, leaving out no details.
"You mean you could have killed this Dennis Land, there where he confronted you, weaponless?"
"Easily."
"And that final scene. You could have eliminated him there, too?"
"Possibly. Probably. By that time he was strong with the energy drug, but I probably could have eliminated him. However, we had made a pact."
Zoltan Korda lit a fresh cigarette off the butt of the last, and his eyes registered surprise. "I am amazed that you honored it, considering your reputation, Yuri, and that of the ministry for which you work."
Malyshev said, "Land could have dishonored it, too. He could have finished me off, there at the end when I was unconscious. That would have solved everything for the West-world. He didn't."
"I see," Korda said. "Espionage-counter espionage has evolved to the point where there is honor between rival agents." There was deprecation in his tone.
Yuri Malyshev said nothing.
His chief said, "Then Bazaine isn't as lost to us as the commissar was led to believe."
"No. The agreement is that you and I meet with Professor Land and his superior on the scene, Joseph Mauser. We are to decide, on an equal basis, what to do with Auguste Bazaine, as soon as The Gaulle's people turn him over."
"If you had told the commissar all this, don't you think he might have been somewhat less enraged?"
Yuri Malyshev said very slowly, "I am afraid, comrade, that is, sir, that I am getting to the point where I don't… always… trust the decisions of Party members. Undoubtedly, I am mistaken."
"Undoubtedly," Korda said dryly. "Very well, colonel. You and I shall attend this meeting with Land and Mauser. We'll decide later just how to report to the commissar."
They met in the suite Joseph Mauser had taken in the Des Bergues hotel, overlooking the lake at the Quai des Bergues. The teams of experts Mauser had whipped together to advise and teach his trio of West-world champions, were now gone, as were Jesus Gonzales and Alex Cameron for that matter, and the suite echoed emptily to the presence of only Mauser, Dennis Land and Bette Yardborough. Indeed, Bette herself had withdrawn into a pique of silence and remained largely in her. room, obviously aware of the fact that something was going on to which she wasn't privy, and resenting the fact.
Joe Mauser had agreed with Denny that the fewer persons who were aware of the collaboration between West-world and Sov-world, the better. The art of the truth serum and hypnosis was far too advanced for secrets to be kept, given physical possession of the keeper by an inquisitive opponent.
They met, and Colonel Yuri Malyshev made the introductions, stiffly properly.
Still in uniform, he clicked his heels, bowed from the waist in the style the Sov-world military had adapted from the Hungarians. "I believe you gentlemen both know me," he said to Joe Mauser and Dennis Land. "Colonel Yuri Malyshev. And may I present my superior, Comrade Zoltan Korda of the Chrezvychainaya -nssiya. Sir, Joseph Mauser, Category Government, Branch Bureau of Investigation, Rank Assistant to the Secretary, Caste Low-Upper. And Dennis Land, Category Education, Sub-division History, Rank Professor, Caste Mid-Middle."
Korda shook hands formally. "Not Comrade. I am not a Party member."
They found chairs. Joe Mauser offered drinks, which were refused.
Dennis Land took the other two in. Zoltan Korda, of whom he had only vaguely heard, was a small intense man with an air of competence. Yuri Malyshev seemed strangely different than he had been there in the grove. Quiet, indrawn. How had Zero once typed him—easy-going? It was hardly the man who only a few days before had handled the drama in the grove as though he were the stage manager.
Joe Mauser opened the conversation carefully. "As I understand it, Professor Land's victory was not entirely all his own."
Korda said, "An understatement, Major Mauser."
"I am no longer in the Category Military. I might point out that had he wished, Dennis Land could have finished Colonel Malyshev there at the last when the colonel was unconscious."
Korda nodded. "Or, for that matter, the colonel could have finished Land, when he met him unarmed."
"Perhaps. However, Dennis Land holds the karate Black Belt which would make his being temporarily weaponless not quite so important."
"So does Colonel Malyshev, do you not, colonel?"
"Seventh Dan Black Belt, taken in Okinawa," Malyshev said.
"I trust the javelin, trench knives and sword with which the colonel was equipped would have been decisive." Korda paused. "We are sparring with words, gentlemen. Colonel, will you tell us as exactly as possible the pact you made with Dennis Land?"
The Russian agent shifted his position slightly in his chair, crossing his legs. He looked at Denny and said. "The initiative was mine. I broke the only telly lens which covered the area and then suggested that Land and I unite to eliminate the Common Europe combatants. My original idea was that after such elimination we fight it out. He demurred on the grounds that he was wounded, and I strong, and insisted it be done in such manner that we both survive. This could only mean that one sham. Since he didn't trust me, I volunteered to pretend to be knocked unconscious. The agreement was that following his being awarded the victory, we would meet and decide what to do with Auguste Bazaine once he has been delivered."
Mauser looked at Denny. "Professor Land?"
"That was the agreement. I see no way in which we can renege at this time."
Joe Mauser said, "Did it occur to any of you that Professor Land, no matter what the situation with which he was confronted in the grove, was in no position to pledge anyone's word but his own? Or do you suffer under the illusion that I, ranking no higher than assistant to the secretary of the commissioner of the Bureau of Investigation, can make decisions usually in the hands of the Octagon and White House?"
"This problem is not of our making," Korda said. He lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the last, and ground the butt down roughly in the tray to the side of him, without looking. "We entered into the agreement in good faith. We, through the colonel, lived up to every facet of the pact. Dennis Land would not be alive today, hadn't it been for the initiative the colonel took."
"The initiative?" Mauser snorted. "He broke practically every rule pertaining to the trial by combat."
"And by doing so," the Sov espionage official said, "accomplished the end that both the Sov-world and West-world desired."
Denny had been listening to Joe Mauser's words with growing anger. Now he said, "I made the agreement with Yuri Malyshev. I'll live up to it. So will our government."
Mauser looked at him angrily. "You presume to speak for me…"
Denny said flatly, "If the government fails to back me in this, then I'll notify the international press of the whole matter."
Joe Mauser half came to his feet.
But it was then that Bette Yardborough entered and said, "Sir, an important message."
Joe Mauser shot his glare in her direction now. "I thought I made it clear that this meeting was not to be interrupted."
Bette said nothing, but her green eyes flared her own brittle temper.
It was obvious that an operative of her background wouldn't intrude in the face of definite instructions with something of minor importance.
Joe Mauser said, "Very well. Let me have it."
She crossed to him and handed him a folded note. He muttered apologies to the others and read it. His face went blank. Finally he said, "That will be all, Miss Yardborough."
After she had gone, Joe Mauser looked at Zoltan Korda. "The World Court ruled that Auguste Bazaine be turned over to the West-world, with the recommendation that he be placed under the supervision of an international body and his experiments suppressed."
Korda's eyes were piercing. Obviously something had developed. "So we heard on the news, before we left the Sov-world embassy to come here."
Mauser said, indicating the paper Bette had given him, "Common Europe denies having Bazaine."
Zoltan Korda dropped his lighted cigarette on his pants. Even as he frantically brushed the spark and ash off his clothing, he snapped, "They lie!"
"The Gaulle has offered to submit to truth serum and hypnosis and be put to the question by representatives of the World Court, and either, or both, the West-world and Sov-world."
Both Zoltan Korda and Yuri Malyshev were staring at the American Bureau of Investigation official. Looking at them, Dennis Land could not believe they were acting. Unless every intuition of his was far astray, these two were as dumbfounded as was he.
It was in Joe Mauser's face that he suddenly caught a gleam that should not have been there. However, it was quickly gone.
As always, under extreme stress, the side of Mauser's face was twitching. He stood now, and automatically so did the others. There seemed nothing more, at present, to say. Nothing that made real difference.
Zoltan Korda said, "If The Gaulle has made such an offer, we can be sure that the result will be negative. In short, Common Europe doesn't have this mad-man Bazaine."
Yuri Malyshev had said very little this evening. He spoke now. "The Gaulle has set the precedent. If the world is not to break into flames, Number One and the President of the West-world are going to have to follow."
They looked at him.
"They, too, are going to have to submit to the question."
After the two Sov-world agents had left, Dennis Land looked back at Joe Mauser. After a long moment, he said, "You know where Bazaine is, don't you?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Mauser said.
Yuri Malyshev proved a prophet. For a few days, recriminations flew. The Gaulle submitted to questioning, as promised. Not only were representatives present from the World Court, the Sov-world and the West-world, but the Neut-world as well demanded to be allowed participation. Half a dozen different systems of questioning were used on a subject not particularly known for his length of temper. However, on this occasion Common Europe's strong man proved docile.
"Did he know where Auguste Bazaine was at present?"
"Non."
"Was Bazaine in the hands of Common Europe?"
"Non."
"Were his papers dealing with the anti-anti-missile missile in the possession of Common Europe?"
"Non."
"Was Auguste Bazaine still alive?"
"Je ne sais pas."
"Did The Gaulle suspect that Bazaine was in the hands of either the Sov-world or the West-world?"
"Oui."
"Which?"
"Je ne sais pas."
There was more. And, although each group worded the questions somewhat differently, that was the substance of it.
Yuri Malyshev's prophecy proved correct. International temperature rose. Rumors ran riot about both the West-world and Sov-world secretly beginning construction of nuclear arms plants. Inspection teams, a thousand strong, put a quick end to the whispers, but charges and counter-charges still flew.
Number One gained a propaganda victory by being the first to offer himself for questioning by anyone interested and submitted himself to the same indignities as had The Gaulle. And with the same result. He was followed by Seymour Gatling, Category Government, Sub-division Executive, Rank President, Caste Upper-Upper. And with the same result.
The world's eyes turned, with cold accusal, to the Neut-world.
It came to the minds of all that it was the Neut-world that was the most concerned in the development of Bazaine's anti-anti-missile missile. Given such a weapon, Common Europe would have felt itself free from threat by West-world or Sov-world. Free to carve out what it would from a military weak Neut-world. If anyone was interested in removing Auguste Bazaine from the scene, it was the Neut-world. What could be more obvious?
And one by one, the heads of state of the loosely allied Neut-world nations submitted to the question. And the answers were ever the same. No one knew where the off-beat Belgian scientist was, nor whether or not he was still alive, or where his papers, if any, were.
The pressure fizzled away. The world sank back into a spirit of blank mystery. Bazaine had disappeared into nothingness.
Most of this Dennis Land followed, as did everyone else, on the telly newscasts. He had ceased to be an active participant in the world's most secret affairs. Not that he minded. Or so, at least, he told himself.
They were returned to the West-world by regular rocket-craft from Geneva. Bette Yardborough and Denny were on the same plane, though Joe Mauser had either gone on ahead, or was winding up some last minute affairs which kept him in Switzerland. The fact was that Denny had seen very little of Mauser since the confrontation with Malyshev and Korda at the hotel. He had wondered, once or twice, if the older man was deliberately avoiding him, but that seemed to make little sense.
There was something wrong with Bette, too. Since he had asked her to leave the hospital room so that he could report alone to Mauser she had been standoffish. Or, perhaps, he reasoned, the relationship between the redhead and Zero Gonzales had been deeper than Denny suspected, and she was mourning that brash fighter. Mourning him, and subconsciously resentful of Denny having survived whilst Zero hadn't. If such was her trend of thought, Denny felt it just as well that she didn't know the full story of his survival.
For a few days, after his arrival in Greater Washington, Dennis Land, "The Fighting Professor," had to submit to the adulations of the mob. He was continually in the focus of the telly lenses, the guest of honor at a score of banquets, of which few he even knew the organization throwing the affair, his interviews for the fracas buff and gladiator fan magazines seemed endless, and, of course, always repetitive. There had been precious little in his life of excitement, until he had been caught up in the national games only a few months before. He had, indeed, led a rather sheltered existence.
All were taken back, some even seemed a bit hurt, when he made it clear that he by no means would ever appear in an arena again. He wouldn't even make a national exhibition tour. In fact, he wouldn't co-operate at all, in the manner in which national heroes were expected to co-operate.
Which cut short his days of acclaim. In the modern world, the mob wanted excitement all of the time. And, face reality, Professor Dennis Land wasn't exciting. A new hero was needed, and found.
Of course, it hadn't been as completely tiresome as all that. The day after his arrival, he was presented to Seymour Gatling at the White House, was decorated and informed he had been bounced a caste to Upper-Middle.
Dennis Land was mildly surprised that the President of the West-world differed little from the few other Uppers he had known during his career. When he thought of it, he realized that Seymour Gatling was the only Upper-Upper he had ever met. Contrary to his publicity photographs and occasional telly-casts, the President seemed a rather vague man. Pleasant enough, in the politician's way, but vague and rather ineffective. The little speech he had given, had been read and Denny suspected the other had never seen it before the reading.
Preceding the ceremony, a selected few had had cocktails and for a moment Denny found himself alone with the supposed most powerful man in the world, if Number One and The Gaulle were not considered. Gatling had asked one or two of the standard questions which Denny, by now, could answer by rote. How did it feel to survive the last day of the national games? How did it feel to enter that grove, knowing that nine of the best fighters in the world were going in and that but one would ever leave? To his answers, Seymour Gatling inevitably reacted with "Extraordinary," but murmured in such manner as to appear bored, rather than astounded.
But one thing remained with Denny, and was to come back to him later. Gatling had said, almost petulantly, "Suppose you know, professor, that you're to run up a caste level. To Upper-Middle. Frankly, I was in favor of making it a double jump. One of the few in history. Extraordinary. Jump right from Mid-Middle to Low-Upper. However, my advisers were against it. Hasn't been anyone jumped to Upper in years. Set a precedent and all. Can't let every Tom, Dick and Harry become an Upper, or what's the use of having a caste system at all? Sorry, old chap. I was rather keen about it."
The really important meeting, that with Frank Hodgson in the Octagon, came later.
In a way, it duplicated his first meeting with that elderly bureaucrat. Except that it was Joe Mauser who was present, rather than the ever-grinning Zero Gonzales.
When he entered the monstrous reception hall of the Bureau of Investigation, he was met, as before by a nattily attired stereotype of a Category Government young man who introduced himself and conducted Denny to the office of Hodgson. For a moment he thought the other was the same agent who had met him before, but then decided not. It was just that all those, in their late twenties, who worked in the Octagon, seemed to look alike, dress alike and talk alike. Denny wondered in vague amusement, if it was becoming hereditary. That some day, in the far future, all young government men would be twins.
His guide opened the door for him to the small ante-room, stood aside for Denny to enter, but didn't come in himself. Miss Mikhail looked up from her desk, as she had before, her features birdlike.
She said, brightly, "Good afternoon, Professor Land. Mr. Hodgson is expecting you. Go right in."
Denny went right in, finding Frank Hodgson in company with Joe Mauser and obviously awaiting him. After they had shaken hands and murmured the usual banalities, the older man looked at him quizzically.
He said, "Well, Denny. We come now to the payoff, eh?"
"The payoff?"
"Have you forgotten? The last time you were in this office, you were on the verge of despair. You had been ordered on indefinite leave of absence from the University. Your appropriation for your research work on the Etruscans had been rescinded. I promised you that if your mission was successful we'd take measures to reverse those decisions. Very well, in spite of the fact that the mission wasn't exactly a success, we have done just that. You may return to the University tomorrow, or whenever you wish."
"How about Updike?" Denny said. He looked from the seemingly easy-going Hodgson to Joe Mauser, who sat to one side, and then back again. There was a strange something in the room which he didn't understand. Or was it imagination?
"Academician Updike has been, ah, kicked upstairs, the term was when I was a youngster. He has been promoted head of one of the smaller universities in Peru. You are to take over his department. It will, of course, mean you will earn additional Variable stock to put with your portfolio."
Denny shifted in his chair. "I'm a research man, not a university politician. I don't want to be head of a department." He should have felt, six months ago would have felt, elated about all this. Somehow, he wasn't.
The older man chuckled. "My dear Denny, you have much to learn about bureaucracy. You will have a group of assistants to fob the work off on. Continue your research. Your position as head of the history department, I would think, will enable you to ask for appropriations of almost any magnitude, and to call upon as many underlings as you wish to do the more tedious jobs connected with it. You might even inaugurate a department of Etruscanology. My dear professor, your Utopia has been reached. Don't you realize it?"
Denny shot another look at Joe Mauser, who, other than their initial greetings, had said nothing thus far. Mauser's face was expressionless. But somehow Denny caught an edge of humor.
He said, "Look here, I must sound mad, but I'm willing to work on with the Bureau until this present assignment is cleared up."
"What present assignment?" Frank Hodgson asked, glancing at Joe Mauser.
Was the older man dense? "The finding of Auguste Bazaine," Denny said.
"Ah, of course. Well, your task can only be considered done. Obviously, you are not a regular agent. You haven't the training. Even if you had, your present notoriety is such that we couldn't utilize you. Everybody in the world knows the face of Dennis Land, and of all things a Bureau operative must have it is anonymity. Thank you, Denny, but we really can't use your services further."
Dennis Land licked sudden dry lips. "Look here. Zero Gon-zales and I became rather close friends. We were sent on an assignment together, and while working on it, Zero was killed. Something happened that threw the whole thing into a dither. I don't know what. But Zero's dead, and I'm not happy about what's happened. I get the feeling that he died to no end. I want to stay with it. Be in on the final scene. I…"
Frank Hodgson was shaking his head impatiently. "Professor Land, believe me, your ardor is appreciated. But we simply cannot use you. Admittedly, the Bureau will continue to in-vestigate the whereabouts of Auguste Bazaine. Sooner or later, the problem will be solved. I shall personally inform you, when it is. That's all I can say."
Denny came to his feet and again looked from one of them to the other, then back again. He said, "I'm being given the brush."
Joe Mauser snorted but said nothing.
"I'm being paid off to shut up."
"Shut up about what?" Hodgson demanded. "Do you know something we don't?"
There was frustrated anger in Dennis Land, but he had no outlet. He felt something. But there was no substance. He felt what? Suspicion was all. Suspicion, and the impression that all wasn't being done for the cause Zero Gonzales had died for. A lid had been lowered by someone, somewhere.
Denny turned to go, his teeth tightly together. His hand was on the doorknob when Joe Mauser said, "Good-by, Dennis."
He hesitated only a moment, then didn't answer, opened the door and left.
Dennis Land found that it is possible to go through a major portion of one's life quietly, perhaps monotonously, though still in comparative happiness, with little interest in the outside world. In a rut, and either knowing it not, or caring not. Life is even. Life is secure. One does one's work, one lives out one's days in monotony. He could have gone from childhood, through youth to middle age and then senility, never leaving the rut of his life.
But then a bomb can drop, all be shattered.
Denny's bomb had dropped. The world he had known and accepted, was destroyed for him. Existence, as he had known and accepted it, was destroyed for him. Existence, as he had known it, was so radically changed as to be unrecognizable. And all in a few months' time.
Upon his return to his Mini-Auto-Apartment at the University, he seemed hardly to recognize the place and the personal belongings once so close to him. He stood in the middle of the small room, taking in what should have been so familiar, and wasn't. His player, the shelves of tapes, books, reference works. His desk and on it his typer with a sheet of paper, half finished, still in it. Blank paper in the half opened drawer to the right. Finished manuscript in a box to the left.
He stared down, without recognition. Chapter Six. "The Tarquin Gens and Its Origin." The Tarquin gens? He had to wrench his mind into memory. The Tarquins had come down to Rome from Tarquinia, an Etruscan city less than fifty miles north. They had supplied the last three reges for the city on the Tiber before the overthrow of Tarquin Superbus and the declaration of the republic.
How was he ever to resume the life of the scholar which had once seemed of such importance?
He went over to his little museum, once his pride. He must remember to get the little bronze warrior from his bags and return it to its place. The little Etruscan warrior he had shown Auguste Bazaine.
Bazaine! Where in the world was Bazaine? Hadn't it been for Yuri Malyshev witnessing the Belgian scientist's kidnaping, Denny would have suspected Bazaine of having gone off on his own to hide from friends as well as foes. But it wasn't that. The man had been abducted, and someone had him.
Denny brought his mind back to the present. He was no longer a cloak-and-dagger killer, deep in international politics. He was, once again, Professor Dennis Land, Category Education, Branch History, Rank Departmental Head, Caste Upper-Middle. Yes, he had made Upper-Middle, and all his children, were there to be children, would inherit that high caste rating. Only one caste short of being an Upper. He grunted in self-depreciation. The only Upper he had ever met in his life who seemed to have anything on the ball was Joe Mauser, and right now he was miffed at Joe Mauser. He didn't understand quite why.
He went to his telly-phone, brought his credit card from his pocket and pressed it to the screen. He flicked it on and said, "Balance check, please." It was the first time he'd got around to doing this since his return. He was surprised at the report. Of course, he had known that his Inalienable basic stock would be upped to coincide with his new caste rating, and he had also been aware of the Variable common shares that had been added to his portfolio as a result of activity for the Bureau of Investigation and as a prize for winning the trial by combat. However, he had never totted it up.
Frank Hodgson had been right. Dennis Land was now in a position to accomplish just about anything he had ever dreamed of. An extended trip to Italy, say, for a year of study and possibly even excavation on the sites of Caere, Volsini, Tarquinia, Sutri, or any of the other Etruscan cities.
Somehow, it all didn't excite him.
He looked about the room again. Once it had been home. All the home he wanted. Now it was just a cold, empty, un-lived-in, Mini-Auto-Apartment. Well, at least that would make it easier for him to make his move to the larger quarters that would be his at the University as a department head. There would be no wrench at leaving this place where he had spent years.
Bette Yardborough gave him three weeks, before turning up.
He had almost, not quite, gotten himself into the rut again. He had found that Hodgson, as evidently always, had been correct. It was a simple matter for him to delegate his responsibilities to assistants. He could see now how a nincompoop such as Ronald Updike could have held down this position. The other's Upper caste rating had guaranteed his progress through school until he had taken that highest of all degrees, Academician, and then guaranteed him the headship of a department in the largest university of North America. And then he had simply delegated his work to others more competent than he but lesser in rank.
Yes, he had fitted into routine, but not happily. There was still a nagging that prevented him from returning completely to his delving into the problems of yesteryear. He had an awareness of the world beyond the campus which had failed to interest him before. An awareness of the inadequacy of the world as he found it. He had never bothered before.
Early in the game, following his return to the University, Denny Land had had to take measures to protect himself from the fracas buffs, the gladiator fans, and those whose professions battened on these, telly reporters, writers for fracas buff magazines, and such. He had found it necessary to take an unlisted telly-phone number, to keep secret the location of his apartment, and to have his office staff maintain a strict guard of his privacy.
Thus it was that when Bette Yardborough stormed through his door, into what was supposedly his sanctum sanctorum, she was followed by a youngish assistant professor who was holding his arm as though it were broken, was wide of eye and white of face.
Denny looked from her to the poor worthy she had obvi-
ously just assaulted, and said, "All right, Stan dish, that will be all…"
"My… my arm…" the other stuttered in anguish.
"It isn't fractured," Denny told him, with a sigh. "Miss Yard-borough is a professional. She wouldn't unnecessarily break your arm."
"Unnecessarily?" the other said in indignation. He blinked at the redhead, obviously wondering how anybody who looked that gorgeous could be quite so ruthless.
"All right," Denny told him. "That will be all."
When his assistant had left, Denny came to his feet. "Was it necessary to practice your judo on my staff?"
She was still in a huff. Looked about the office in distaste. Located the most comfortable chair in the room, and plunked herself down. "When I became insistent about seeing you, that cloddy had the gall to put his hand on my arm."
Denny had to laugh. He resumed his chair. "Probably thought you were some fracas buff who wanted my autograph, or a souvenir, or something. One overtranked fan got through to this office last week and wanted to give me ten shares of common in return for the sword I used during the national games."
Her voice was brittle. "A big hero, eh? Why didn't you sell it to him?"
Denny looked at her. "Never give a sucker an even break? As a matter of fact, I don't even have it. Understand that I wasn't proud of the killing I did, during the games. I was forced into the situation, and defended myself, Miss Yard-borough."
She said suddenly. "Oh, let's stop this, Dennis. I didn't come to quarrel."
Zen! but the girl looked beautiful when she was angry. He had almost forgotten her startling good looks, her projection of excited energy. Denny said, "Why did you come, Bette? I thought the Bureau was through with me. I got the feeling I'd been dropped for good, as though I were a hot coal, or something."
"I'm not with the Bureau any more."
Dennis Land was surprised. "I thought you were supposed to be one of Hodgson's top operatives."
She was frowning her own puzzlement. "So did I. However, about a week ago I was notified that I was being dropped.
Frank Hodgson wouldn't even see me. I was given a bonus, and that was that."
"But… why…?"
She said, "I've about decided that my underground activities have become a bit too blatant, even for Hodgson's tolerance. Obviously, if the Category Security cloddies nab me one of these days, it wouldn't look too good for Commissioner Gat-ling's Bureau of Investigation."
"You think Frank Hodgson might turn you in?"
She shook her head. "No, Frank wouldn't do that. But he also wouldn't fish me out of the dill, if I got into it."
"We seem to have got away from the subject. Why did you look me up, Bette? I thought you'd about written me off your list."
She twisted her small mouth into a moue. "I finally figured that out, I believe. Why you didn't want anyone present except Mauser there in the embassy hospital. It tied in with the fact that you and Mauser later had a get together with Yuri Maly-shev and his chief."
Denny said nothing.
Bette said, "You two had made some deal in that grove. You and Yuri. Some deal to combine against the Common Europe team, and then to reach agreement later on. The wheels came off the deal when it was found that The Gaulle didn't have Bazaine."
Denny said, "Even if true, obviously I couldn't discuss it with you, Bette."
She shifted her shoulders disinterestedly. "It makes no difference to me now."
"Confound it, why did you come? Not just to talk over old times, I assume."
Her green eyes were very level. "Don't rush me. I'm trying to come to a decision. You might offer an old colleague a drink."
Dennis Land got up with a sigh, and pushed back the shelf of books which hid his auto-bar. He said, "What'll it be, this early in the day?"
"Oh, a puritan, eh? Just for that, I'll make you drink one with me. Make it a John Brown's Body."
He winced, but put his credit card to the screen, and dialed two of the potent long drinks. When he handed her one, he said, "I just figured out the derivation of the name of this con-coction. A John Brown's Body. The morning after, you feel like you're mouldering in your grave."
"Why, Dennis, you made a funny. Stuffy old you." She held up her glass. "What do we drink to?"
"Zero, obviously."
"Yes, obviously." She drank with him, then said, "I never asked you. What happened?"
He turned his back to her and stared out the window at the young people going up and down. The forever campus scene.
He said, "Yuri Malyshev's team ambushed us. Zero's rapier was too long-bladed to be effective at such short quarters. He should have beat a quick, temporary retreat and let me, with my Roman gladius and Cameron with his short-shafted boar spear, take them on. However, that wasn't Zero's style He took the first rush. Held them for that necessary split second that allowed Cameron and me to get set. If he hadn't done that, Malyshev's play probably would have worked."
"I see."
Denny turned back to her, his face composed again. Carrying his glass with him, he returned to his chair. "He was quite a lad, behind all that inane chatter of his."
"Yes. Ridiculous that persons of his caliber die in the service of a fantastic socio-economic system such as ours."
"Here we go again," Denny said.
"Well, isn't it? The West-world, the Welfare State, People's Capitalism. A fraction of a fraction, hereditary aristocrats, on top. The Uppers. The overwhelming majority, over ninety per cent, on the bottom, automated out of activity in the economy, useless. The Lowers. And to maintain this situation, a strict caste system, all effort devoted to maintaining the status quo. Don't educate the lower castes, they might become restive. Give them bread and circuses instead."
Denny sighed.
"Well," her voice was brittle sharp. "Don't you agree with me?"
"As a matter of fact, I do."
"Then why don't you do something about it?"
"I'm a professor of history. Not a revolutionist."
She seemed to switch subjects. "The Category Security got Dr. Fitzgerald."
"Who?" He hadn't the vaguest idea what she was talking about.
"Lawrence Fitzgerald. I took you to one of his meetings. One of the Sons of Liberty meetings."
"Oh. I don't think you ever mentioned his name before. He was captured by the Security police?"
"Undoubtedly. He's simply dropped from sight. His family, his friends, have had no word. It's the way Category Security operates, supposedly having the effect of terrifying anyone else that might have subscribed to his ideas."
"I see." Denny considered, saying finally, "Bette, you're going to have to face reality. That Sons of Liberty organization to which, I suppose, you belong."
She nodded, finished her drink and set the glass down. Her green eyes came back to him.
"They're a bunch of impractical, inept malcontents."
She nodded again.
"As they are, both as individuals and as a group, an organization, they'll never overthrow the government of the Uppers."
"I know," she nodded.
He threw his hands up in an overdone gesture of appeal. "Then why go on with them? You're asking for trouble. You admit that the probable reason Hodgson dropped you, is that your support of these crackpots has become known."
Bette said, "I realize they're all you've said. Inept, impractical, certainly malcontents. That's where you come in, Dennis."
He could only stare at her.
She took it upon herself to get up and approach the auto-bar. "Let me have your credit card," she said. "I'm avoiding using mine. I'm in semi-hiding and wouldn't want them to trace my presence back to your office."
Denny handed it to her, still trying to assimilate what she had said.
She dialed two more of the long drinks, handed one to him. He took it, and knocked back a stiff jolt. Bette returned to her chair and took up where she had left off, matter-of-factly.
"One reason why the Sons of Liberty are inept and impractical is because the art of revolution has been largely lost. There hasn't been a social revolution for a long time. We've lost the techniques. Of course, the government of the Welfare State has had its finger in that pie. In the past, any student could go to any library with pretensions of being a bona fide depository of the world's accumulated wisdom—shall we say—and study any advocated social system he might wish. There would be competent works on everything ranging from anarchy to technocracy, by the way of socialism, communism, syndicalism, and all points east, west and south. If the student became enamored of any of these, he could seek out and probably find some organization, no matter how small, that advocated that basic politico-economic change he had come to believe in. They probably put out a weekly newspaper and their own literature, usually paperback pamphlets. Fine. That was the way it was once."
Bette took a pull at her drink, sizing up how he was taking this, thus far. But Denny was being noncommittal.
"But now?" he prompted.
"The change began way back in the mid-Twentieth Century. It started slowly, but gained in speed as time went by. They began pulling books out of the local libraries, books written by, first, the communists of that time. Later on, anybody tarred with the commie brush. Shortly, even the basic works of such Nineteenth Century economists as Marx and Engels were not to be found in many of the country's universities. How these censors expected the people to fight Marxism, without being able to find out what it was, is a mystery. However, in time, the very subject of social change became a taboo. The status quo must not even be considered to be changeable. First a two-party system was imposed on the country by various means, a system that made all but impossible any third party from challenging. The two parties then slowly merged into one, since they both stood for the same thing."
Denny became impatient. "What's all this got to do with me, and with what you said a few moments ago?"
"I was pointing out that the Sons of Liberty are inept and impractical as revolutionists because we've lost the art of putting over a social change. That's where you come in."
"Where's where I come in?" he complained in irritation.
"You're the head of the Department of History in the largest university in the West-world. You have access to the works we need. What you haven't got, you can get, through the governmental libraries in Greater Washington. Nobody monitors the books of a scholar of your attainments." She had twisted her small mouth when she said that. "You're free to read what you will."
What she said was obviously true.
"Aside from all that," Bette drilled on, "you're a man of action, Dennis Land. We need a few more men of action. We need spark plugs, people who do things. People who have ideas and will see them through."
She wound it all up. "In short we need you."
So. It had sought him out. He was not to return to the sheltered life, after all. What had gone before, his being dragooned into participation in the national games, his being coerced by Hodgson to take on an espionage assignment, his being appointed without consultation to be one of the three West-world champions at the trial by combat, all had been but preliminary to this. He had no doubt now that they had all been but preliminary to this.
"What are your greatest needs?" he said.
She seemed already to have accepted the fact that he was one of them. Her green eyes were even brighter. She leaned forward. "First, a stronger organization. One that can avoid having such men as Dr. Fitzgerald taken by the Security police. And then, some method of getting our message to the people. As it is, ninety-nine persons out of a hundred haven't even heard of the Sons of Liberty, not to speak of their program."
He was nodding. "First of all, the cell system."
She scowled. "The what?"
"The cell system. Five persons to a cell, one of whom is the elected leader. The nihilists, back in the Nineteenth Century were the first to develop it, I believe. I can study up on the details and report. The general idea is that you know no one in the organization but the other four members of your cell. If you're captured, it is possible for you to betray only four persons. If you are a police spy, you will learn the identity of only four persons."
Bette was dubious. "How does one cell communicate with another? How are instructions passed around? How do you accomplish things that call for more than five persons?"
"The leader of each cell knows the leaders of four other cells, and gets together with them periodically. This is called a unit. Each unit elects one of its number to be its unit secretary."
Bette was considering it. "And suppose one of these cell leaders is captured, he can betray his fellow four-cell members, plus the members of his unit."
"Each leader carries poison," Denny said. "Bette, have no illusions. This is no child's game. If this overthrow of the Welfare State is to be accomplished, then the chips are down, and there is no picking them up again. The Sons of Liberty can't remain a little debating society where breathless intellectuals meet to deliciously whisper their revolt against the powers that be."
Bette Yardborough flushed.
He went back to describing the cell system. "Each leader of a unit meets with four other leaders of units, periodically. This is called a division. The division elects a leader to be divisional secretary. Divisional secretaries are in touch with the Executive Committee, which works on a full-time basis for the organization. They're the writers, newspaper editors, speakers, agitators, propagandists. That last word, by the way, has grown to leave a bad taste in one's mouth. It shouldn't. Consult your dictionary."
Bette said, "If one of the Executive Committee is a traitor, or is caught, he's in a position to betray a good many persons."
"I didn't say it was foolproof. We might be able to think up some refinements, but the cell system has been utilized by revolutionary groups for at least a couple of centuries."
Bette Yardborough looked down at the tips of her shoes. Her feet were in the new Balkan-revival slippers, the toes turned up. She said, "I continually keep catching myself underestimating you, Dennis Land. I came here, largely, to recruit you to supply us with hard to get publications. Now I begin to suspect that you are going to take over leadership of the organization." She looked up at him. "I don't object."
"A single person leadership has too many shortcomings," Denny told her. "Eliminate one person, and the whole movement has had it. That was the Achilles heel of the Incas. All Pizarro had to do was capture Atahualpa, the Inca, and the whole shebang fell apart. We'd better stick to collective leadership. I'd suggest that you and I try to become members of the Executive Committee. Since you're already in, and I presume well known, you can start the ball rolling, forming the cell system. When the membership, from bottom to top, has found itself its Executive Committee, we'll hold our first executive meeting. By that time, perhaps I can have rooted out some basic technics for spreading our message."
Revolution. A word of romantic connotations. Paul Revere's breakneck ride from Boston to warn the Minute Men. The red coats are coming! Patrick Henry, his face livid, shouting, I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death! Thomas Paine, the propagandist without peer, bent over his rickety desk, a half empty bottle of rum to the left of his ink pot. These are the times that try men's souls. Washington on a white horse, his face impassive as he holds his spyglass to his eye, watching the long line of beautifully uniformed French, the less natty lines of his Continentals, slowly working forward, from position to position, whilst the artillery continues to shatter Yorktown. In the far distance, behind the British lines, can be heard the bagpipers skirling, "The World Turned Upside Down."
Perhaps once it had been so.
However, Dennis Land found hard work and tedium rather than romance.
Revolutionists Jefferson, Madison, Paine, and their contemporaries had been of the opinion that given the printing press and an educated population, tyranny would become impossible. An informed people would rise against it.
They failed to comprehend the evolution of the printing press and of other mass media.
In Benjamin Franklin's day, so little reading material was available that each man capable of reading read everything he could put hands to—including the inflammatory pamphlets of Thomas Paine. But by the Twentieth Century, not to speak of the Twenty-first, when for all practical purposes everyone could read, few did. Less than five per cent of the population bought books, and they were usually devoted to sex or mayhem, or preferably both.
Even those who did read found themselves beset by a situation never dreamed of by the revolutionary forefathers. Each day they found themselves proffered reading material enough to have kept them supplied for the balance of the year. Hundreds upon hundreds of magazines, thousands of paperbacks, tens of thousands of books on any and every subject overflowing the book stores, the newsstands, the magazine shops, even the supermarkets. In self-defense of one's time, one could only select desperately, quickly. If a title didn't draw instant attention, a magazine cover spark interest, a newspaper headline provoke concern, a reader went no further. If a story failed to have a provocative narrative hook, it was discarded after the first few paragraphs.
But above all, the average reader refused anything that proved hard to read, that moved too slowly. The top novelists of the Nineteenth Century would have starved to death in the world of Hemingway, not to speak of that of Mickey Spillane. Television, movies and radio had taught the average citizen to relax in seeking his intellectual entertainment. He didn't want to have to concentrate.
So it was that Dennis Land, Bette Yardborough and the Sons of Liberty found themselves butting their heads against a seeming stone wall. Whether or not their message would be received, once delivered, was another question. They couldn't even deliver it.
Oh, yes. A recruit here. A recruit there. Usually brought in through individual contact. A friend. A relative. But how often were they able to attract a convert cold? Hand him a leaflet, give him a pamphlet or a copy of the Social Change, their skimpy newspaper, and step by step bring him around to their meetings and finally have him request membership? Practically never.
It wasn't for lack of effort and expenditure of energy. Neither Dennis Land nor Bette Yardborough had ever done anything lackadaisically. It was no mistake that Denny had become the youngest full professor in the history of his university. No mistake that he had so perfected himself in ancient weapons that he survived the national games. Nor was it a mistake that Bette Yardborough had become a top agent, in a man's field of intrigue and violence.
Denny had started by taking advantage of the facilities he controlled at the university. They included a multitude of printing, offsetting and mimeographing equipment. Some of this he had smuggled out to the organization—that which he dared. Other, he actually used on the school grounds, after infiltrating his department with various Sons of Liberty members.
Such equipment as could be safely purchased without suspicion, was bought on the open market. Some that couldn't be, came into their possession through raids conducted by Denny and some of the younger membership. Once committed, Dennis Land pulled no punches. There were no means of upsetting this society by ballot box alone. They had to take such measures as they must.
But though they ran off leaflets decrying the Welfare State by the hundreds of thousands, pamphlets and newspapers by the tens of thousand, books to the extent they could—they simply were not getting through. Their output was a drop in the bucket. By the most desperate means, they couldn't have printed enough leaflets to supply one for every adult in the West-world. And if they could, and if they could have got it into the hands of each adult, they began to suspect what would happen.
The average recipient would have taken it, looked at the head, which read something like, CITIZENS UNITE TO OVERTHROW PEOPLE'S CAPITALISM, realized it was something "hard" and thrown it to the ground.
They simply weren't getting through.
It was seldom these days that Denny Land found time for a moment to himself without some task pressing upon him. The candle was burning at both ends, and beginning to melt in the middle as well. His duties as department head couldn't be completely fobbed off on others, but above all his work with the Sons of Liberty was all but a constant thing.
Thus it was unusual for him to stop off in a Middle Caste bar, which lay between his office and a book and tapes outlet he sometimes patronized. He had work, back at the office, and at least two appointments, but his feeling of emptiness was such that on an impulse he turned into the drink dispensary and found himself a table. Beer was what he wanted, a long, cold glass of bock beer. The darker the better, and the stronger the better. He put his credit card on the table's telly-screen, and dialed the heavy brew.
A voice above him, said, "Make mine the same, Denny."
He looked up at the other. It was Joe Mauser.
"Sit down," Denny said. "I'm having dark beer."
"Make mine the same. You know, it's hard to get hold of you except at your office or apartment." Joe Mauser looked about the establishment. "You don't seem to come into these public places very often."
"Isn't an office or apartment where'd you'd usually find someone?" Denny said. He felt the same irritation against the older man as he had the past couple of times he had seen him. "And I thought you Uppers never came into Middle caste bars."
"Did you? I thought I'd told you once that I was born a Mid-Lower. I fought myself up, Denny. By the time I reached my goal, I found it didn't mean much to me." He shrugged his heavy shoulders, a fighting man's shoulders. "However, I understand that's often the nature of goals."
"Is that supposed to mean something deep? What did you want to see me about, Mauser? And why couldn't it have been my office or apartment?"
The beer had come and Joe Mauser tasted his. For a moment he grinned a small boy's grin. "You want to know something? I brought some of my Lower caste tastes with me, on my crawl upward. Supposedly I'm in the vintage wine category now. Frankly, I still prefer beer."
Denny didn't respond to the pleasantry, and Joe Mauser went serious again. "I didn't want to go to your office or home due to the fact that both are most likely under surveillance." When Denny still said nothing, he added. "Category Security, of course."
"Not the Bureau of Investigation?" Denny's voice was bitter.
The old-time mercenary was shaking his head. "Subversion is no longer our jurisdiction, Denny. As a matter of fact, there are even very few agents of Category Security detailed to it these days."
Denny's unexplained irritation at Mauser had kept from his realization, for a moment, the fact that the other was obviously here for some good cause. It wasn't simply a get together to chat over old times. Now he said, "You've had some news on Bazaine?"
"No. The whole matter seems to have bogged down."
"How do you know that the Sov-world or Common Europe hasn't located him?"
Mauser seemed impatient of the subject. "We don't but we're taking all measures possible to find out, if such an eventuality develops."
All over again, Denny felt the intuitive suspicion that something was wrong. Something didn't ring true. He was impatient with himself. It didn't make sense. It didn't add up.
Denny said, "Well, why did you want to see me? What's the big mystery?"
Mauser worked on his beer some more. "No mystery. You didn't react to something I said a moment ago, Denny. The fact that even Category Security had few agents assigned to subversion these days."
He did remember the other saying that. Nor was Denny Land slow minded. The ramifications were manifest. Still, he said, "Why not?"
"Obviously, because it isn't important."
"Subversion isn't important to a stratified, caste-system such as the Welfare State?"
Mauser was shaking his head, as though regretfully. "You see, Denny, nobody is interested. Just a few crackpots, like our hotheaded Bette. Fuzzy minded Don Quixotes, tilting against the windmills of injustice, such as our Denny." Mauser grinned his rare little-boy grin again. "I'm waxing absolutely poetic."
Of a sudden, back to Dennis Land came that room with the tiled walls in Southern Spain. All the scenes from the Don Quixote story. He brought his thoughts back to the present.
"What did you want to see me about Mauser?"
The former mercenary took another pull at the bock, then put the glass down, and folded his fingers together on the table. "Denny, to the extent possible, the Bureau tries to take care of its own. From time to time we hear inter-departmental rumors. Sometimes they affect present or former operatives of the Bureau."
"In short," Denny snapped, "the Category Security people are onto Bette and me, and you think we should discontinue our activities. I suspect that Frank Hodgson is worried about the adverse publicity if it turns out that two of his former agents are now active in the Sons of Liberty."
Joe Mauser, his hands still folded, looked at him strangely. "Denny, let me tell you something. A people usually have the kind of government they both deserve, and want."
"There have been exceptions to that!"
The other was shaking his head. "No. Seldom for very long, historically speaking. Lightweights sometimes think that such phenomenon as Adolf the Aryan, last century, imposed himself upon the German people by violence and maintained himself there by the same tactics." Mauser was shaking his head. "Forget about it. The Germans didn't fight the war they did opposed to the government that got them into it. Obviously such minorities as the Jews, the Gypsies, the Czechs, ana the greater portions of the countries they overran, were opposed to the Nazis, but not the Germans. The Herrenvolk were in there pitching for der Filhrer even after the situation had pickled for them.
"An indication of how it might have gone if the German people had been opposed to him, was to be seen in Italy. Because by the time Il Duce had dragged them into the war, the majority of the Italians had become fed up with him. Have you ever heard of such soldiers in the history of warfare? Their battle cry was, I surrender. They deserted by the regiment every time they could find a bewildered Tommy, or G. I. to surrender to. Mussolini's supposed empire simply fell apart. His people didn't want him."
Denny was staring at the other. The man wasn't repeating anything really new. But he had brought it to the surface again.
Mauser went on. "Russia is another example. For decades, the West waited, touchingly, for the government of the Soviet Union, and later the government of the Soviet Complex, to collapse. Communism was bad, wasn't it? Very well, it would collapse. Well, it didn't. Why? Because in spite of how we allowed our own propaganda to blind us—by the way, you should never believe your own propaganda, it's even more foolish than believing the other man's—in spite of that, the Sov people wanted the government they had. They proved that in the streets of Stalingrad. They were willing to fight and die for it."
Denny said, "Who's the professor of history, here?"
Mauser closed his mouth and looked at him.
"What's your point?" Denny demanded.
"I'd think it was obvious by now." Joe Mauser came to his feet. He looked down on the younger man. "Denny. The reason more Category Security lads aren't assigned to such outfits as the Sons of Liberty is because they aren't dangerous. Nobody is interested. The Lowers in particular, and they compose more than ninety per cent of the population, are satisfied with the government they have. They want the type of government they have. And they deserve the type of government they have." He grunted contempt. "In fact, they'd fight for the kind of government they have, Denny. They'd fight you and your handful of Sons of Liberty if they thought you might rob them of their Welfare State, their trank pills, their sadistic telly shows, their fracases and their gladiatorial meets."
The old Category Military pro, now turned to government work, turned on his heel and started off. He said, back over his shoulder, "Thanks for the drink. I would of bought back, but, of course, my credit card's no good in a Middle caste establishment."
"Don't mention it," Denny growled after him.
For some reason unknown to Dennis Land, the words of Joe Mauser had only enraged him further against the man. He couldn't analyze his feelings against the Upper. When they had first met, in Spain, his reaction had been one of liking. Mauser had seemed one of those Denny approved of. Physically strong, ethically honest, ultra-fair in personal relations. A man who insisted on doing his work well. One you could trust in the dill.
What had happened? Dennis Land didn't know. But the last half dozen times he had seen Joe Mauser, an iron curtain seemed to have fallen between them.
Was he kidding himself? Were Joe Mauser's words the actual truth, and his irritation caused by the fact that he, Denny, knew them to be truth, but didn't want to accept it?
His mind up in the air, he decided against returning to the office and made his way toward his apartment, instead. He wanted to think. He wanted to talk to Bette Yardborough, too. But mostly he wanted to think this out.
The university had assigned a man to keep watch at the door of the apartment house in which Denny now lived. The number of fracas buffs and gladiatorial fans who had pestered him were falling off now. The nine-day-wonder period was over. Still, there were some, and Denny didn't want to be bothered. He passed the man, nodding to him absent-mindedly.
He took the elevator to his upper floor terrace apartment, bending his legs subconsciously to accommodate to the acceleration.
He was going back over Mauser's words, as well as he could remember them, even as the door recognized him and opened at his approach. He was well into the living room, and heading for his auto-bar, when the visitor stood and confronted him.
"So, we meet again, Professor Land."
For a second, Denny froze. Then he went into the Kiba-dachi, straddle position, fists out, knuckles down, spread feet apart, toes turned inward, knees bent out, as though astride a horse.
Yuri Malyshev shook his head. "I come in peace, professor."
For the moment, Denny maintained his karate stance in spite of the fact that the other carried no weapon and showed no signs of belligerence. "How did you get in here?" he demanded.
The Russian agent chopped out his short laugh. "Now really, professor. You know my profession. Do you think it any problem to a Chrezvychainaya Komissiya agent to enter an apartment?" Ignoring the American's posture, so suited to both offense and defense, he seated himself again and crossed his legs.
Denny relaxed. The other turning up in his home, like this, had set him back, and his mind had already been in a turmoil. However, in the past six months he had known a great deal of mental turmoil.
He said now, "I was about to dial myself a drink. Would you like one?"
Malyshev nodded. "I would have already ordered one, but I hardly wished to expose my credit card on your auto-bar. Vodka, please, or barack, if it's available."
Denny turned his back to him, went to the bar and dialed vodka for the Russian, another bock beer for himself. What in the world was the man doing here?
As he took the two-ounce glass, the Russian said, "You know, this system of purchasing every last item, in your West-world, is undoubtedly one of the greatest aids to keeping track of one's people that has ever been devised. For everything you purchase, you must submit your credit card. Not only is the sum then subtracted from your balance, but the computers are in a position to monitor your location. A man on the run in the West-world doesn't dare buy anything. Food, drink, medicine. He reveals himself the moment he buys anything."
"However, the ultimate medium of exchange," Danny told him. "Down through history man has had continual difficulty with his medium of exchange. The universal credit card solves all."
He took a chair opposite the Russian. The man, now attired in West-world dress and wearing it as though he had never known uniform or the garb of the Sov-world, was ever the same. He seemed perfectly at rest, without pressure from the world about him. He threw the high proof spirits back over his palate in the Russian manner of drinking.
Denny said, "My days of adventure seem to be brought back to me today. Fifteen minutes ago I was talking with Joe Mauser."
"Ah? The estimable Joseph Mauser." The Sov agent's eyes narrowed infinitesimally. "And what did he have to say?"
"What do you have to say is more to the point," Denny told him. "I hardly think you have simply dropped by to exchange felicitations with a former foe."
"No, of course not." The Russian espionage operative pursed his lips. "I'll start from the beginning. In view of your profession, undoubtedly a great deal of this won't be new to you, but I'll cover it all, in way of background."
"Go ahead."
"Very well. In the year 1917, professor, a revolution took place in Imperial Russia. Rather a series of revolutions, since what began as an attempt to overthrow the feudalism of the Romanoffs and establish a capitalist democracy, got out of control. For one thing, the new provisional government of the Social Democrat Kerensky, had no intention of dropping out of the war, but expected to fight on with the allies. The Germans, of course, wished to see Russia so torn by internal conflict that she would sue for separate peace. With that in mind, German intelligence located Vladimir Ilich Ulyanov, better known by his Party name, Nikolai Lenin, and several of his closest intimates including Grigori Zinoviev, Karl Radek the journalist, and"—the Russian cleared his throat—"Vladimir Malyshev, my paternal grandfather."
Denny Land's eyebrows rose. "I had no idea your grandfather was one of the Old Bolsheviks, though, of course, I was familiar with the name."
There was nothing to say to that. The Russian agent continued. "They had been living in exile in Switzerland. The Germans, to foment trouble, sent them in a sealed car back to Russia. Possibly one of the greatest mistakes in history. Trotsky came from New York, Kamenev, Rykov, Bukharin came out of hiding; the Bolsheviks were gathering."
Malyshev grunted contempt. "At this point I should mention that another turned up on the scene—a third rater, in Party ranks—a certain Josif Vissarianovich Dzugashvili, better known as Joseph Stalin. He had been in exile in Siberia. Russia was in a state of collapse and the Bolsheviks were a team of the most competent revolutionists the world had ever seen. Within months, they were in power. With the exception of the Paris Commune of 1871, which lasted only a few weeks, the first time a socialist movement had ever come to power."
Denny came to his feet and went to dial them two more drinks. He knew the story of the Russian Revolution, but had never heard it before from the lips of a Sov-world citizen. It was intriguing.
Yuri Malyshev took the drink, downed it, and resumed. "It is ridiculous to say that something that occurred in history was fortunate or unfortunate, however, an assassin shot Lenin in 1918 and he never completely recovered, finally dying in 1924. By that time, Stalin was in control of the Party machinery. Trotsky was the first to go. He escaped Russia and for the next ten years kept ahead of Stalin's killers. They caught up with him in Mexico. Zinoviev and Kamenev were tried and shot in August, 1936; Karl Radek was sent to prison in 1937, in March 1938 Rykov and Bukharin were purged. My grandfather was shot the following year. Stalin's version of the Party was now in complete control.
"Lenin, following Marx, had taught that before socialism could be fully realized the state would wither away. Stalin, to the contrary, strengthened it. The Party controlled all. And, of course, as ever, this new aristocracy took measures to better its own condition and to perpetuate itself. Soon it was difficult to get a ranking job, unless you were a Party member. Party members made sure that the very best schools were available to their children. The children of Party members became Party members with ease; it became increasingly difficult for anyone else to join. Eventually, it became hereditary, Party membership."
Yuri Malyshev looked at Denny ruefully. "I am afraid I am long-winded, as you call it. However, we have arrived at the present. A hereditary aristocracy heads the Sov-world, and resists all efforts to displace it. Largely incompetent by now, they resist progress and change, not knowing where it might lead. Needless to say, an underground has evolved, Professor Land."
Denny's eyebrows rose. He was beginning to get a glimmering of quiet purpose behind the Russian's talk.
"Unfortunately, things have changed considerably since my grandfather, side by side with Lenin and Radek, issued bol-shevik newspapers, wrote pamphlets and books that were smuggled into Russia, held secret meetings in the forests of the Ukraine, the hills of the Caucasuses, among the fishing boats of Arkangel. Today, all the means of promoting an idea are in the hands of the Party. Telly, motion pictures, radio, newspapers, magazines, are all controlled by the Party. So are all buildings, all lecture halls. Even could an underground locate a printing press on which to turn out material, where would it find a cellar in which to hide it? All property, including real estate, is in control of the Party."
Yuri Malyshev wound it up definitely. "In short, Professor Land, we are in the same position as the Sons of Liberty."
He had been leading up to it, so it wasn't quite the shock it might have been. It had become obvious, there toward the end, that the Russian agent was familiar with the fact that Denny was a revolutionist, here in West-world, just as Yuri Malyshev was in the Sov-world.
But Denny didn't concede that, as yet. He said, merely, "What has all this got to do with me, Malyshev?"
The Russian traced his finger down the scar line. "We are in the same boat, Professor Land. You find it impossible to get your message over to your people. We find it impossible in the Sov-world."
"Just what is your message?"
"That the Party must be overthrown! That the country must turn back to the original principles of the old Bolsheviks!"
"I see. But I repeat my question. What has all this got to do with me?"
"We co-operated once before, professor."
Denny looked at him blankly. "Co-operate? How could we possibly co-operate? Given the fact that we have similar problems, there is simply no manner in which we can aid each other."
Malyshev took another deep breath. "Professor, there is only one medium of communication that really counts in the world today. Telly. In your land and mine, the population spends its waking hours gawking at a telly screen. Very well. Our need is to have telly made available to us, so that we can beam our messages into the homes of your Lowers, our Proletarians."
Dennis Land openly laughed at him. "My dear Malyshev. I agree with you en toto. That is our need. And, believe me, in the West-world, at least, it will continue to be our need. Our Category Communications would no more throw open its facilities to the Sons of Liberty than I could walk up the side of that wall." He grunted contempt of the other's naivete.
Malyshev threw his grenade.
"If we were in possession of Auguste Bazaine, we would have a key that opened many doors, Professor Land. To what extent do you think the telly broadcasting stations of the Neut-world would be made available to us, if we were able to deliver Auguste Bazaine to them?"
Denny bug-eyed him. Finally, he blurted, "But we're not in possession of Auguste Bazaine!"
"Bazaine is within fifteen miles of this building."
It was then that the door announced, "Miss Bette Yard-borough, to see Professor Land."
Denny hadn't even taken his eyes away from the other at this interruption. He was still staring. But he shook his head, and said, "There. Go through that door. It's the bathroom."
Yuri Malyshev came to his feet. He picked up the glass from which he had been drinking and slipped it into a pocket. He smoothed the rumpled pillows of the couch where he had been sitting, and then, seemingly moving with leisure but covering ground with surprising speed disappeared through the door Denny had indicated.
Denny said into the telly-phone, "Door open. Come in, Bette."
She had an edge of excitement. "Listen, Dennis, do you know who I thought I saw, a little earlier today?"
He had come to his feet, at her entry, but he said nothing immediately.
"Yuri Malyshev, the Russian. The one you fought in Geneva."
"I know who you mean," Denny said.
"I lost him in the crowd. Do you think I ought to notify Joe Mauser or Frank Hodgson? What in the world's that curd doing in Greater Washington? One thing's sure, he's not an accredited Sov-world attache. Our Category Security would never allow him to be accredited. He's got a reputation that—"
Yuri Malyshev came in behind her and said to Denny. "That was one of our problems but now we've got our third man."
Bette Yardborough spun, her left hand flicking up the hem of her short skirt, her right hand blurring for the garter holster.
Denny threw both his arms around her. "Hey!" he yelled, wrestling. He snarled at Yuri Malyshev, who stood there, his arms out to both sides palms forward, in the universal gesture of being defenseless. "Zen! You confounded fool."
Malyshev was chopping out his laughter. He bowed to Bette, formally. "Third operative, I should say.. I should have thought of you, Miss Yardborough."
Bette was smoothing her clothes. Denny had released her. She glowered at Malyshev, then at Denny. She snapped, brittlely, "What are you two funkers up to?"
Denny grumbled, making his way toward the auto-bar. "If any more crises come up, involving my needing a drink, I'm going to be drenched before the day's out. A John Brown's Body, Bette? Another vodka, Yuri? I'm going to stick to beer."
"Yuri!" Bette snapped. "First names, yet. What in Holy Zen's going on here?"
Denny returned with the drinks, offered her the tall glass, went over to where Yuri Malyshev had resumed his place on the couch and handed him a shot glass. The Russian took it and disposed of it as he had those before. Inwardly, Dennis Land shuddered to see the hundred and fifty proof spirit go down so casually.
Denny said, "Sit down, Bette. It would seem that Yuri Malyshev occupies much the same position in the Sov-world, as we do here. That is, he's active in an organization that is attempting to overthrow the Party."
"I don't believe it!" she said, still standing, as though defiantly.
The Russian shrugged. As usual, he was completely at ease.
Denny said, "I do. Among other things, I trust Yuri Malyshev. And he trusts me. We found that out. However, you interrupted our conversation at a crucial point. We'll pick it up in a moment. Meanwhile, briefly, Yuri tells me he is the grandson of Vladimir Malyshev, once the right-hand man of Lenin. He belongs to an organization whose purpose is to overthrow the Party. It has run into the same block we have hare in our efforts against the Uppers. They can't reach the people, because the means of communicating ideas are in the hands of the enemy. Yuri feels that no media except telly makes much difference any more. He contends that in both our countries, telly time must be obtained."
Bette snorted.
"Yes," Denny nodded. "My own reaction. However, Yuri is of the opinion that if we were in the possession of Auguste Bazaine we could demand of the Neut-world, if no one else, that we be given access to telly stations to beam programs into the Sov-world and West-world."
"If… we … were … in… possession .. .of … Auguste Bazaine!"
Denny nodded again. "Sit down. Yuri claims Bazaine is within a few miles of here."
"Nonsense!"
"Of course. But that's where you interrupted us. Sit down." Dennis Land turned his eyes back to the Russian. "You forget that the President, Seymour Gatling, was interrogated under hypnosis and drugs. He had no idea where Bazaine was."
Malyshev's voice was dry. "I'm sure he didn't. It probably would have been more to the point if Joseph Mauser was put to the question, or your Frank Hodgson."
Denny was shaking his head negatively. "No. You're wrong, there. I was with Mauser all along." But then there came back to him that strange moment in the suite in Geneva when he had felt that Mauser had suddenly realized where Bazaine must be.
The Russian said, "I was in charge of the Sov-world operation in regard to Bazaine, but at the time he was abducted my team had not yet joined me and I was alone in Torremolinos. I watched you being attacked and Bazaine abducted from a distance. But I know the Sov-world didn't do it. Now, tell me, Dennis Land, what happened to your yacht, La Carmencita, with its crew of West-world operatives?"
Denny was blank.
Bette said, "What are you getting at?"
"I've been on this assignment since Geneva." Yuri Malyshev was bitter. "In fact, my life supposedly depends upon concluding it successfully. It's been a long trail, and a highly camouflaged one. But I've finally traced him down. He was brought to the West-world in La Carmencita. He is now some fifteen miles from this spot, in what purports to be a mental institution, but which is one of the most highly guarded asylums of which I have ever heard." His voice went dryly humorous. "It is guarded against persons breaking in, as well as out."
"You're sure?" Denny demanded.
"Yes."
"And you propose to rescue him?"
"If that's the term."
Bette said, interest in her tone now, "How? And why did you want to bring Dennis into it? And now me?"
Malyshev's explanation was valid. "I have no underground comrades in this vicinity who could aid me. Professor Land is a highly capable man and his interests coincide with my own, as do yours. We need three persons to do the job." He looked at Denny. "We can't carry arms. We can't carry anything that has metal. Their detectors are capable of locating the tiniest pocketknife."
Denny said, "I begin to see why you choose me, Yuri. The hand is my sword, eh?"
"Yes," the Russian said.
"What in the world are you talking about?" Bette frowned at the two of them.
"An old karate saying," Denny told her. "Yuri Malyshev holds a Seventh Dan Black Belt. My own is only Fifth Dan."
They drove in Bette Yardborough's hovercar, and parked it almost a quarter mile from their destination. Yuri Malyshev had chosen the vehicle's hiding place beforehand. He seemed to have done a good deal of preliminary work, beforehand.
Denny said, "This is a long distance to have to retreat, when and if we get hold of Bazaine."
"I know," the Russian said. "But any closer and the car might be spotted."
All three carried long barreled, small calibered, silenced automatics, and carried them ready in hand. They walked along the side of the road. On the two or three occasions that cars approached, they disappeared into the trees that lined the highway.
Bette said, "Too many of the details aren't clear for me to be happy. Who is it that has Bazaine? From what you say, it's not the government. The president himself doesn't even know this dangerous scientist is in the West-world."
"I don't know," the Russian admitted. "I have got no further than to track him to this supposed mental institute. That and to find what room he is in, and in what wing of the building. A bit of judicious bribery helped me there."
"You mentioned Joe Mauser," Denny said.
"I have seen him enter and leave the place."
A building loomed before them. A gracious building, sur-rounded by broad sweep of lawns, by carefully spotted gardens, by gentle paths and graveled roads. There was a high wire mesh fence, somewhat camouflaged by shrubs and ivory, but topped with barbed wire.
Malyshev brought them to a halt and gave them a brief rundown. "It's a former mansion, built by one of your so-called robber barons a century or so ago. Although the staff is rather large, the defenses are mostly mechanical. Not entirely, however."
Denny asked: "Now how do we get through the fence?"
Yuri shook his head. "We don't. It's too well rigged. Nor can we get over or under it. We'll have to go through a gate. There are three gates. The smallest, about a hundred yards down here, has two guards. We'll have to take them. Leave the pistols here. The moment we're on the other side of this fence, any metal on our persons would set off alarms."
They left their guns at the base of a tree, where they could easily be found again, and crept toward the gate.
Malyshev said, "I assume this is clear. Denny and I handle any opposition we run into. Bette, you bring up the rear. If and when we get Bazaine, you'll have to take care of him. Our hands must be free."
Bette said, grimness there, "I know a bit of judo, myself, gentlemen. I can handle Bazaine, if he wants to be handled or not."
"I'm sure you can, Miss Yardborough."
The two uniformed guards were not expecting trouble. The gate was open, and they idled against it, chatting. Their guns were holstered, but they were quick-draw holsters, and the men bore an air of competence.
Dennis Land and Yuri Malyshev burst upon them with a speed and aggressiveness that must have come with a terrifying shock to both. The two karate practitioners bounded into position immediately before them, both going into the Zenkutsu-dachi lunge stance, the rear knee straight, the front knee bent so that the knee cap was directly over the arch of the foot.
The guards were popeyed but not frozen beyond the point of activity. One jerked at his gun, the other flung himself in the direction of the phone booth which stood to one side.
Breathing, "Zut," in a restricted Kiai yell, Malyshev lunged forward, blocked the gunman's arm off the left, simultaneously chopping down with the edge of his right fist to the man's clavical. The other's face went gray in pain, and he collapsed when the second blow took him in the temple.
Denny had taken the second guard before that worthy had been able to get the old-fashioned phone off its hook. A judo chop had sent him to his knees. A second blow, delivered with elbow behind the ear, dropping him unconscious.
Without looking back to see if Bette followed, they scurried across the lawns to the sheltering dimness of the walls of the mansion. The open stretches of the lawn were a danger. A late stroller in the gardens might well spot them.
Pressed against the walls, the Russian took stock of their position. "There's a service entry to the left, possibly a hundred feet. I doubt if anyone will be in the kitchens at this time of night. If so, we'll have to dispose of them. Denny, did you kill your man?"
"No. He should be out for from fifteen minutes to half an hour."
The other grunted. "Possibly twenty minutes for mine. We must think in terms of being out of here in fifteen minutes, maximum. Let's go." Bending almost double he scurried along the wall, Denny and Bette immediately behind, copying him.
The service door was locked. Bette said, "Here, let me." She brought a plastic hairpin from her hair and knelt before the lock with it. It took a full, agonizing minute before the door swung open.
They passed through, Yuri leading again. Supposedly, he had memorized the layout of the building.
The halls were lit, but only dimly. Obviously, the kitchen staff had retired for the night. They hurried down one passage, turned off onto a larger corridor. They stopped for a moment for Malyshev to take stock again. "Down here must be the wing where Bazaine is kept. I don't know what kind of guard they might have over him. We'll have to be ready for anything."
Denny looked up and down the corridor, nervously. "Something's wrong," he muttered. "This place can't be this empty. There ought to be servants, guards, and whoever it is that occupies the… asylum."
"No," Yuri said. "It's late. Everyone is in bed. We're having excellent luck, thus far."
Bette said, "Well, let's not just stand here and talk about it.
We've got to get back to those guards and give them another clip, in about ten minutes."
Malyshev, running lightly in his canvas slippers, led the way down the corridor, through a heavy open door, and into a wing of what were probably sleeping rooms, beyond. They sped along this, to a jog in the corridor, and then to the left, to be confronted by a heavy door. The Russian whispered. "His room should be in the hall beyond this."
Denny tried the door. His lips thinned back over his teeth. "Locked!" he whispered.
Bette examined it, and her face went wan. "Not this one. Not with a hairpin. It's really locked."
Malyshev's mouth worked. His finger traced down over the scar line, nervously. "There's another way. Back the way we came, and then around. Hurry."
They started back, turned the jog in the corridor, and were faced with another closed door. It had been open only short moments before.
The three slid to a halt, stared unbelievingly at it.
Bette slipped to her knees, examined the lock. She turned, and her green eyes seemed to gleam. "There's a key in it, from the other side."
Denny spun and looked back in the direction from which they'd come. "We've been trapped," he grunted. "Back, and see if we can find a window." He began to lead the way.
Frank Hodgson stepped from a room, fifteen feet down, and said mildly, "I suppose this is enough. Bette, my dear, you were marvelous. Telly lost a wonderful actress in you."
Joe Mauser stepped from still another doorway. There was a heavy military revolver in his hand, and he held it with obvious competence.
Dennis Land, in despair, went into the Kokutsu-dachi, layout position, noting from the side of his eyes that Yuri Malyshev had assumed the Zenkutso-dachi, in preparation for an attempt at the former mercenary.
Mauser was shaking his head. "Don't try it," he said conversationally. "I could pop both your kneecaps before you got to me. I'm too far away, Malyshev."
Bette's face had its usual intense expression when in time of stress. "Now take it easy, boys. Everything is going to be all right."
Denny slowly straightened. He looked at her. "You're in with them," he said. There was disbelief in his voice.
The door that had blocked them, only moments ago, now opened and four guards entered, all armed, all hard of face and obviously trained men, probably mercenaries, Denny thought bitterly.
And now, at last, Yuri Malyshev gave up. He came erect, as Denny already had, and shrugged. He looked at Bette, in bitterness, then shrugged again.
He said, "There's an old Russian proverb. When four sit down to talk revolution, three are fools and the fourth a police spy."
Frank Hodgson laughed easily. "I must remember that. Very good." He turned and started down the corridor, in the direction opposite to that in which Auguste Bazaine's quarters were supposed to be. "If you'll just come along," he said over his shoulder.
Dennis Land was looking at Joe Mauser, not over the sinking feeling of ultimate despair.
Mauser said, "It was sort of a curd of a trick." He gestured with his revolver before slipping it back into a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. "Don't worry about this. The only reason I've been holding it was so that one of you lads wouldn't jump into action and hurt somebody with that fancy Jap fighting of yours."
Denny blinked at him. They were throwing the curves much too fast for him tonight.
"Come along," Mauser said. "You, too, Yuri. We've got a friend of yours in here."
"A friend?" The Russian scowled.
Frank Hodgson led the way down the hall a bit, opened one half of a double door, and entered. Bette, Denny, Malyshev and Mauser trailed after. The guards remained outside.
The room was evidently the library. Large, comfortable leather-covered easy-chairs, and auto-bar, several desks and tables. The room had a Victorian air, comfortably Victorian.
At one of the tables sat Zoltan Korda, poring over some papers before him. He looked up upon their entry. "Ah, the romantics," he said.
Frank Hodgson said, "Everybody find chairs, eh? Might as well be comfortable, we've got a lot of ground to cover. Joe, will you take care of the honors?"
Bette said, "We got in through the smaller gate. The boys here eliminated the two guards. They'd better be checked."
Joe Mauser first went to the door, opened it and said something to one of the men beyond, then came back and went to the bar. "Name your poison," he said.
Anger was piling up in Dennis Land. He rapped, "What's going on here? You all act as though we're at a party. Bette! How long have you been a traitor?"
She smiled at him. "Never, so far as I know."
"You betrayed us to these… these—"
"Not exactly," she said.
"What is that supposed to mean!"
"I could hardly betray you to your own side."
Hodgson said, gently, almost lazily, as ever, "I'll take over, my dear Bette. Denny, what's been your goal in your Sons of Liberty work?"
"To overthrow the government! To get the country back on the road to progress! To take control out of the hands of the parasitical Uppers!"
The elderly bureaucrat was nodding. "Very well. Suppose I told you that the revolution you're talking about took place five years ago?"
"Have you gone drivel-happy?" Denny looked about the room, as though they'd all gone mad.
During this, Yuri Malyshev had been gaping at Zoltan Korda as though his superior were a ghost. "What are you doing here?" he was finally able to get out.
His superior lit a cigarette from the butt of the last. "It would seem obvious, wouldn't it, colonel? You and Professor Land decided to collaborate to accomplish your mutual ends. Why shouldn't I and Mr. Hodgson do the same?"
"Anybody use a drink?" Joe Mauser said from the auto-bar.
"Vodka," Malyshev demanded. "A double vodka."
"Anything," Denny said. He didn't seem to be able to com-preheud all this. It made no sense whatsoever. He turned on Hodgson. "You abducted Bazaine."
"Not personally," Hodgson said easily. "Things got complicated very quickly, and we had to act on the spur of the moment. With Zoltan Korda's co-operation, we were able to, ah, rescue Auguste Bazaine, and bring him here. You see, we found him a kindred spirit. It developed that our excitable Belgian wanted to build his anti-anti-missile missiles because he deliberately wished to upset the world's status quo, thinking, somewhat in the same manner you and your Sons of Liberty organization have been thinking, that things simply must get moving again, that the race must be stirred up to new efforts and be brought out of the rut." Hodgson cleared his throat, in wry humor. "We don't appreciate his method, and thought it best to bring him here to join our ranks."
Joe Mauser brought the drinks around.
"We owe you two lads an apology," he told them. "We could have done all this less dramatically. I could have just come around to the school, and have given you the picture. However, it's very necessary to keep this retreat of ours secure, and I was interested in seeing how a couple of top operators, such as yourselves, would make out trying to crack it. You made out too well, for my satisfaction. I'm going to have to strengthen our defenses."
Malyshev said flatly, "You people had Bazaine all during the time the trial by combat was being readied and then fought." His glare went from Korda and Hodgson, and then Mauser.
Mauser shook his head. "I didn't know about it, until right at the end, when I suspected the truth."
Korda said, "We had to go through with the trial. Otherwise, the whole world would have suspected the truth, and it's not ready for the truth. Not yet."
Denny closed his eyes and shook his head. "None of this makes sense to me," he said.
Hodgson said sympathetically. "Let's start at the beginning. Denny, you're a historian. When did the British revolution take place that took them from feudalism to capitalism?"
"Why… why, not at one set date. It took place over a period of time, in the Nineteenth Century. Well, actually, part of it as far back as the Eighteenth Century, I suppose."
Hodgson was nodding. "And, in fact, remnants of feudalism continued far into the Twentieth Century. The House of Lords, the Royal Family, the old pageantry and traditions handed down from the past. But the fact was that real feudalism was no longer the socio-economic system of England. The King or Queen was merely a pleasant figurehead, a symbol. The House of Lords was a debating society, without power."
"What in Zen has all this got—"
Hodgson was wagging him to silence, with a finger. "The point is that a well-handled revolution can take place so easily, so gently, that many do not even realize it has happened. Such, of course, is the desirable way. Denny, the Uppers haven't been in power in the West-world for at least five years. Actually, much more than that. But for the past five years, they've been definitely eliminated as a factor in the real government."
"Are you insane! The president is an Upper-Upper. The Commissioner of the Bureau of Investigation, your chief, is an Upper- Upper—"
Joe Mauser chuckled.
Denny spun on him.
Mauser said, amused, "You've met Seymour Gatling. Did you really think that ineffective molly was head of the executive of the West-world?"
Zoltan Korda said to Yuri Malyshev, "Nor has the Party been in power in the Sov-world for some time, Colonel Malyshev."
"Number One—" Malyshev blurted.
"Is a cow," Korda said contemptuously.
Hodgson said, "Let's get back to it—Denny, Colonel Malyshev. In the past revolutions were put over by enraged majorities, in mutiny against what they considered a parasitical ruling minority which was oppressing them. The masses were moved to revolt by desperation. However, today there is no desperation, either in the West-world, or the Sov-world. The second industrial revolution with its automation and other techniques has solved the problem of production of abundance. There simply is no starving lower class."
"Man doesn't live by bread alone," Denny muttered.
Hodgson snorted. "You'd be surprised how many do, if you mean by that man doesn't live by material things alone. The slob element of society needs no spiritual aims to achieve its version of happiness. Bread and circuses will do it. Telly, trank, and the free-loading guarantees of the Welfare State will do it. Your slob element is happy with things as they are, Denny.
"One of the things most social-commentary writers, from Karl Marx to the latest current sob-sister, overlook is that slobs like living like slobs and will defend their way of life. Put slobs in a brand-new, pristine housing project, complete with air-conditioning built-in garbage disposal incinerators, walls of ezykleen plastic that won't hold dirt and can't be smeared because nothing will stick… and they'll sweat till they find a way of getting that confounded ezykleen"—Hodgson's voice took on an attempt to speak like a Low-Lower—"affen the walls so they can write somethin' when they wanna. They want to live in homey, slobbish surroundings, and will work to achieve it. He's not afraid of starvation; he knows that it will always be somebody else that starves, because he knows how to take care of himself, see. He's not afraid of the collapse of civilization, because he knows how to care for himself, alright. He's not afraid of any catastrophe, because it can't affect a man like him. An' anyway, if things bust up, by God he'll get some of the things that's been owin' him for a long time anyhow, so he ain't scared. And moreover, he really isn't, and really never will be, because he will learn to be afraid of the future only during the impossible moment that he is in process of dying."
Zoltan Korda had been nodding his agreement, once or twice chuckling at Hodgson's examples. Now he said, "You make one error, my friend. Don't subscribe to the common conception of Marx as a misguided do-gooder. Marx was aware of the slob in society. He called them the lumpen proletariat and was as contemptuous as you, expecting them to line up with the reaction in the time of crisis. A good many people have a hazy picture of both Marx and Engels. They weren't basically do-gooders, as your term goes. They thought of themselves as scientists attempting to use scientific method in studying political economy. The question of good or bad didn't enter into it. The terms are nonsense, given the scientific approach."
Hodgson said wryly. "Be that as it may, I am sure that your Karl Marx, in the Nineteenth Century, never dreamed of a time arriving when fully ninety per cent of society had become his lumpen proletariat.
Denny put in heatedly, "You both seem to forget that these people are products of our present society, they didn't cause it! Take a healthy child out of any of these slob families, or lumpen proletariat families, as you call them, and on the day of his birth switch him with a Mid-Middle child. You'll find that when he grows to the age of twenty, he'll be as intellectual as you, and the Mid-Middle child who was substituted for him will grow up a slob."
Hodgson chuckled. "All right. Let us hope you are entirely correct, that it is environment that makes the slob, not the genes with which he was born. Our problem, however, is not changed. The slob we have always had. But the growth of our modern socio-economic system, the Welfare State, has, you might say, fertilized his growth, until he numerically dominates." The bureaucrat looked at Zoltan Korda. "In one regard, at least, your little lecture on Marx was correct. The lumpen proletariat, the slob, would line up with the reaction in time of crisis. He likes being a slob, I repeat. He loves doing nothing and receiving his food, clothing, shelter and medical care for free. It's not the first time this has happened in history. Have you ever read of the Gracchi? Tiberius and Cais Gracchus? At roughly the time of the war with Carthage, these two highly intelligent Romans were appalled at what was happening to the populus. The very wealthy were taking over the lands and turning the average Roman citizen into a pauper who had to be fed by the State. The Gracchi brothers attempted to initiate changes which would turn his fellow citizens back into men. Denny, you're our historian. What was the final destiny of the Gracchi?"
Denny said slowly, "They were killed by mobs. Their opposition promised the Roman proletariat even greater reforms, more free handouts—more bread and bigger circuses, I suppose. And the mob killed the Gracchi."
Hodgson said, "Very well. There is your mistake, Denny. And Bette's. Suppose you had been successful in making your Sons of Liberty strong enough to contest the Welfare State, stand up against the caste system, call for the overthrow of the Uppers? Where do you think the Lowers would have stood in the time of crisis?"
Dennis Land's face was working. "What do you offer as an alternative? What's this nonsense about the revolution having taken place five years ago?"
Hodgson nodded. "The changes we made, and are making, are not easy ones, admittedly. The problem of getting the world out of its rut and back on the path to man's destiny—whatever that is—is a large one. It is being done in the face of opposition from both the slob element, our Lowers, and the degenerated hereditary aristocracy that supposedly heads the country, the Uppers.
"We of the Middle caste, a considerable percentage of whom are not familiar with what is going on, are slowly taking the steps necessary to change our stratified, status quo, socio-economic system. In the past, the small Upper caste recruited new blood from the other caste levels when a man of outstanding ability turned up. We've ended that. A new Upper hasn't been jumped for more than three years now. We'll allow a really capable man to run up his caste level as high as Upper-Middle, but no higher. We deliberately see that inadequate men are put into such positions as President, or, a closer example, into such jobs as Commissioner of the Bureau of Investigation. Willard Gatling, my supposed superior, is a cloddy. I am the actual head of the bureau. Increasingly, we encourage the Uppers not to work at all, not even to hold honorary offices. We encourage them increasingly to look upon any useful work as below them. Increasingly they suck upon their mescaltranc and live in a dream world. Parasites? Perhaps, but in the present world it makes little difference, production being what it is. In short, 'Sweet Dreams, Sweet Princes.'"
"How about the Lowers?" Denny demanded. "The slobs that you are so contemptuous of?"
Hodgson nodded. "This is admittedly our greatest problem. This is the bulk of our population and must be stirred out of the rut. Already, we seek among them, finding those who have basic abilities but are being ruined by their environment. This must be intensified. One of the steps we are taking will be begun next week. We're going to revive the space program. To the extent we can, we will let the fracases and gladiatorial meets fall off, and propagandize the glory of man's conquest of space. We'll make heroes of our spacemen, and the scientists and technicians that construct their equipment. We'll make every effort to downgrade in the eyes of our youth, the gladiator and mercenary, and build up the spaceman. We'll build a desire for schooling—"
Denny was shaking his head. "It's not enough. You're moving too slowly."
Hodgson said wryly, "One of the reasons for lack of speed, Professor Land, is our lack of competent personnel, dedicated, ah, revolutionists, to help in the work. Very well, when one is spotted, we recruit him. As we did, Dr. Fitzgerald, formerly head of the Sons of Liberty. As we did Bette Yardborough. And now you."
Denny sank back into his chair, his thoughts racing beyond the speed he could completely assimilate them.
To this point Yuri Malyshev had remained quiet, taking in all that was said, but quietly. Now he looked at Zoltan Korda.
Korda fished in his pockets, brought out a cigarette case. Even as he lit a new one off the old, he said, "Our situation is largely similar, Yuri, adapted, of course, to the Sov-world. We have even introduced mescaltranc, to keep the Party members in a happy daze. We have even encouraged the new fad against children, which has swept Party society. Long since, we made Party membership hereditary so new and fresh blood would not be introduced. So in our case, it is a matter of 'Sweet Dreams, Sweet Commissars.'"
His eyes burned into those of his subordinate. "However, the problem that confronts us is not to return to the program of the Old Bolsheviks, as you have thought, Yuri. Whether or not their program held merit in the early part of the Twentieth Century, in the backward Russia of that day, it most certainly holds no meaning whatsoever in the modern Sov-world. Today, our problems are much those of the West-world. And I rather suspect that the plan to get the conquest of space into the hearts of the race, once again, is a valid one. I will recommend it upon our return."
Dennis Land was looking from Korda to Hodgson and back. "Then actually, below the surface, there is considerable cooperation between West-world and Sov-world?"
"Considerable," Hodgson told him. "Unfortunately, so traditional is our enmity that we are having to break it to our Lowers, and their Proletarians, gently and over a period of time."
Denny leaned forward. "Yes, but how about Common Europe? The danger to peace is still there."
The door opened and Andre Condrieu entered. He looked about the room, and the supposed right-hand man of The Gaulle said, "Mademoiselle, Messieurs, I am sorry. Is it that I am late to participate in the welcoming of Professor Land and the so-charming Mademoiselle Yardborough to our ranks?"