PART SEVENTY-NINE

Chapter 1

Oh, Madison had little doubt now that he would be able to finish his job with Heller. In the foreseeable future he would have not just the Apparatus but the entire Army and Fleet on Heller’s trail.

Oh, what headlines that would make!

He was standing at an upper-story window of the Royal mansion on Relax Island, waiting for Teenie, who was unaccountably delayed. He had landed in the rear of the palace so as to stay out of sight. He was down here to tell Teenie some good news and give her some evidence.

Through the window came one of the softest and most perfume-laden breezes he had ever felt. The magnificent view of the valley below soothed his nerves. And one particular ten-acre square of the farmland down there would soothe other nerves as well: it was smoothly rippling with a flourishing crop of marijuana—Panama Red, if he recalled aright when Teenie, working a crew from her five-thousand island population, had told him what she was doing.

But no labors jarred today the tranquil scene of the terrace. A masked woman, middle-aged, an editor’s wife, was strolling along the balustrade, loosely gowned and indolent. From time to time she turned her eyes away from the view and cast glances expectantly along the front of the palace.

Ah, here came what she was looking for. A gallant young officer in a brilliant silver uniform approached her at a slow pace. He stopped, he spread his hands admiringly, he bowed. She stopped and steadied herself against the balustrade. The young officer approached closer. He said something in a low voice and the woman laughed coquettishly. He took her arm and they began to stroll together.

Madison admired how well Teenie had taught her regiment. He knew that their lessons did not include just deportment.

And here behind them smoothly appeared a musician with a chorder-beat. But the tune he was playing and the tones had been taken from Teenie’s record collection: it sounded exactly like a romantic gypsy violin.

The officer and the lady sauntered down the wide palace steps. Followed by the violin music, they strolled along a path. They entered one of the many secluded nooks. Each one, Madison knew, had a softly padded bench. He could just see the end of one through the flowering trees.

A begging babble reached his ears.

Presently, as he expected, he saw the woman’s gown being laid gently on the bench end.

The musician was now behind a tree, his back to the nook, but the violin music played on.

In the limbs above, a branch of blossoms began to weave.

The musician’s face was watchful, intent. He was playing faster now.

Blossoms exploded and the petals showered down.

The music now was mild and slow.

An attendant in silver livery who bore a silver tray sped across the terrace. He entered the nook.

Shortly the gray-blue smoke of marijuana rose.

The violin music played on.

Madison looked down at the terrace. Another publisher’s wife had come out. She was masked, but Madison knew her husband published the Daily Conservative.

Another officer came out of the palace. He stopped, he bowed, he approached. He whispered something in her ear and she handed him a flower.

They sauntered down another path.

Another musician followed them.

The pair entered another nook.

From the palace now came a third officer. He strolled to the first nook. Madison faintly heard his voice, “I say, old man, may I cut in?”

Above the second nook a branch of blossoms was going in a circle.

The second musician, back to it, played faster and faster.

The branch of blossoms erupted in a blast of petals.

The second musician smiled and began to play dreamily.

The attendant with the silver tray approached the second nook at speed.

Out from the palace came a third publisher’s wife.

The violin music played on. And Madison knew it would play on for the rest of the day. And other violins would play for the twenty other wives who would be sporting in these gardens this afternoon—after sporting in their bedrooms the entire night before!

Aside from marijuana, any LSD trips they had now were totally full of handsome young officers!

Madison stole a peek at the clipping book he was carrying. The first batches of women were long since returned home. Just to test his muscle he was getting psychiatry good coverage. Page after page contained news stories about the marvelous cures it was effecting, how magnificent Crobe was, how misguided any other form of treatment was and how all rival ideas should be crushed out. Life had become impossible for publishers and editors unless they ran columns and columns about this marvelous new science imported from Blito-P3!

Oh, there was no doubt of it that psychiatry had all the answers. They had won press domination on Earth the very same way: get the wives of the publishers and editors on the couch and being liberally (bleeped) and you got all the column inches you could ever want! And woe betide any competitor in the field: he would be slaughtered!

A voice behind him jarred into his mood. “What the hell have you become? Some god (bleeped) voyeur?”

PART SEVENTY-NINE

Chapter 2

It was Teenie and she looked very cross. Her air-limousine must have landed in the back near his, for he hadn’t heard it. She was drawing off a pair of black gloves and two maids were hastily attending her. This was her upper dressing antechamber.

“Oh, Teenie,” said Madison, “you have done so well. Organizing this place and training the officers as you have was a superhuman feat. And look: here are the first fruits of victory!”

He shoved the clipping book under her nose. She shook off a maid who was trying to comb out her hair and reorder the ponytail and took the book.

She looked at it. “I don’t see anything here about Gris.”

“No, no. This just shows the dawning of press control. Right now they’re just bragging about psychiatry. Isn’t it marvelous? Some of this is front page! It’s never been done before in the history of Voltar! Influencing their press.”

“Listen, buster, I’m helping you for just one reason. You’ll forget that to your sorrow! I want that Gris spread-eagled on the block down there and hours and hours every day filled with his screams. I’ve thought of things way beyond anything dreamed up by Pinch. And all the way here from Palace City today, I’ve been thinking up new ones! Oh, I’m MAD!”

“Teenie,” said Madison anxiously, well aware it could be himself, not Gris, on the block down there, “what has happened?”

“The (bleepard) has ruined Too-Too’s life, that’s what.”

“Too-Too? How?”

“That (bleepard) Gris just reached out and smashed him!”

“WHAT? Has Gris escaped?”

“No such luck, for maybe then I could trail him down and capture him. He’s still in that stinking Royal prison hiding out from us. And (bleep) all you’ve done to get him out and into that dungeon. I’ll let Too-Too tell you—if he can talk.”

She turned and gave a signal and a guard rushed off. Teenie took an agitated tour of the ornate dressing antechamber. She looked like an angry and frustrated menace to Madison.

There was a clatter at the door and two white-coated men brought in a stretcher. One of Teenie’s maids from Palace City was beside it: she was sponging at the forehead of its burden.

Too-Too lay with ashen face, seemingly a corpse. The men laid the stretcher down upon a sofa and the maid swabbed anxiously at the unconscious visage.

Teenie brushed the maid aside. She bent down and stroked Too-Too’s pretty face. The makeup was already smeared. Too-Too did not respond.

Teenie turned to Madison. “I brought him with me in the hopes the quiet here would help. And I also wanted you to hear what a (bleepard) that Gris is. I’m going to have to use mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.” She snapped her fingers and a footman raced in with a silver tray. Teenie took a joint out of a silver box and lit it. She then knelt by Too-Too. She took a puff from it and then laid her lips on Too-Too’s and blew.

Too-Too began to cough on the smoke. Teenie took another puff and, steadying him, pried his lips apart with her tongue and blew.

Too-Too went into a spasm. He had sat up. He saw Teenie and put his arm around her and began to cry.

Teenie held him off and made him puff the joint. This time he inhaled deeply and then the smoke blubbered out amongst his coughs and sobs.

Teenie made him do it again. He became calmer.

“Oh, Teenie, dear Teenie,” Too-Too said, “my life has come to an end. Hold me close, dear Teenie, so that I can perish in your arms.”

“Hush, dear Too-Too, you’ll live many a day to be (bleeped) by many men yet. We’re going to get that (bleepard) Gris. I’ll even show you the dungeon where he’ll be tortured. Now tell this man here what you told me so he’ll get off his (bleep) and begin working like he meant it!”

“It’s too painful,” said Too-Too. And Teenie had to get him to puff the joint again.

Too-Too, in a broken voice, began to talk. Gris had forced him and Oh Dear into being couriers and informers by a mechanism known as magic mail. Every three months, by mailing a card through a certain slot, an order continued to be held. But for some reason the Blixo’s schedule had been advanced and although Too-Too had mailed the last card he had been given on Earth punctually, as he thought, it had been late.

The order which had been held had already gone. The commander of the Knife Section on Mistin had received it. Due to internal Confederacy delays between planets, Too-Too had only now been informed.

HIS MOTHER HAD BEEN MURDERED!

Screaming it out, he went back into a collapse and Teenie had to work hard to revive him. After more mouth-to-mouth marijuana resuscitation, she said, “Now, Too-Too, start from the beginning and begin to spill all the crimes you know that Gris has committed.”

Madison listened. This catamite knew quite a bit. It was all headline stuff. Actually, Madison had not been too interested in Gris, regarding him just as a way to get to Heller. But as he listened he began to get fascinated. This was juicy copy!

Finally he said, “You say he gave you orders to kill old Bawtch and two others in your office. Won’t that implicate you?”

“Oh, no!” cried Too-Too. “I couldn’t murder anybody. I simply told Lombar Hisst. We just transferred Bawtch to another section. That was when Hisst began to set Gris up.”

“For what?” said Madison.

But Too-Too had spent what little energy he had and was collapsed again in Teenie’s arms.

“Now you’ve heard it,” Teenie said, her eyes smoldering as she looked at Madison over Too-Too’s head. “Don’t let any grass grow under your feet. GET THAT GRIS!”

Madison grinned. With material like this, how could he miss? It would open the door to Heller with a crash.

PART SEVENTY-NINE

Chapter 3

Four hours later Madison, in a hurtling Model 99, was hot on the trail. He had been very intrigued by the information that Gris had been “set up.” He also knew from recent past experience that the media here had a nasty idea that one should have documents and proof for stories. While this was far from insurmountable—one could always forge and find false witnesses—it might save him time if he could get his hands on the real thing and, thanks to Too-Too, he was certain that, somewhere, a lot of evidence existed.

He had been cautioned by Lombar’s chief clerk not to barge in all the time on Lombar Hisst, so the logical target in this case was the old chief clerk himself. The man would be, he thought, at Spiteos or the palace.

Madison, having crossed the green seas and now with the mainland under him, was still trying on the communications system to locate his quarry.

Suddenly into his calling, a harsh voice broke in: “Divert! Divert! This is Apparatus Traffic Surveillance. J. Walter Madison, divert from your course at once and proceed to the Office of the Chief of Apparatus, Government City, without delay.”

“Oh, boy,” said Flick, overhearing it, “you’re in trouble.”

“Why is he in trouble?” said Cun who had bullied herself back into her job, Relax Island or no Relax Island.

“It means they been looking for him,” said Flick to Cun. “It means they were calling earlier and it means you was out of the airbus instead of standing by its phone. I bet you got yourself (bleeped)!”

“I did not!” said Cun savagely. “I was just peeking.”

“I’ll bet you were,” said Flick. “How come the front of your uniform is wet?”

“I was getting a drink of water. It was you that was getting all hot. And over a scullery maid, too!”

“Peace!” said Madison. “Head for Government City. Do you know where his in-town office is?”

“You can’t miss it,” said Flick. “Upper end of the town, on the cliff above the River Wiel. You can always tell it from the dead bodies in the streets around it.”

“I hope you’re joking,” said Madison.

“Well, yes, actually I am,” said Flick. “He has a chute so he can dump them into the River Wiel.”

They sped across the green countryside and soon were over the masses of tall buildings which housed the bulk of the government. The vast area at the upper end skirted tall cliffs which fell into the River Wiel. This section was the oldest and most decayed part of Government City, and the Apparatus, while not the oldest, was certainly the most decayed part of the government and had fallen heir to it.

There was a square, occupied by a central building which was surrounded by broken pavement and monuments to forgotten glory. All of this would seem to indicate that the Apparatus was also old but this was not true: the service was really quite young as things in Voltar go. It was only that the other parts of the government would no longer live in this place where the fountains no longer ran and the statues were missing heads and legs.

As the Model 99 swept in to land, there was immediate trouble to find a parking place. Wide as the surrounding pavements were, they were covered with randomly parked tanks and vehicles.

Flick squeezed in between a personnel carrier and a flight command car, each of which bore a general’s guidon. Cun opened the door while ogling some of the drivers.

“There’s something going on here,” said Flick. “These are the vehicles of the Apparatus General Staff! You watch it, Chief. They’re the most vicious (bleepards) in the Confederacy!”

Madison got out. He felt a little conspicuous in his gray business suit. He made his way through clusters of officers and men in mustard uniforms, black uniforms, green uniforms, every one of them badged with the Apparatus symbol which, if you looked at it from a certain angle, did resemble a bottle.

An overly dressed young woman with a snug on a leash was sauntering in front of the main door. Another one, considerably underdressed and with a hard face, was impatiently twirling a cane. The latter accosted Madison, “How much longer is this silly meeting going to go on?” she said.

“I have no idea, madam,” said Madison.

“Well, if you’re going in there, you just tell General Buc that his mistress has been waiting for five (bleeping) hours. I’m fed up!”

Madison went up the broken steps. Two sentries in mustard barred his way. An officer bawled at him, “Madison? Where the blast have you been? Get the hells in there and fast!”

Madison found himself being propelled across a cluttered lobby and then down a flight of stairs. The officer thrust him into a crowded room.

The place looked more like a cave than an office. It also stank.

Generals in red uniforms were sitting in chairs around the rough rock walls. In the recorded strips of this meeting they look just like Manco devils.

Lombar Hisst was sitting behind a desk, also uniformed in red. He was turned sideways, watching a staff officer with a remote control in his hand who was electronically chasing an orange arrow around on a projected map.

“This is Omaha,” the staff officer said. “According to earlier intelligence advices, it is a sort of military nerve center. Estimates are that it will take a million men, after it is occupied, to hold the position and fan out eastward.”

“A million men!” commented a general. “That means no supplementary reserve.”

“Well, if we are denied the right to simply bomb New York . . .”

“That has to be denied,” said Hisst. “It would obliterate the installations that must be seized in operational condition in New Jersey. That requires a solely infantry approach, moving through cities on a slaughter basis. Are you afraid of casualties?” he asked the first general with a sneer.

“No,” said the first general. “I was simply hoping that some way the Army could be coerced into participation. We only have about four million troops. When distribution to other continents is examined . . .”

“We could simply concentrate on the United States,” said another general.

“No, no, no,” said a general with artillery badges. “There are more than twelve nations that are nuclear armed, according to reports. Failure to make this an infantry action on all continents could result in some hysterical nuclear involvement. If the objectives of the chief are to be attained, we have to prevent their use of hydrogen bombs from one country to another across oceans. I think you would find the objective areas totally contaminated and unusable.”

An aide bent over Lombar, “Your Excellency, the Earthman has finally arrived.”

All eyes swiveled to Madison. (To do him justice, he might not have understood completely that what was under discussion was an invasion of Earth, for the meeting transcripts do not, of course, give internal thoughts of those speaking. Madison’s own logs shed no light on this.)

The general of artillery was the one who spoke. “What is the range and thermal penetration potential of an MX3 missile?”

Madison said, “I’m sorry. I don’t have it at my fingertips. But I don’t think it’s much to be worried about. The full project was, if I recall, challenged by the General Accounting Office because of cost overruns and was suspended. I remember reading about it.”

“Ha!” said the artillery general. “Good man. So that’s a system we don’t have to worry about. Now what about the satellite killers? Those could be used against spaceships.”

“Well, only the Russians developed those. They received a lot of TV coverage. So I should think that if you avoided the sky-space over Russia, they would be no problem.”

“Aha!” said the artillery general. “Show us this Russia.”

Madison walked up to the front of the cave and with a “With your permission” took the remote from the staff officer. He mastered it and the projector began to throw up Earth maps. He found Russia and showed them. (Madison would not have known, since it had happened after his departure, that there was no Russia now.)

Hisst moved restively. He glared at the generals. “All right, you can go and wrangle someplace else now. But get a general operational plan on this desk by tomorrow!”

They rose and their aides got their papers together and they left. Lombar, after a bit, became aware that Madison was still there.

“You’ve been dismissed!” said Hisst.

“I wanted to see you about Gris,” said Madison.

“Gris, Gris, Gris! Well, (BLEEP) Gris! He’s the one who is the cause of all this trouble!”

“Could I ask what all this trouble is?” said Madison.

“Amphetamines! Intelligence!” shouted Hisst. “If the sun didn’t rise tomorrow and I investigated, I can promise you it would lead to Gris! The Blixo, on its last arrival, should have brought amphetamines. It didn’t. Now there has not been one freighter since! He never kept his intelligence reports up and now we’re going blind.”

“I can get him!” said Madison.

That got through to Hisst. But he shook his head. “I’ve sent three assassins into the Royal prison. Gris is still alive! It’s impossible.”

“You don’t want him dead,” said Madison. “You want him talking.”

“He let Heller get away from him,” said Lombar in his usual disconnected way. “I’m going to kill him!”

“I can get Heller, too,” said Madison.

“Heller has turned all Earth against me,” said Hisst. “I am certain that right this minute Heller is racing through the streets of that planet screaming at the people to attack me! He’s a scourge! The Army and the Fleet won’t make the slightest effort to smash him!”

“Please,” said Madison. “Let’s open up our coats. Is there some reason you don’t want Gris to talk?”

The unpredictable Lombar suddenly broke out laughing. Madison did note later that, with Lombar, he very often felt like he was dealing with someone who was quite insane.

“Did you set Gris up some way?” pursued Madison.

Lombar was still laughing. Finally he said, “If I were ever accused of anything, nothing could be proved. Every order that ever went to Blito-P3, every shipment that ever came from there, bears only the name of Soltan Gris. He stamped his life away!”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if Gris came to trial?”

“What’s a trial got to do with it?”

Madison said, “A trial that was public, that was reported in the media. Blow by blow.”

“That’s a funny idea.”

“You can even try him first in the media and then he’s certain to be found guilty in the court. That’s the proper way to do these things.”

“How strange.”

“You’d emerge the hero,” said Madison. “It would help build your image.”

“Oh, trials have nothing to do with this,” said Hisst, suddenly looking angry. “My problem is how to get the Army and Fleet cooperating.”

“Is that very vital?” said Madison.

“He asks me if that’s vital,” Lombar asked an invisible spectator who wasn’t there. “I’d have to withdraw the whole Apparatus from Calabar to invade Earth. At least the Army and Fleet could take over there!”

“You need the cooperation of the Army and Fleet,” said Madison. “I CAN GET THEM FOR YOU!”

Lombar stopped. Finally he said, “How?”

“Let me have all the files and witnesses on Gris. I will get him into the press and on trial. Then I will get him to accuse Heller. It can be done so that the whole Army and Fleet will go chasing after Heller like mad dogs!”

“Really?”

Madison took the clipping book he had been carrying. He flopped it open on the desk before Lombar. “These stories are just trial balloons. I wrote every one. They’ll print anything I issue. All I have to do is use the media, and the Army and the Fleet will be in your hands!”

Lombar was staring at the book, leafing through it. “They are publishing what you say?”

“I control the media of the Confederacy. It’s just a tool. I can use it to whip up a storm that will give you all the support you will ever need for anything you want to do. I can mold public opinion like it was clay! And that is the key to all your projects.”

“Miraculous!” said Lombar, still staring at the book. “Crobe? A hero?” Yet here were touched-up pictures of Crobe, front page! Laudatory! Paper after paper!

“There, you see? And that’s just an exercise to try my muscle. A nothing.”

“Madison, if you can make them think that that demented old criminal is a hero, then it should be no difficulty at all to make a deserving, preselected man like me . . .”

“An Emperor,” Madison finished for him.

Hisst’s yellow eyes grew round and then began to glow. He stood up, towering over Madison a foot. He took one of Madison’s hands in his and stroked it. Then he turned and bawled toward the door, “CHIEF CLERK! GIVE THIS MAN MADISON EVERYTHING HE WANTS! EVERYTHING, YOU UNDERSTAND, OR I WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD!”

PART SEVENTY-NINE

Chapter 4

Outside the sun had almost set. The square was nearly deserted and the Model 99 looked lonely in the rubble.

Madison handed Cun an enormous stack of printouts, gave Flick an address card and got in.

“You had us worried,” said Flick as he got the Model 99 moving. “Cun was talking to the driver of that general’s tank beside us: he said that was the whole Apparatus General Staff in there planning a full-scale invasion. When he said ‘Blito-P3’ we flipped! Ain’t that the planet you’re from?”

Madison was lost in thought and did not reply.

“Now, I’m from Calabar,” said Flick. “All that war over there worries me. They slaughter whole towns, butcher the kids, rape the women, burn the lot. I should think your hair was standing on end thinking of the Apparatus invading your planet.”

“Oh, war is just war,” said Madison in a bored voice. “I’m a PR man. Most wars are started by PRs. So what’s there to be excited about?”

“Listen to that, Cun,” said Flick. “What a cool one! But I guess that kind of attitude goes along with being a murderer. And speaking of murder, get your stinger out, Cun. This neighborhood we’re moving into is a perfect ‘X marks the spot.’”

They pulled up before a place that was more fallen down than standing: the reek of garbage assailed their noses. Madison walked up some steps at the risk of a broken ankle and banged on a door.

A man with two tufts of gray hair standing out on either side of his head poked his nose out. “Go away. I’ve just this minute gotten home. I’m entitled to a little peace.”

“Is your name Bawtch?” said Madison.

Bawtch tried to close the door but Madison’s foot was in it. “I’ve come to you for information about a man named Gris.”

“GRIS! Get out of here!”

“He’s in the Royal prison,” said Madison, “laughing at you all. I’m trying to get him brought to trial.”

“Come in!” said Bawtch.

For a revelatory half an hour, Madison, in Bawtch’s best chair, listened entranced. “So then,” he finally said, “I could count on you as a character witness.”

“I’d walk across the Great Desert just for a chance to testify,” said Bawtch.

“And if I asked you to give a lecture on him, you’d talk?” said Madison.

“Indeed I would,” said Bawtch. “Now, thinking this over, I can give you a couple names. They’re just down the street.” He wrote an address and handed it across.

At the door, Bawtch shook him emotionally by the hand. “Count on me, Madison.”

They rolled around the corner and down a hill. They halted before a very decayed boarding house—“For Gentlemen Officers,” it said on a twisted sign.

A harsh-faced woman came to the door. Madison had learned his lesson: “I’m here to get you to help me hang Gris. I presume your name is Meeley. You were once his landlady.”

“To help you hang . . .” She whirled suddenly and yelled in the direction of the kitchen. “SKE! COME OUT HERE! WE’RE IN LUCK! SOMEBODY WANTS TO HANG GRIS!”

Madison found himself in a parlor, drinking hot jolt. He listened while Ske, Gris’ old driver, poured out his tale of woe, interrupted with curses and tales of woe of her own by Meeley. He gathered that Gris had given them both counterfeit bills and had they tried to pass them they would have been executed. But, knowing Gris, instead they had gone straight to the Finance Police with complaints of their own. Their bitterness against Gris had bound them close together.

Oh, yes, they’d testify at any trial. Gladly, gladly, gladly! At a lecture? Well, they were not really very presentable but they’d be only too glad to say anything Madison wanted.

Smiling like a toother that was all set to snap up his prey, Madison returned to the townhouse in Joy City. He ignored dinner. There was no time for that. He called his whole staff together.

He stood upon the platform in the briefing room. He stood very tall.

“Loyal and hardworking staff,” he said, “this is a milestone. At times PR finds itself on a pinnacle. We are about to influence the courses of empires. We are about to direct the very destiny of the stars. Now listen closely.”

PART SEVENTY-NINE

Chapter 5

Two days later, a very select audience of ninety women sat in the lecture hall on the eightieth floor of the townhouse, conscious that they were being especially favored by an invitation to this highly educational lecture by the famous Doctor Crobe.

They were also conscious, but this was never mentioned, that if they didn’t cooperate, they would never again get another chance to “get cured” at Relax Island. Also—although this, too, was never even hinted at—if they weren’t agreeable, somebody might forget to renew their free supply of pot.

What was discussed amongst themselves and to others quite freely was that, as members of high society, they had a positive duty to use their positions—and their husbands—to do good. It didn’t have a spoken name but they were all members of a very exclusive club made up entirely of those fortunate enough to have been “enlightened” at Relax Island.

Madison had had a little trouble with Crobe. He had sneaked an extra dose of LSD into himself outside his rationing and two roustabouts had had to stand him up in alternate hot and cold showers to bring him around.

He stood now on the lecture platform, aware that he would get a small jolt through his hidden electric collar if he goofed up, and steadied himself against the desk.

“Ladies,” he said, repeating what the ear speaker told him to, “you are aware that as the chosen inner circle of the enlightened few, your . . . your social . . . social position has responsibilities. The society we live in is . . . is unfortunately a cesspool of unrestrained insanity and monstrous abuses. Lurking, hidden, out of sight . . . out of sight from common and unenlightened view, the brains of men . . . see the with lusts and ferocity unimagined. It frightens me to see the dangers to which this society is exposed and how ill it . . . it . . . it handles them. It requires stern measures louder it requires STERN MEASURES!” He took a deep breath and steadied himself with his fingers against the desk top.

“Lean forward. There is a case so monstrous, would you know it, that I do not even describe it to you lean back and stop. You are, after all, gently nurtured ladies and I must not speak of it lest I offend your ears don’t go on.”

“No, no,” cried Lady Arthrite Stuffy in the front row, well aware of her position as the leader of this select group. “Go on, go on! Do not be afraid to offend our ears.”

“Oh, yes, go on!” came others’ calls.

“Look as though you need coaxing,” said Crobe.

“We don’t need coaxing!” cried a woman. “Tell us!”

“Go ahead. Well, this case, ladies, is so shout it vile that you will cringe. It is a singular and notable case. It is so notable that it falls totally outside the Freudian band of psychosexual pathology!”

“No!” came several cries.

“The case,” said Crobe, “is not anal. It is not oral. It is not genital! It is not even latent! Shout a monster.”

The women looked appalled.

Crobe sat down suddenly in a chair. “A woman has come forward to describe this case as an eyewitness. Introduce her.”

Meeley came forward timidly to the platform, then took confidence from the expectant female faces. “What he says,” said Meeley, “is true. I was his landlady. He never had women in his room. He closed the door when he went to the bathroom. He never spoke properly to anyone. When he wasn’t sneaking in and out, he was lurking in the dirt and filth of his room. There is no describing his obscene and awful thoughts. He also plotted day and night to get me executed just because I used to smile at him and wish him good day. When he skipped out we could find no one to occupy his room. It had such an awful reputation that it is empty yet!” She broke down sobbing and an usher led her off.

Then came Ske. “I was,” he said, “his long-suffering driver. The deprivations I experienced during that unhappy period of my life have left a brand upon me so deep that my very soul is seared. He used to sit in the airbus trying to hide the grinding of his teeth. And for my faithful service he tried to get me executed. I cannot describe the obscenities that surrounded him!” He broke down as coached and fled the platform.

Old Bawtch came forward. “I was his chief clerk and it ruined my life. The murders and crimes of this man, strung end to end, would reach half across the universe. The insane things he did culminated in orders to take my life.”

He left the platform. Crobe, somewhat revived, stood up. “Now, ladies, you can plainly see that insanity rages. The diagnosis of this case is so monstrous that in all the annals of psychiatry there has never been one like it. I have simply look calm and professorial brought up the case to show you how the claws of insanity have dug into the very depths of our culture look like that’s the end.”

“Wait!” cried Lady Arthrite. “Who is this case and where is he?”

“Look toward the door. Is the man who informed me of this case still here?”

“Yes,” said an usher promptly.

An actor dressed as a warder of the Royal prison came in reluctantly. He was wearing a mask. “Doctor Crobe,” he said, “I told you about this case for the good of the society. If it got out that I had informed you of what the government is doing, it could cause me to lose my job.”

“Tell them tell them they will all regard your identity as inviolate.”

The actor turned. “The man is being held in the Royal prison to avoid his being brought to trial. He sits in his cell, protected. What is feared is that if he ever was put before a judge, the things he would divulge would shake the government to its very foundations. Even if they tried him, it would be done in secret. What we warders fear is that he will be released upon the society through a back door and strew the streets with the gruesomely mangled bodies of the poor and innocent. While I know naught of your psychiatry, from just viewing him in his cell, I would say that, in a long career of handling malefactors, he is easily the worst I have ever seen. He defies all descriptions! Yet THEY are hiding and defending him.”

“What is his name?” said Lady Arthrite Stuffy in an enraged voice.

“His name,” said the actor, “is Soltan Gris!”

PART SEVENTY-NINE

Chapter 6

Like a maestro conducting a vast orchestra, J. Walter Madison went to work on Soltan Gris.

The highest social circles of Voltar were buzzing about the scandal and, quite in addition to demands from their wives, publishers and editors could not turn anywhere without colliding with the outrage.

The first headlines read:

MYSTERIOUS PRISONER
HIDDEN BY AUTHORITIES

And this was quickly followed up with:

WHO IS THE
GOVERNMENT REFUSING
TO BRING TO TRIAL?

And then:

IDENTITY REVEALED!
PRISONER IS
APPARATUS OFFICER
SOLTAN GRIS!

Quickly then, edition after edition and day after day, the documented catalogue of the crimes of Apparatus Officer Soltan Gris began to appear, each one juicier than the last.

They began with:

APPARATUS OFFICER
GRIS ILLEGALLY
EXPORTED METALS

Immediately after that:

APPARATUS OFFICER
GRIS ORDERED MURDER
OF OWN OFFICE HEAD
AND CLERKS

And then:

APPARATUS OFFICER
ORDERS MURDER OF
MOTHER OF
DEFENSELESS BOY

And a picture of the sobbing Twolah and faked photos of his mother’s body and funeral began to send ripples of rage through the population.

It was at this time that Lord Turn received a viewer-phone call from no less a social leader than Lady Arthrite Stuffy.

“Lord Turn,” said Lady Arthrite, “I do not think you realize that public opinion is growing. WHEN are you going to bring that prisoner to trial?”

“Lady Arthrite,” said Lord Turn, “would you please keep your nose out of the affairs of the Royal prison?” And hung up.

This, as it was recorded, gave the Daily Speaker an exclusive:

JUDGE TELLS PUBLIC
“HANDS OFF GRIS!”

This, of course, made all the other papers livid: they had been scooped. They began to bombard Lord Turn with tricky calls of their own. This made Lord Turn furious. He was so angry that he refused to explain anything to anyone. The headlines grew worse and worse.

Now, unfortunately for Soltan Gris, when he had been blackmailing the Provocation Section of the Apparatus, the head of that section had been radio-recording back to his own office down by the River Wiel during the whole time that he had been shadowing Gris to get the goods on him. And a recording of every single one of these crimes Gris had pulled at that time existed, with pictures and sound, in the Provocation Section. Gris, unaware of this, thought he had handled it with the final murder of that chief. And now Madison began to feed these crimes one at a time to the press.

HYPNOTIST MURDERED
BY APPARATUS
OFFICER GRIS

And then:

SUPPLY COLONEL
MURDERED BY
APPARATUS OFFICER GRIS

And then:

ELECTRONICS WIZARD
SPURK FOULLY SLAIN
BY APPARATUS OFFICER
GRIS

BURNS THIRD OF
ELECTRONICS INDUSTRIAL
QUARTER TO HIDE
VICIOUS CRIME

And the final one of the series was complete with photographs of a body falling ten thousand feet.

BROTHER APPARATUS
OFFICER SLAIN IN
DASTARDLY EFFORT
TO HIDE DAMNABLE
CRIMES

The footage was even shown on Homeview, which was beginning to take an interest.

The question was starting to buzz through the streets: If the government had an officer who had been committing all these crimes, just why was it refusing to bring the villain to trial?

But Madison was saving a pièce de résistance.

When Bawtch had been overheard chortling “he had Gris now” and about a forgery, he had NOT been talking about the Royal signature forgeries at all. At that time, he didn’t even know about them.

Gris, in his carelessness, had left the old cloak of Prahd’s beside his office desk. He had intended it to be found beside the River Wiel. And in that cloak he had wrapped a very bad forgery, a suicide note. Unfortunately, he had written it on a piece of paper which had been under a document when he stamped it for Bawtch. And dimly under the writing on the Prahd suicide note could be seen the identoplate outline of Soltan Gris!

The recorded strips of the dead Provocation Section officer had shown Soltan Gris calling on Prahd Bittlestiffender.

All evidence for a murder charge was there. So Madison, through one of his reporters, called the attention of the Domestic Police to the crime.

The Domestic Police traced it down, accompanied by a horde of reporters, and found that young Dr. Prahd Bittlestiffender was nowhere to be found. They then issued a warrant for the arrest of Soltan Gris.

Young Dr. Prahd, the most promising cellologist to graduate for some time, was extolled by his professors as a real loss to his profession. The act of cutting him down in his early youth could be looked upon as a crime against the whole population, who so desperately needed his services. The act of a madman!

HEADLINES!

Then the Domestic Police asked Lord Turn for the custody of Gris so they could try him and execute him. It was, of course, refused.

HEADLINES!

The questions began to race through the population. Why was the government protecting this raving lunatic of an Apparatus officer? Why would they not let him be brought to trial?

Written by his ex-Royal Academy of Arts reporter, Madison began to circulate the words and music of a ballad. It was printed on a single sheet and seemed to be the creation of an unknown. Shortly it was being reprinted in the press and sung on every hand. It went:

In the name of the government he murdered and killed.
Many an innocent victim he has chilled.
He is an Apparatus officer!
Why does the government love this cur?
He grows fat on his victim’s blood,
Then with glee stamps them in the mud.
Coddled and protected for his crime,
They extoll his virtues as sublime.
We are demanding his life should cease.
WE WANT THE BLOOD OF SOLTAN GRIS!

Mobs took to marching in the streets singing it at the tops of their voices.

Actually, some time since, J. Walter Madison had fully expected Lord Turn to simply give in and say, “All right. I’ll try him.” And in the case of the Domestic Police, “Here he is. Try the hells out of him.”

If he could only get Gris on the stand accusing Heller, Madison knew he would have it made.

But he had reached an impasse. The fury boiling in the streets was not moving Lord Turn up there in his high castle.

Other measures were needed.

PART SEVENTY-NINE

Chapter 7

Madison was busy far into the night, laying out his plans. There were several things he had to do. Amongst the first of them was to keep Lombar Hisst hopeful.

Accordingly, one morning, Madison caught Hisst at his desk before the closed door of the Emperor’s bedroom. Hisst was going over the details of the invasion plan of Earth.

“How soon,” he greeted Madison, “do you suppose we can have the cooperation of the Army and the Fleet? If they can supplant our Apparatus forces now active in the Calabar revolt, we can get on with invading Blito-P3 and bring it to heel.”

“I’m working on that project day and night,” said Madison. “In fact, that’s what I’m here to see you about: that and the far more important question of making you Emperor. You see, all these things tie together neatly.”

“How?” said Hisst.

“It’s simply a matter of image,” said Madison. “With enough image, you can do anything. Now what I need to know is what exact image do you favor? How do you want the public to think of you?”

Lombar sat back. His yellow eyes grew dreamy. “Totally formidable,” he said finally.

“That’s what I thought,” said Madison. “A man of iron will. One who will brook no nonsense. The public yearns for strong and merciless control. The figure of a vengeful God.”

“Exactly,” said Lombar Hisst. “I have finally discovered why I listen to you. You are extremely perceptive and are not afraid to speak the truth to your superior.”

“I only do my duty,” said Madison. “Now, I know that you are very busy. But it just so happens that there are some riots going on at this minute in Slum City. It is a marvelous opportunity to create image. The mob is being contained by two battalions of the Apparatus. I have a camera crew standing by. If your good judgment tells you that you should utilize this priceless opportunity to create image, we can go there in your private tank and you’ll be on Homeview in a trice.”

“A mob,” said Lombar, “that needs quelling? Where’s my cap and stinger?”

An hour and a half later, Lombar stomped up the steps of the prepared stand before the faces of an assembled five thousand people. The Slum City square was cordoned off. For once Madison had not had to put out any money for extras or actors in such a demonstration. Due to the Gris publicity, the two Apparatus Death Battalions were having more trouble keeping additional spectators out than containing the ones that were in: they had tank roadblocks on every side street that entered the area.

Madison had handed Lombar his speech. It was a good speech: the horror-story writer, under Madison’s close direction, had been up all night writing it.

In his red general’s uniform, Lombar loomed above the crowd. The speakers boomed as he began to read his speech.

“Citizens of Voltar! You are misguided. Law and order must triumph every time above mob rule. Our domestic tranquility must not be shattered by questions and challenge of your government. I stand here, strong and powerful, formidable and determined to crush all opposition to the sovereign state. In me you see the image of stern power! I will not ever retreat from my stern duty to bring all malefactors to trial.”

A wave of satisfaction swept through the vast throng. Madison’s camera crew, supplemented by three more camera crews from Homeview on the manager’s own initiative, were carrying this speech to all Voltar and, on delay, to every other planet.

“I will have you know,” roared Lombar, in fine form, “that the characters of Apparatus officers should not be impugned by the crimes of Soltan Gris. Apparatus officers are men of sterling virtue and unblemished honor. I am proud to number myself amongst them and to be their chief.

“The rivers of blood spilled by Gris, the graveyards jammed with corpses, are all the work of Gris and Gris alone. This foul fiend must not damage the brilliant innocence of other Apparatus officers or mine!

“My very soul cries out to do him justice. With these two hands I could separate his spine, vertebra by vertebra, and take the utmost pleasure in it. I would love to deliver him even into the hands of this mob and let him be dismembered!”

Wild cheering began at the back and swept forward in a roar.

When the hysteria died, Hisst swept on. “Alas, His Majesty lies ill, too ill to be disturbed, and in this time of public crisis, I do not wish for anything but tranquillity. I am therefore carrying forward His Majesty’s deepest wish and I am assuming the temporary powers of Dictator of Voltar.”

There was a shock of stillness. The crowd stared. They had never heard of such a post or position.

But the speech gave no time for discussion. Lombar had never heard of the position either. He had not read the speech beforehand. But suddenly, although he could not imagine what it might embrace, he accepted the post with a surge of unbridled elation. It was the steppingstone he had been seeking.

Filled with divine fervor, he read on, “I pledge on my honor to bring peace to Voltar, tranquility to its people, and I will stamp out ruthlessly any dissidence or question that will damage the state. I am backed by the sterling and honest officers of the Apparatus and I will gather in the support of every other branch of service, or else!

“Now, as to the matter of Gris, due to the obstructionism of the Royal prison, other means will have to be used. The danger is that this foul fiend will be released upon the population to work his will again. Fortunately, there is a new tool that can be used. It is called psychotherapy. It is that which will be employed. And I shall use my new powers to see that it is properly applied. So I promise you that the matter of Gris will be successfully concluded to the satisfaction of everyone.”

The crowd was confused. Then they began to get the idea that psychotherapy must be some kind of torture. They began to cheer.

Lombar came to the last paragraph of his speech. He waited for a lull and then he boomed it out, “O population of the Confederacy! I promise you that I and all the other officers of the Apparatus, honest, unimpeachable and dedicated, will bring peace and order to the state no matter WHAT we have to do. I thank you!”

Delight raged. Lombar came down off the platform feet taller than he had climbed up it.

The two Death Battalions stood there dumbfounded. Their officers had to scream at them to block back the surging crowds so Lombar could get into his tank. The din of cheering for Lombar was deafening. He stood in the turret and waved. His tank took off.

“My Gods, Madison,” he said, “your genius is almost as great as mine. But this post of dictator, won’t it have to pass the Grand Council?”

Madison handed him the GC order, all stamped and signed. Only two members had been present but the pages were good pages. They had done what Teenie told them to.

“A man named Napoleon,” said Madison, “moved from dictator to Emperor with ease.”

“GODS!” said Lombar, quivering. And for minutes he just stared into space.

It was not until they were flying across the Great Desert that Lombar spoke again. “You know, this opens the door to total cooperation by the Army and the Fleet. We will be able to handle both Calabar and Earth with ease. You seem to have solved everything. But I do have one question. What is this thing called psychotherapy? Some new long-distance method of execution?”

“You leave that to me,” said Madison.

Lombar nodded and forgot about it.