PART EIGHTY
Chapter 1
Madison was handling the “psychotherapy.”
He was in the observation slot back of the wall behind the eightieth-floor townhouse auditorium. He was grinning. This had to work, and when it did he would have his trial. And with the Gris trial, he would have Heller.
The editorials in the papers had been a very mixed lot on the subject of Lombar’s speech, none of them less stunned than Madison’s own staff. On his return his reporters and crew had said, “We made a dictator, bango, just like that! But what’s a ‘dictator,’ Chief?” Some of the papers were of the opinion that a “dictator” was one who spoke into a dictating machine. Others, since the word had been translated directly over into literal Voltarian, said that it was a more forceful kind of spokesman and was a natural outgrowth from that earlier title. But the majority seemed to gather that Lombar had assumed much more embracive powers and, if the Grand Council order had not been showing up on their consoles, they would have had to assume that Lombar had authored some kind of a coup; they were not at all sure what. But none of the papers missed the point that the Apparatus was suddenly the senior force of the state.
The Apparatus didn’t miss it. Their officers, with few exceptions jailbirds, joked to one another about their “unimpeachable reputations” and their “honor.” They began to put on airs. Apparatus officers had never dared go into the better hotels and restaurants and clubs, and suddenly it pleased their fancy to show up and bully waiters and managers around. Apparatus troops began at once a game of holding arms and walking up streets shoving everyone else off the walks. Underpaid and unpaid, they began to find ways of being paid.
But Madison ignored all that. He was on to bigger game: Heller. His ways of arriving there were entirely PR. Deadly!
This “psychotherapy” action had begun with his discovery of a postcard in the Gris dossier. It said:
Pratia
Now, Madison had known better than to put his handsome face in that trap. So he had sent the director and one of the circus girls dressed as people of fashion and an actor as Gris’ “commanding officer.”
Now, here in the auditorium, a hundred ladies of the “club” were gathered in breathtaking suspense, and Madison’s grin widened as he peered through the slot from which he could view them. Although many were middle-aged, they looked in full bloom. They had recaptured some of their lost youth and life, viewed through a marijuana haze and sex, and seemed remarkably attractive.
Crobe took the stand. This time they’d kept the LSD away from him, and expecting more if he delivered, he was on his good behavior. The little speaker was in his ear and all he had to do was repeat the script being read over it.
“Ladies of quality, ladies of fashion, ladies of sparkling eyes and resurged youth,” Crobe began—and it was pretty good even though he was saying it in a very flat voice— “I know how concerned you have been about the state’s reluctance to try the insane lunatic Gris. As you doubtless read or saw on Homeview, Lombar Hisst, Dictator of Voltar, promised that psychotherapy would be attempted in the Gris case.
“Now the grave danger, ladies, is that Gris will be released upon the public totally insane, that he will continue to slaughter and burn and rampage throughout a helpless population.
“Hisst, poorly advised, directly ordered me to attempt a solution through psychotherapy. It was reasoned that if the foul fiend could be made sane, it would then be safe to turn him loose.
“I demurred. I tried to point out that this criminal lunatic Gris was entirely off the Freudian scale. Most of you heard the lecture where I took that up took that up took go on go on.
“I said to Hisst, ‘The chances of success are so remote they are not worth . . . calculating.’ He ordered me to do it anyway. Then I told him that anyone chosen to do this thing might very well be facing certain death. But he said, ‘What is one woman more or less? Find a volunteer and make her do it!’”
“The brute!” ran the whisper around the room.
“Now, as you know you know you know quit repeating, according to Freud, sex is the basis of everything. If the true sexual basis of a criminal could be awakened, he would reform and become sane. That is proven scientific fact like all psychiatry.
“So what will be attempted is to bring light into the life of Gris in the hope that it will reform him, bring him back to sanity and remove him as a threat from our society.”
The women nodded.
“But,” cried Crobe, “as I told Hisst, the experiment, while noble, has two drawbacks: one, the chances of this working on somebody totally off the classification scale are almost nonexistent; and two, it is almost certain death for the volunteer. Shout yet we have actually found a volunteer.”
Crobe stood there, since no words were coming into his earphone now. An usher led forward the volunteer.
It was the Widow Tayl!
She was dressed in purest white. She looked virginal. Her head was bent forward, her smoothly straight hair fell across her face. She clasped her hands in front of her. She had been directed to perfection, to look like a maiden being brought before the altar in a primitive sacrifice. She stood before them, eyes cast down.
“This woman,” said Crobe, “in a spirit of purest patriotism, is willing to risk her life in this undertaking. I regard with awe her devotion and fearlessness in servicing . . . serving the state and people. I give you Pratia Tayl wait for applause.”
The assembled women stared. They felt a surge of awe. Then some began to cry.
“I am therefore,” said Crobe, “appointing a committee under the chairwomanship of Lady Arthrite Stuffy to call upon Lord Turn and insist that he permit the marriage and nuptial night of Gris and this woman in the Royal prison.”
The audience gasped.
Madison grinned.
PART EIGHTY
Chapter 2
A very disturbed Lord Turn faced the committee of ladies in his chambers the next morning. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. But he had never been pounded by press in all his life and he was getting cowed. Even his own family was not speaking to him lately, and this mass of determined women he saw before him were, many of them, on remarkably good terms with his family.
“But Lady Arthrite,” he sputtered, “nothing like this has ever happened before. A marriage to take place in my prison? It’s unheard of.”
Lady Arthrite fixed him with a gimlet eye. “Lord Turn, we have consulted legal experts. Our family attorneys tell us that there is no regulation against it! You are NOT covered by the law this time. Any objection by you would be purely personal!”
Lord Turn digested that. He was a letter-of-the-law man and he knew she spoke the truth. It had suddenly become too personal. Then he grasped at an out. “Marriage is a thing to which the man must agree. I doubt very much that Soltan Gris would want to get married!”
“He must be asked and we must hear if this is the case.”
Lord Turn raised his eyes to the ceiling. There were no regulations up there to be read. He looked back at Lady Arthrite. “Very well. We will go ask Gris.”
Now, the Apparatus is an intelligence service and it has ways and means of getting information. And, this time through a warder’s wife, Madison had learned that Soltan Gris had finished writing his confession.
Actually, Gris, these days, had put on some weight through lack of exercise, and food eaten regularly. Just now he was sitting in the tower cell wondering what to do with his time.
He had delivered the massive confession. For a couple of days thereafter he had worried a bit, thinking he would now be executed. Then he began to realize that judges take a long time to read things and maybe he had a few more breaths of life left to breathe.
The orders that he stay away from the window did not have to be repeated to him: he knew in his bones that Lombar Hisst would move the planet to get at him. He had heard some crowd shouting something or other outside the prison on some occasions but he had not dared go to the window to look and he could not understand what they were saying: they were too distant. No information had come to him. He knew nothing whatever about the press campaign against him.
He was somewhat puzzled therefore to hear many footsteps coming up the tower stairs and a buzz of voices. Female voices? How strange!
There was a jangle of opening plates and then the groan of his iron door.
A guard came in and pointed a weapon at him.
The room was suddenly full of women!
Gris’ wits promptly went into a spin.
He recognized none of them.
Their gaze upon him was hostile in the extreme.
Panic gripped him and there was no place to run.
A hooded figure, very slight of build, advanced toward him. It came very close.
He felt a note being pushed into his hand.
Almost hysterical, he glanced down at the note. It said:
The figure before him then lifted a hand and took hold of the top of her hood and pulled it off.
Gris went into petrified shock.
IT WAS PRATIA TAYL!
“For the good of the state,” she said, carefully coached, “I have volunteered to marry you.” And, out of sight of the others she jabbed a finger at the note.
Gris, very close to fainting, could not speak.
Lord Turn, at the back of the group, snarled, “Well, answer her! Speak up so we can get about our business!”
“Say yes,” hissed the Widow Tayl.
Gris took a look at her slitted, determined eyes. He looked at the hostile faces of the other women.
It suddenly occurred to him that he could buy a little more life. He could postpone his execution simply by setting a forward date, a month away, for this marriage.
“YES!” he shouted.
Lord Turn was amazed.
Hope suddenly lit the faces of the women.
“Good,” said the Widow Tayl, “we will be married right here this afternoon. Be ready.”
Gris tried to open his mouth to speak.
The cell was empty and the door clanged shut.
PART EIGHTY
Chapter 3
Madison, of course, had the headlines set and ready to go. By noon, papers were all over the streets with variants of the headline:
SACRIFICIAL
BRIDE
TO
REFORM GRIS
Of course, there were statements by Crobe to the effect that it was a nearly impossible feat. He could not possibly guarantee any success due to the fact that Gris “had come to him too late”—the usual psychiatric hedge they used on Earth.
But what attracted public attention, as Madison knew it would, was the probable fate of a beautiful woman. Thousands upon thousands of people began to gather on the lower slopes of the Royal prison. Many were weeping, none had any hope, all thought it was a cruel thing to do and all thought that the nobility of Pratia Tayl was beyond any possible estimation.
Madison didn’t even need his own camera crew. Homeview had covered the deputation going in and coming out and it was down there now in the afternoon sunlight, putting on the air live this vast throng of gathering people, getting close-ups of faces, getting opinions. He had hardly had to tell the manager of Homeview what to do at all.
For Madison had another mission of his own. With Apparatus-provided credentials and in the uniform of a General Services officer, he was going to act as the “bridegroom’s friend,” a necessary personnel of the ceremony.
The guards searched him for weapons and poison and promised him that they would be watching through the slot with a gun on him if he so much as made a gesture at Gris. And they let him in.
Gris was lying on his bunk in a state of collapse. He had failed utterly to buy his month. The thought of being married to the Widow Tayl was only offset by the fact that he would not live very long anyway.
The bunk was actually an inset ledge in the stone. When a pad was on it, as now, it had only about four feet of clearance to its overhead.
He saw what he took to be a General Services officer being let in. That didn’t necessarily mean Apparatus. He had expected they would send someone to help him get ready, and sure enough the fellow had some boxes under his arm. He was also reassured when he saw a gun barrel trained through the cell view-slot. So he lay there watching.
Then suddenly the features under the cap began to register.
In horrible shock he shot upright!
He hit his head!
It didn’t knock him out. It sent his wits spinning. He thought he was at 42 Mess Street, New York City. No, he must be on the yacht Golden Sunset.
Madison? It was MADISON!
“Oh, no,” said Gris. “No, no, no!”
Madison found a stool and sat down beside the bunk. “Well, Smith,” he said in English, “I mean Gris. I certainly hate to see an associate of Mr. Bury’s in trouble. Don’t be concerned. I am here to help you out.”
Gris went into terror. “Oh, please, dear Gods, Madison. Don’t act as my PR!”
“Of course not,” said Madison. “I am your friend. I will do everything I can to see you come out of this in great shape.”
“Oh, no, no, please. Please Madison, don’t help me.”
“Oh, nonsense, Gris. That is what friends are for. Now listen to me carefully. You are going to get out of this with flying colors.”
“You mean . . . you mean I have a chance of getting off?”
“Oh, more than a chance, Smith. There are people working day and night to keep you from being executed. It’s the very last thing your friends want!”
“I have friends?”
“Why, of course, you have! You have no idea how much has been done for you already. We’re going to get you brought to trial.”
“WHAT?”
“Absolutely. Not only that, it will be a fair trial. You don’t think the Widow Tayl is desirous of becoming a double widow, do you? Why, no. She’s got money by the ton and she will hire the very best attorneys. I can assure you that you have a very long and very interesting life ahead of you.”
“Madison, for the love of your mother, don’t torture me this way. I haven’t got a chance. You’re just up to something horrible. I know it!”
“Oh, Smith, I’m shocked. You are not my client. I’m still working on Heller.”
“You are?”
“Of course. You and I are just the old team, Smith and Madison. Same as always. But I probably haven’t got all day to talk to you, so you better remember what I’m telling you. When you get up on that stand, I want you to accuse Heller as the sole reason for all your woes.”
“But that’s true,” said Gris. “He is!”
“Excellent! I knew you would agree. So when they put you on trial . . .”
“They won’t try me. They’ll just execute me. And if I ever walk out of this prison, Lombar Hisst will have me cut down ten feet from the gate.”
“Don’t give it a second thought. I am Lombar’s right-hand man—or he is mine, I forget which. So if we get you to trial, you do what you’re told. Understand?”
“All you want me to do is accuse Heller?”
“Right.”
“Any and all crimes I can think of?”
“Right!”
Gris started to come out of it. He began to see some light. “They’ll realize he’s the one behind all this.”
“Right.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Good. Now we’ve got to get you ready for your wedding.”
Madison had to keep his smile from spreading into a triumphant grin. Gris didn’t even suspect how absolutely diabolical the real plan was!
PART EIGHTY
Chapter 4
Late that afternoon, the marriage took place in the prison.
Lord Turn would not permit camera crews inside and they had to be content with what they could shoot from outside the courtyard gates.
The late afternoon sun made the grim old castle a dark silhouette and fell upon the countless thousands of people who covered the flanks of the hill. Priests were passing amongst them, exhorting them to pray, and the crowd sat or knelt, young and old, covered with a blanket of buzzing sound.
When the marriage priest and the friend of the bride and friend of the groom appeared at the gate, exiting, the priest made a sign that the marriage had been performed. A combined sigh of hope from thousands of throats swept down the hill like a wind.
All eyes were fixed on the highest tower now, for they knew that the sacrificial bride and the hated Gris were there, alone. Nobody from the crowd left: they knew that at midnight the wife would depart the prison. They prayed for her. Would the therapy work? Would she ever be seen again alive?
The sun went down. The moon Niko rose: it bathed the ancient fortress with an eerie light; it made the uplifted faces a greenish haze on the hill.
The crowd did not miss the fact that an ambulance stood outside the gates, a medical team ready. As the Homeview announcer said, when the cameras panned it, it was there to grasp the possible hope that the bride, no matter how abused, could be treated and kept alive.
But what went on outside the prison and what went on inside were two different things.
During the ceremony, Gris had been numb as stone. Pratia Tayl, on the other hand, with sparkling eye, had been chattering like a loose cogwheel. And when the two friends and priest had left, she was not even disconcerted by the fact that a guard remained at the blastgun slot, ready to intervene.
Pratia had brought a basket containing a wedding feast which had survived the minute inspections and tests given it. With movements not unlike a golden songbird, she hopped about, spreading the comestibles upon a glittering cloth. She was popping bits and pieces at Gris’ mouth—and missing much of the time—even before they sat down formally. They were missing because Gris was too numb to open his lips.
“Oh, you just wait,” prattled Pratia, “we’ll have such fun. You won’t have to work anymore, for you’ll be out of the Apparatus. And all you’ll have to do is simply lie on a bed and I’ll throw food at you like this. Your heaviest exertions will consist of simply sleeping and (bleeping). Isn’t it marvelous? Have another berry.”
Gris was in the total grip of unreality. He had been peacefully in this tower for months, his only companions a vocoscriber and his materials. Occasionally, the inmate in the next cell would scratch on the wall; now and then a bird would sit on the window ledge and chirp and fly away. All this commotion sounded to him like a din. There seemed to be, as well, some sort of a swelling moan outside he could not account for, for he was still under orders not to go near a window.
Sex was far from attractive to him these days. Since Prahd had changed his anatomy, women had given him nothing but solid trouble. Also this marriage had not bought him any time. He really didn’t believe he’d have a trial. He had confessed his life away; the best he could hope for was the most painless execution Lord Turn could give him. During the ceremony, the more he had looked at Madison, the less he believed what Madison had said. The record of J. Warbler Madman was a proven thing to Gris. After his momentary hope, Gris had backslid.
“Oh, have some of this pink sparklewater. It is the very best: extremely nutritious,” said Pratia. “It will get your strength up.” And she laughed a little bell-like laugh. “You’re really going to need it.” Then she shook a finger at him. “Don’t be so unresponsive! You simply must stop worrying. Three of the very best attorneys in all Voltar will defend you. Trust me!”
“I don’t think any of you understand,” said Gris. “I am Heller’s prisoner. For some reason His Majesty has not issued orders to finish me off. But he will. He will. Even if you could help me, I just confessed to every crime in the book. I don’t believe you and I don’t believe, Gods forbid, Madison.”
“Oh, don’t be so gloomy. Look there! It’s already dark outside! Now have you had enough food and drink to feel really fortified? You have. Good. Now you just turn your back and I’ll fix up the bed there and WHEEE!”
He sat facing the blank wall and heard her working busily in the stone alcove. She had brought a roll of bedding and he had no idea at all what she was up to.
Finally, she tapped him on the shoulder. Woodenly, he turned around. She wore a gown that was so transparent it made her nakedness an exclamation point.
The alcove had been draped with white gauze and a blue blanket of shimmercloth lay upon it.
She was plucking at his clothes, unfastening things. Like some sort of statue, he stood there and let himself be stripped. The only motion he made was to step out of his boots and pants.
“Oooooooooh!” cried Pratia, standing back and staring. “LOOK what we have here! Oooooh! Why, Soltan, what has happened? WHAT an imPROVEMENT! Oh, Soltan, that is positively DIVINE! I never DREAMED there could be one like THAT!”
Gris looked at her with resignation.
She was staring round-eyed. “No WONDER you never answered my postal cards. Women must have been haunting you in MOBS!”
Gris looked like he had been whipped.
She frowned. “But I see you are not responding.” Then she smiled in inspiration. “Oh, I know what will get you excited. A picture of our son. It will make you want to have another one just like him!”
She rummaged in her purse. “I had this taken just yesterday. Here it is. Isn’t he BEAUTIFUL?”
Gris looked at it. It was a baby, two or three months old. It was smiling and wide-eyed.
Abruptly Gris took hold of it and approached the light. Yes!
Straw-colored hair! Green eyes!
He glared at her. “This is Prahd’s baby!”
“Oh, no, it’s yours. There’s lots of hair like that in my family and green eyes, too. Just because you have brown hair and eyes doesn’t mean a thing. He’s your son, all right. The registry papers show it. And now he’s all legal, not even a bastard since this afternoon. Aren’t you proud?”
It was just like Nurse Bildirjin’s baby. “This is Prahd’s,” he said.
She laughed delightedly. “Why, you’re jealous! Oh, this is wonderful! So you do love me a little bit after all. Well, come right over to this bed and you’ll get all the love you want!”
She dragged him over to the inset bunk and through the gauze.
The guard was watchful as he stared into the cell across the sights of his blastgun.
The white curtains that hid the bed were moving.
Pratia’s robe was thrown out of them and hit the floor. Her voice was reproving. “Come ON, Soltan. This is no time to be shy.”
The guard was very watchful as Pratia’s voice said, “Now, now, Soltan. Don’t be naughty. You’ve been living in all this stone. Use it as an example.”
A bird lit on the cell window ledge and listened. Pratia’s voice was a little strained. “Well, I suppose it is the lot of women to do all the work.”
The guard frowned.
“Oooooooh!” cried Pratia as the startled bird stared. “What QUANTITY!” The bird flew hastily away.
The guard’s face glowered. Pratia said, “Now, Soltan, be a good boy. Aaaah, that’s better. Now let me concentrate.”
The white gauze curtains were twitching.
Pratia’s face was staring up at the close-to ceiling of the inset bed.
Gris was staring down at her wonderingly.
Pratia’s face was very rapt, looking upward.
Puzzled, Gris was looking down at her. He decided she must be staring at something above his head.
Gris turned sideways to look upward and find what she was gazing at so raptly. Had she put something up there?
It was a three-dimensional picture. Big as life! Full color!
HELLER!
Gris suddenly began to scream.
He leaped out of the alcove. The curtains caught at him and he felt he was being seized.
His screams rose to total volume!
He was wrestling on the floor with the curtains!
Guards pounded in! Now he knew they were after him.
His screams battered the walls and sliced down the passageways. They tore out the window and into the night.
Outside, a moan rose from thousands of throats.
The camera crews went tense.
The ambulance started its motors.
Alarm gongs racketed in the courtyard!
A tense throng, in agony, watched the ponderous doors swing open.
A stretcher crew raced in.
In the darkness of the courtyard, the men in white were loading something. One of them was an actor: he expertly tossed a blood bag under the sheet, observed by no one.
And then into the glaring gate lights, before the eyes of cameras, attended by the men in white, the stretcher came to view.
Thousands groaned!
People shrieked in horror.
On it lay the sacrificial bride, sheet showing only part of her face.
AND DOWN FROM THE STRETCHER RAN A TORRENT OF BLOOD!
PANDEMONIUM!
The crowd tried to charge.
Guards with flashing guns fired over their heads!
A platoon struggled to get the prison gates closed.
The stretcher was slid into the ambulance. It took off with a roar!
Madison looked back through the rear windows of the ambulance.
WHAT A RIOT!
AND ALL ON HOMEVIEW FOR THE WHOLE OF THE CONFEDERACY!
He sat down by the stretcher. He took Pratia Tayl Gris’ hand and patted it. He was grinning from ear to ear.
“Oh, you did wonderfully,” he said. “I am very proud of you.”
“Well, I certainly hope all this works,” said the most dedicated nymphomaniac on Voltar. “I just can’t wait to get my hands on him again. Did you know he is now ENORMOUS?”
“Oh, I think the rest of it will come off smoothly,” said Madison.
“This PR is great stuff!” said Pratia. “Where’s it been?”
PART EIGHTY
Chapter 5
The rest of Madison’s caper was not long in following.
On the very next afternoon, an incredulous Lord Turn, already sorrier than sorry that he had said yes to the marriage, looked at the Royal prison seneschal. “WHO?” said Lord Turn.
“They’re asking for permission to land in the courtyard,” said the seneschal. “It’s an air-limousine and the identoplate of the occupant says ‘Queen Teenie.’ They are saying that as the occupant is Royal, they have a right to land.”
“That must be the Hostage Queen of Flisten,” said Lord Turn. “But a hostage monarch doesn’t have access to this place!”
“That’s what I told them. But they said royalty was royalty and that they have urgent business with Your Lordship that will NOT wait.”
“Well, it’s a moot question,” said Lord Turn. “Are those Homeview people still hanging around outside?”
“No, Your Lordship.”
“Well, nobody will notice. It can’t be anything very important. Probably wants some retainer locked up and I’ll have to tell her no, but I better do it in person or they’ll feel insulted. Tell them they can land.”
He got into a new robe and straightened up his desk.
Very shortly, two heralds stepped in and halted. In unison, they said, “Her Majesty Queen Teenie! All rise!”
A silver palanquin, covered, borne by two husky footmen in silver, was carried into the chamber.
“Kneel!” said the heralds.
Lord Turn, suffering, stepped to the side of his desk and knelt.
The footmen set the palanquin down.
A blue-gloved hand swept the front curtain of the palanquin aside. A young voice said, “Rise. You may sit at your desk.”
Lord Turn was irritated. Hostage monarchs had no business here. But he rose and seated himself at his desk. Then he looked into the curtained chair. She was sitting there, crown on head, scepter in hand, robed in gold. Her eyes and mouth were very big but she was actually quite beautiful. Then he realized she was little more than a child and he could not repress a fatherly smile. What possible trouble could a teen-age hostage monarch cause? None that he could imagine.
“Well, what can I do for Your Majesty?” he said, wondering if it would be protocol to offer her some candy.
“It is not what you can do for us,” said Teenie. “It is what we might be able to do for you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” said Teenie. “We are quite used to judges and courts and so on and we know how much trouble they can get into.”
“About what?” said Turn, a trifle amused.
“Gris,” said Teenie.
“GRIS?” cried Lord Turn. “OH, NO! NOT MORE GRIS!” He dropped his gray head into his hands, clutching his forehead.
“Yes, Gris,” said Teenie. “He is the vilest, most underhanded, unprincipled villain alive! Before I became the Hostage Queen of Flisten, I was a movie queen on the planet Earth.”
“Earth? What country?”
“Moviola. But it doesn’t matter. This Gris, a terrible villain, was hauled before my court there and sentenced to life imprisonment. He escaped. He is actually my prisoner. It would save you a great deal of embarrassment if you simply turned him over to me so he could finish his sentence.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that. It’s the wrong venue. I think I know what planet you mean now. Blito-P3—it’s been in the news. It’s not conquered yet. There are no treaties. And even if we were talking about Flisten, it would be the same. There is no possible way under heavens that I could turn Gris over to you.”
“No matter what?”
“Not even faintly possible.”
“It could save you a lot of embarrassment if you changed your mind.”
Lord Turn sighed. “I’m sorry, but it’s impossible.”
“Oh, well,” said Teenie, “It was a nice try. So I guess I’ll have to spill it to you.”
“My dear . . . I mean Your Majesty, I would give half my head to get rid of Gris. But unfortunately I cannot. However,” and he smiled, “I can’t possibly see how he could cause any more trouble.”
“It’s plain you don’t know Gris,” said Teenie. “He lies, he cheats, he steals. But this time he’s really done it. He has committed a crime right here in your own prison.”
Lord Turn shook his head. “That’s impossible.”
“You don’t know Gris,” said Teenie. “This time he has really done it. And that’s why I thought I could help. When I saw his picture on Homeview, I said, ‘NO! It can’t be! But there he is! That’s Gris! He’s done it AGAIN!’”
“My dear . . . WHAT has he done again?”
“The very same crime I sentenced him to life imprisonment for. BIGAMY!”
Lord Turn’s eyes went round with shock. Bigamy was a capital crime on Voltar. “No, no, there must be some mistake. You must have the wrong man.” He was pleading with himself, please, not more trouble with Gris.
Teenie said, “If he confronted me, you would know in a second that it is true.”
“Oh, I hope there is some mistake,” said Lord Turn. Then hastily, “Look, Your Majesty, we can settle this immediately. If you will consent to moving your palanquin into the courtroom, I will have Gris brought down.”
Teenie nodded and they carried her chair out into the main courtroom. They set it down in the empty hall before the witness seat and enclosure. Teenie shut her curtains.
There was quite a wait. But at last, a very manacled Gris was brought, closely escorted by six armed guards.
Gris had not known why they were fetching him. The curtained chair meant nothing to him. But when he saw that he was not being taken to an execution chamber, and it was probably just a matter of some questions, some of his morale returned. He sat down in the railed witness box, trying to make a good impression on Lord Turn who was now taking a seat on his judge’s dais.
“Gris,” said Turn, “have you ever been sentenced to life imprisonment?”
“All my crimes are in my confession, Your Lordship.”
“Well, that may or may not be,” said Lord Turn. “I’ve not read it. So please just answer truthfully, were you ever tried and sentenced in a country called Moviola?”
Gris had had a very hard night. But he knew that the last thing he must look was guilty about anything. After all, his crimes had all been done because of Heller and he had explained that in his confession. He forced an easy laugh. “That’s ridiculous,” he said.
“There is someone here who says otherwise,” said Lord Turn and waved a hand at the closed palanquin.
Gris managed a confident smile. “There isn’t anyone on Voltar who could allege such a falsity.” And he looked easily at the curtains.
Suddenly, a blue-gloved hand shot the covering aside.
TEENIE!
Gris went white.
He leaped back!
He hit the rail of the witness box and went right through it!
With a rip of splintering timber he reached the limit of his shackles!
His velocity was so great he parted chain links!
He hit the wall!
He madly tried to get through it!
With a shrieking, frantic moan, he realized he could not escape.
He fainted.
Lord Turn looked at the crumpled heap of severed chains, fallen plaster and Gris amongst it, lying there unconscious, now, upon the floor. Lord Turn, in the saddest voice said, “Oh, no.”
Lord Turn took a long breath and looked at Teenie. “Well, Your Majesty,” he said, “I guess that settles it. I have no choice now but to bring Gris to trial for committing a crime in my own prison.”
“I said it would be embarrassing,” said Teenie. “Pratia Tayl was the fourth time he got married. He’s not guilty of just bigamy: it’s QUADRIGAMY!”
Madison, two hours later, was dancing with joy. His plan had worked perfectly. He had brought Gris to trial. He would make sure the trial was public. WHAT HEADLINES THAT WOULD MAKE! And Gris would accuse Heller. Madison had it made! He could see it now! The greatest manhunt in the whole universe! The Fleet, the Army, everybody! All after Heller! Headlines, headlines, HEADLINES! What ecstasy!
Oh, it was great to be a pure genius at PR!
PART EIGHTY
Chapter 6
On a lonely mountaintop of Calabar and in the screaming wind, Jettero Heller stood, stung by the horizontally hurtling snow, half-blinded by the night, surrounded by thirty blastguns ready and eager to blow him apart.
It had taken him many days and several different applications of command location geometry to find the headquarters of Prince Mortiiy.
The voyage from Blito-P3 had only taken five days. It had been quite uneventful. The trouble had come when he had had to penetrate the Apparatus planetary net all tangled up with the beams and defenses of the rebels.
Using one identification or another, he had managed to slip through and the Prince Caucalsia lay up there now, twenty miles above them, invisible to all intents and purposes but, with her vital passengers, a total loss if anything happened to him.
He had come down here in a spacetrooper sled; he was chilled to the bone; his oxygen was almost gone and they were standing on what was a “hill” for Calabar but which was nevertheless thirty thousand feet. Gun flashes flickered on the distant horizon, a burning city was a patch of pink smudge.
There was a dimly seen figure about fifty feet away, hidden by a rock.
Through his face mask that also had an amplifier speaker, Heller called, “I will have to stand closer to you to give you my message.” Thirty blastguns in the ring around him twitched.
The amplified voice came from behind the rock, “You’re close enough. I can’t believe that the great Jettero Heller, idol of the Fleet, wants to come over to the rebels. I am very well aware of what a combat engineer can do. Give me your message from there.”
“I don’t even know if I’m talking to Prince Mortiiy,” Heller shouted above the shrieking wind.
“I don’t even know that you’re Jettero Heller!”
“I was introduced to you as a cadet aboard the warship Illusive twelve years ago,” Heller shouted back. “You were wearing slippers because your feet had gotten burned.”
“Anybody could know that. I’ve met thousands of cadets.”
“I have to see your face up close to know it’s really you!” shouted Heller. “The message, as I have told you, is for your ears alone.”
“That’s how you got this far. Men, bind his hands behind him and take any weapons. Only Jettero Heller would be crazy enough to try to penetrate these lines making all this noise.”
Two pressure-suited soldiers detached themselves from the ring and moved forward very gingerly. They found no weapons and they tied his hands. They pushed him forward across the intervening gap. Heller found it hard walking: in addition to the wind, the 1.5 gravity of Calabar made him feel like he weighed a ton.
He came to a place behind a rock. A light hit him in the face. A hand pulled away his oxygen mask and then let it drop back. “It looks like Jettero Heller all right,” said a gruff voice.
“Turn the light on your own face,” said Heller.
“That’s nerve. Don’t you realize you’re talking to a prince?”
“I’m talking to a rebel,” said Heller, “and unless you listen to me, you’ll go right on being one.”
A barking laugh met this. “Gods-blast! What nerve!” Then the light was suddenly reversed and, through the faceplate, Heller saw and recognized the craggy features and thick black beard of Prince Mortiiy.
“All right,” said Heller. “I give you my word I am not here to assassinate you or harm you in any way. Send these men back out of earshot. My message really is for your ears alone.”
“Comets! I must be crazy. All right, you men, draw back but keep weapons trained on him.”
“I have a complete repair crew, five ships coming here. They’ll arrive in a few weeks. I think you need them.”
“I don’t need anything. The people of this planet support me: they’re in a livid rage against the Apparatus. Furthermore, Apparatus units are pulling out and the Fleet and Army are inactive. I’m winning this war.”
It was a shock to Heller. If the Apparatus was pulling out, they had only one destination: Earth.
Heller glanced around him. The others were now well out of earshot. He leaned closer. “You’ll never win this war without something I’ve brought you.”
Mortiiy barked an amused laugh. “There isn’t anything in the universe that you could bring that’s that important.”
Heller said, “I’ve brought your father.”
“WHAT?”
“His Majesty, Cling the Lofty,” said Heller.
“Oh, well, if you really have him, bring him in, bring him in so that I can execute him! But, of course, I don’t believe you for an instant, as you couldn’t possibly have him.”
“Your Highness, I do assure you that I have him. I also have the regalia and seal.” And he quickly sketched the turn of fate which had brought the Emperor into his hands.
“Then actually he’s running from Hisst!” said Mortiiy. “Will he cancel my rebel status?”
“He’s unconscious.”
“Then he can’t declare me his successor.”
“Not until he gains consciousness.”
“Wait a minute,” said Mortiiy. “This is dangerous! If Hisst knows he is here, he will launch all his troops against us! If it gets out that you kidnapped him, the Fleet and Army will join in. This is EXPLOSIVE! They’d slaughter us!”
“Are there no advantages to having him?” said Heller.
“Does the GC know he is gone?”
“I came here past Voltar. There’s no trace of it in the news. All they’re talking about is a man named Gris that I thought was dead.”
“Then Hisst is playing this quiet.”
“I think so,” said Heller.
Mortiiy leaned back against a rock. The wind screamed above them. Finally, he said, “It has just come to me with a shock what must have happened to my brothers and other successors to the throne. It might not have been my father. It could have been Hisst. Heller, do you suppose that man has the incredible effrontery to try to proclaim himself Emperor?”
“He is calling himself a dictator. Emperor is just one step away.”
“Well, he can’t do it,” said Mortiiy. “The GC and the Lords of the land have to have positive evidence, a body and the regalia, in order to declare the throne vacant and appoint a successor. If you have the body and the regalia, he has to recover them. Gods-blast it, Heller, all you’ve brought me is a total assault! Whether he does or does not say you have the Emperor, he won’t let anything stand in his way to recovering what you have. You are A LIVING BOMB!”
Heller would have spoken but Mortiiy silenced him with his hand. “I’m trying to think my way through this. Is there any chance my father will recover consciousness long enough to cancel the proclamation that made me a rebel and reinstate me as his successor?”
“That is in the lap of the Gods.”
“Heller, if he did or didn’t announce it, you’re sitting on a shell that is about to explode. I know you have a good reputation but somebody could stir things up to try to find you and Hisst would have the body and regalia. With those, he could make himself Emperor. . . . Oh, I almost wish you’d gone someplace else!”
“Your Highness, how much assault can you withstand here on Calabar?”
“There’s two billion population left. The rest have been slaughtered. Most of the cities are rubble. I frankly don’t know.”
“I got an estimate,” said Heller, “while I was looking for you. This war has gone on for five years so you have not done too badly. I think you could stand off the full force of the Apparatus. The rivers are so wide, the mountains so high. . . .”
“We couldn’t stand off the Apparatus PLUS the Fleet and the Army.”
“How about a gamble?” said Heller. “How about gambling that your father will regain consciousness in a few months and let’s gamble again that he will cancel your rebel status and proclaim you successor. And then gamble that the Fleet and Army stay out of it. And then gamble that we put up such a ferocious defense that we cripple the Apparatus.”
Mortiiy shook his head. “Please don’t use that word ‘gamble’ again! You’re painting the thinnest forlorn hope I ever heard of!”
“I’m not through, Your Highness. Then suppose we secretly tell Hisst that the Emperor is here.”
“WHAT?”
“He will know then that we aren’t going to make a public announcement.”
“We can’t anyway! I’m not in line for the throne anymore. It would not do us any good to announce it publicly. It would bring the whole pack down on us! No, the only thing that would save this is for my father to wake up and proclaim Hisst a traitor by Royal proclamation.”
“One other possibility. I inform Hisst secretly that that is exactly what will happen if he brings the Fleet and Army into this war.”
“He’d read it as a declaration that the Emperor was dead or incapacitated.”
“But he wouldn’t be sure.”
“Royal Officer Heller, you are insane!”
“That may or may not be,” said Heller, “but I can hazard that such a message would drive Hisst close to or over the border into insanity. You were an accomplished Fleet officer, Your Highness. You are aware of the principle that unstabilizing enemy command can often get him to do something rash, foolhardy or do nothing at all.”
“Don’t lecture me on strategy and tactics, Officer Heller. I was fighting battles when you weren’t even weaned. There is another principle and that is, when an opportunity presents itself and one does nothing, one is almost certain to lose. Yours is the craziest battle plan I ever heard of. I will adopt it. Go bring my father. I give you my word I will not kill him. We will put him in a nice, safe cave. You can put the rest of the plan into effect. He may, as you say, recover. Until then, we live on hope. You are crazy, Officer Heller. I like you. MEN! UNTIE HIS HANDS!”
PART EIGHTY
Chapter 7
It was dusk and it was raining. Shining rivulets of water ran from the semidead spaceships of Emergency Fleet Reserve.
As the tug Prince Caucalsia came to silent rest on its tail, Commander Crup and old Atty stared nervously as Jettero Heller, not waiting for a ladder, slid down from the air lock on a safety line.
“My Gods, Jet!” Commander Crup whispered, “you’ve got no business here. There’s a general warrant out for your arrest!”
“Hello, Commander! Hello, Atty!” said Heller in a loud voice.
“Sh, sh, sh!” they both said in chorus.
“What are you shushing about?” said Heller. “I can’t hear you in this rain!”
“Arrest!” said Crup. “Lombar Hisst has had his agents tearing Voltar apart trying to find where you are!”
“Look,” said Heller, again in a loud voice, “if a Fleet officer can’t land at a Fleet base without worrying about ‘drunks,’ I don’t know what the Confederacy is coming to.”
“It’s coming to hell eight very rapidly,” said Crup. “Hisst is calling himself a dictator and the Apparatus is in charge of everything.”
“Not in charge of me,” said Heller. “Loan me a fast aircar and, Atty, get this ship full of food and things. Particularly lots of food. Put it on the Exterior Division account I gave you last time.”
“He’s crazy,” said Crup.
“Couldn’t agree more,” said Heller.
An hour later, the old gray-haired enlisted man who served as clerk at the Fleet Officer’s Club was taking advantage of a rainy night to try to balance his accounts. He heard a sound at the counter, he looked up and saw someone in a streaming raincloak standing there. He went over.
“Could I have my room key?”
The old clerk stared. He went white. “Good Gods!” he whispered. “There’s a general warrant out for your arrest! Agents have been here three times in the past week checking to see if . . .”
“First things first,” said Heller. “My key! And then send some hot tup and sweetbuns to my room. Did you know it’s wet out there?”
“Jet, you’re crazy!”
“Always was. Can’t take time to reform now. Tell Bis of Fleet Intelligence to come up if he’s around and has a moment.”
Ten minutes later, a stunned Bis entered Heller’s posh suite. He heard Heller in the shower and went to the door.
“Jet!” said Bis in a stage whisper, “there’s a general warrant out for your arrest!”
“Speak up!” said Heller in a loud voice. “Hand me that bottle of soap, would you?”
“Oh, Jet, you’re crazy!”
“Seems to be a universal opinion. How you been? Winning any bullet ball games lately?”
“Oh, Jet, you’re hopeless.”
“Maybe, but not quite. He who hath no hope is not long in the spaceways. Hand me a towel, would you?”
Heller, towel wrapped around him, was soon sitting in a living room chair, drinking hot tup.
Bis declined a canister. “I don’t think you realize how serious all this is,” he said, perched nervously on the edge of a couch.
“Oh, I do,” said Heller. “Going out in rain like this could make even the strongest men catch cold.”
“Jet! The Apparatus is all over the place! They want your blood! And they’re a (bleeped) bloodthirsty lot!”
“I’m glad you brought that up,” said Heller. “Remember that fellow Gris I tried to deliver to the Royal prison?”
“I know. The papers are screaming about him.”
“Well, listen,” said Heller. “Coming in, I heard a news bulletin that he was being brought to trial. Apparently he’s even going to have some attorneys defending him. Do you recall those boxes of papers I sent you?”
“The Gris blackmail file on the Apparatus?”
“Right. I want you to hand those over to his attorneys.”
“WHAT?” Bis stared at him. “But they’d use those to try to get him off.”
“Possibly. But it sure would upset a lot of people in the Apparatus.”
Suddenly Bis barked a laugh. “You know, I think it would. I’ll do it. But listen, Jet, you’ve got to get out of here. They have this place watched.”
“Oh, I’m leaving very shortly,” said Heller. “Just as soon as you get me a mustard-colored Apparatus officer’s uniform and an Apparatus airbus.”
“WHAT?”
“Don’t tell me Fleet Intelligence hasn’t collected some to use in espionage on another service.”
Bis held his face in his hands. “Now I know why a combat engineer has such short life expectancy. What are you going to do?”
“The less you know about that, the less you can tell the torturers. Get me a false identoplate along with it. You’ve got lots of time. Shall we say fifteen minutes at the back door?”
Bis stared at him numbly.
Two hours later, Heller landed the Apparatus-marked airbus on the landing target at Camp Kill. The rain had not reached over the mountains into the Great Desert but the airbus bore signs of it: it was suspiciously clean for an Apparatus vehicle.
The guard officer came into the glaring target lights. He looked at the smudgy identoplate that said “Captain Fal.”
“I won’t be here long,” said Heller. “I’ve come to pay a gambling debt to Captain Snelz.”
“Pickings in town must be good lately,” said the guard officer.
“Couldn’t be better,” said Heller.
“Thanks for the tip that he’ll have money. He’s in those dugouts back under the hill.”
Heller got out. He was wearing big sand goggles. He walked at a leisurely pace through the dusty, cluttered camp.
A sentry stood outside a dugout door. Before he could challenge, Heller yelled, “Hey, Snelz, you got any thudder dice for sale?”
There was an instant flurry inside. Then a white face, just a blur in the night, peered out of the low dugout entrance.
Heller walked boldly past the sentry and entered.
In a hoarse whisper, Snelz said, “My Gods, Jet! Don’t you know there’s a general warrant out for your arrest?”
“You know,” said Heller, in a loud voice, “if people keep telling me, sooner or later I’ll believe it.”
Snelz shuddered. He turned and made a gesture at a prostitute who lay naked on a far bunk. She grabbed her clothes and scuttled out.
Snelz was tucking his shirt in his pants and trying to drop the door curtain at the same time.
“Heller,” he said, “you’re crazy.”
“No, I’m thirsty.”
Snelz, both his shirt collar and his hair standing up, tried to find something that hadn’t been emptied in the debris on the table and, after upsetting several bottles and canisters, got some sparklewater poured. Heller sat down and sipped it.
The ex-Fleet Marine sat nervously across from him. “Jet, there’s a whisper out that Hisst will pay a hundred thousand credits cash for clues as to where you are.”
“Cheap,” said Heller. “The man always was cheap.”
“Why are you HERE of all places?”
Heller reached into his Apparatus tunic and pulled out an envelope. He laid it before Snelz. “This,” he said, “has got to be delivered to Lombar Hisst.”
“I haven’t got access to him,” said Snelz. “I’m only a captain.”
“Well, I wouldn’t think it would be healthy to give it to him,” said Heller. “If he received it and those seals were disturbed, my guess is that he would very likely execute the bearer just to be sure his mouth stayed shut.”
Snelz looked at the outer cover. It said:
TO LOMBAR HISST
FROM JETTERO
HELLER
Private.
Personal. Secret.
Snelz’s hand began to shake. “This could get me killed just looking at it! Heart failure!”
Heller laid down a five-hundred-credit note. “Just so you don’t feel too bad being deprived of that hundred thousand.”
Snelz was shocked. “I wouldn’t ever turn you in. You’re my friend! You don’t have to pay me anything either!”
“Well, I told the landing guard officer I was here to pay a gambling debt, so he’ll be on to you for drinks, so I don’t want this to cost you anything personally. Now think, do you know of a way to get this into Hisst’s hand?”
Snelz thought about it. Then he suddenly smiled brightly. “Yes, I think I can do that. And without a hitch.”
“It’s very important that he get it. No slips.”
“No slips,” said Snelz.
“Good,” said Heller. “That completes my business. Would you like to indulge in a few passes with the dice?”
“Oh, Jet, please to the Gods, get out of here. You have both our bodies halfway down into that chasm right this minute. Don’t you realize that Hisst comes to the tower office up there almost every day? He might be in this camp right now!”
“Then it will be very easy to get the message to him, won’t it?” said Heller. “Well, you seem to have lost your gambling fever, so I guess I’ll run along. I’ll stop by the canteen. . . .”
“Jet,” said Snelz in a tight and urgent voice, “you get . . . get out of here. Honest, my heart won’t start again until you’ve left this camp!”
“The day you’re that scared, Snelz,” laughed Heller, “that will be the day. Come on and walk with me to the canteen.”
Snelz convulsively was climbing into his uniform tunic.
Firmly but carefully looking very casual, he walked Heller straight back to the landing target area and got him into his airbus.
Heller took off.
Two hours later, at Emergency Fleet Reserve, Heller complimented old Atty for restocking the tug, shook hands with a worried Commander Crup and, exhibiting the ship identoplate of the cruiser Happy Return, was spaceward ho for Calabar.
PART EIGHTY
Chapter 8
One cannot help but wonder, dear reader, what the course of history might have been if Captain Snelz had not thought of the man he did when asked to design a way to get the message into Lombar’s hands. If he had only told Heller the name that had popped into his mind, the fate of Earth might well have been quite different.
For the man Snelz had thought of was J. Walter Madison!
As he stood on the landing target watching Heller’s airbus leave, Snelz was putting through his mind exactly how to do this.
Lately Lombar Hisst had been coming to Spiteos almost every day for a brief period, usually in the morning. He was doing something strange down in the storerooms with that weird powder. Snelz himself had escorted in several truckloads of strange things marked Lactose, Epsom Salts, Quinine, Baking Powder, Photo Developer, Insecticide and Strychnine. Hisst had several technicians who would take something called amphetamine out of its original capsules, mix the powder with these other things and then, using new capsules, expand the original batch enormously. According to one of the technicians, Hisst seemed to take a lot of pleasure in this strange exercise: he called it “cutting” and seemed to think nobody else could do it as expertly as he.
And Snelz had noted that the Earthman Madison was never kept informed as to where he could find Hisst: that was no real mystery, as Hisst always had the idea that anywhere he went, an assassin would be waiting for him. So, at odd times of the day or night, Madison would show up at Spiteos.
It had become so well known now that Madison was a close creature of Hisst that Madison could come and go as he pleased. The very distinctive Model 99 with its four flying angels was never even challenged in the air. Once landed, Madison had carte blanche. He needed no escort, he didn’t even show his plate, he simply trotted over to the zipbuses, went through the tunnel, up the elevator and into the north tower. Often, nowadays, there weren’t even clerks up there.
Knowing Madison for a fake and no friend of Heller’s, Snelz selected him for a messenger whose message, it seemed, could end in somebody’s death.
Accordingly Snelz, despite the hour, paraded his company. He went down the line, looking very closely at his men. Suddenly he stopped and pointed his baton.
“You there. You have just volunteered. Lieutenant, dismiss everyone but this man and Timyjo.”
Snelz took the two men aside. Timyjo was the company’s best thief. “Timyjo, go into town and get an expensive suit of gray shimmercloth and all those conservative things that go with it. The stores at this hour should be easy to rob. Make sure they fit this man. Be back before dawn.”
Snelz whiled away the time by buying the guard officer some drinks and shooting a little dice. He even had an hour for a nap.
Timyjo returned laden. In his dugout, Snelz dressed the volunteer. He stepped back admiringly. Same height, same build, same hair coloring. To all intents and purposes, unless one knew him well, one was looking at Madison.
Not to take any chances, Snelz put a pair of sand goggles on him, a thing he had lately seen Madison wear.
He gave the fellow the envelope. He said, “Now, don’t talk to anybody. Just get on a zipbus, go up in the elevator, walk through the clerk’s room, enter the office of Lombar Hisst and lay this squarely in the middle of his desk. Then walk out and come back here.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then we throw you in the chasm and forget about it.”
It was well after dawn. A sleepy camp was recovering from hangovers.
The volunteer, feeling very nervous, pleaded at least for a canister of tup. Then, fortified, he walked out, got on a zipbus, got off, got in the elevator, went up to tower level and entered the clerk’s outer room. He froze. The old criminal chief clerk was sitting there, back to the door.
With no choice but the chasm if he did and the chasm if he didn’t, the volunteer walked boldly across the room.
The old chief clerk glanced up. “He isn’t here,” he muttered and went back to his work.
The volunteer pretended he had not heard. He walked to Hisst’s office door and went in. The place impressed him very unfavorably: one whole wall was glass, a throne chair that looked like tomb-loot was behind the desk. But the volunteer wasted no time.
He took the envelope out of his coat. He laid it on the desk and propped it up with a stinger. Anybody who sat down would be hit with the address.
The volunteer walked out.
The chief clerk muttered, “I told you he wasn’t here.”
The volunteer got into the hall.
Meanwhile Snelz was experiencing shock and heart failure. The volunteer had no more than gotten on the zipbus when the feeling of being smart and clever turned, in Snelz, to horror.
THE MODEL 99 LANDED!
In a state of acute paralysis he watched Madison get out, walk through the dust to the barricade before the zipbus. Snelz didn’t dare breathe. Would the officer on duty notice he was logging Madison in TWICE?
Action was the answer to everything with Snelz. He drew a hand blastgun, fired at the top of a pole and shattered the light. He ducked.
As glass showered down, the guards raced for cover. Madison put into action his own method of escape. He swung aboard a zipbus quickly and looked back as it sped away into the tunnel.
Not daring to think what would happen when Madison ran into “Madison” in the elevator or hall, he did something he almost never did: he prayed.
The volunteer, meanwhile, was waiting in the hall for an elevator shaft to signal it was clear. Somebody was coming up!
Not wanting anything like a confrontation, possibly even with Lombar, the volunteer looked hastily around. There was a big box of fresh computer paper in the hall. It was only four feet high but he quickly dived behind it. Peering out, he was horrified to see the real Madison step out of the shaft!
The instant the hall was clear, the volunteer dived headfirst into the shaft to get out of there.
The real Madison walked into the clerk’s office.
“What’d you do?” the chief clerk said, after an indifferent glance. “Forget something?”
Madison walked on into Lombar’s office, saying, “I’ll wait.”
He had the newest clippings from the press. They gave a lot of juicy speeches about Hisst wanting law and order and raging about anyone trying to defame the honor of Apparatus officers, and he knew these shots of his angry face would delight Lombar no end. He wanted to make a nice display of them on the desk.
A stinger was propping up a big envelope and he accidentally knocked it down. He set it up once more. But it was in the way of his clipping spread. He decided it should be put further back. He took hold of it once more and moved the stinger and, then, with a double take, suddenly registered what was in his hand.
He stared, stunned.
TO LOMBAR HISST
FROM JETTERO
HELLER
Private.
Personal. Secret.
How had that gotten there?
It was still sealed.
Lombar hadn’t seen it yet.
Not knowing anything about Heller’s admonition to Snelz that Lombar would have the messenger killed, particularly if the seals were broken, Madison quivered with greed to know.
What was this? Some secret communication line?
And as it was from the only reason he was doing all he was doing, he could hardly resist.
He broke the seals.
It was all quiet in the outer office.
Madison swiftly read:
Hoping not to have the
pleasure of seeing you
hanging on the gallows,
Jettero Heller
Madison read it again. Suddenly everything began to click together. Time after time he had told Hisst that all he had to do was get a Royal proclamation about this thing or that: Hisst every time had looked extremely cagey!
Madison abruptly understood.
There was no Emperor back of that Palace City door Hisst guarded and saw guarded so carefully!
Jettero Heller had kidnapped the Emperor!
So THAT was what this was all about!
Madison glanced around. He did not think that he was in any way observed.
This was not a communication line. It was a first time.
Risks were the very thing his profession was made of. Madison put the envelope and dispatch in his own briefcase. He left no trace of it on the desk.
He arranged his PR display of clippings. He went into the clerk’s office. He said, “Have there been any urgent messages for Hisst?”
The old clerk shook his head.
A surge of elation coursed through Madison. What an outlaw! Heller had somehow, unbeknownst to anyone, slipped into this office, maybe from the roof, and had left Hisst this envelope.
Looking very calm, Madison sat down at the console of the computer and, as though to pass the time, began to extract bits of information he might find handy, such as the strength of forces on the planet Calabar. Then he began to tally up the enormous numbers available in the Army and the Fleet.
Obviously, from the message, Heller didn’t want these people after him. Madison was trying to work out how he could accomplish just that.
Oh, what headlines all this would eventually make!
Not right now, of course, but later when he had his campaign all worked out and perfect.
If he had had any slightest doubt before, that he would make his goal, he had none now. He would, for sure, return to Earth in glory—if, of course, there was anything left of it.
Hisst came in an hour later. Madison walked with the man into his office. Hisst was very pleased with the press.
“Things are going well,” said Hisst.
“Yes, we’ll have you Emperor in no time,” said Madison.
HE DID NOT SAY ONE SINGLE WORD ABOUT THE HELLER DISPATCH!
Snelz, when the volunteer, sneaking past the barricade, had returned, sighed with relief.
He saw Hisst arrive and go up to the tower.
Neither the chief nor the real Madison came out.
He could only assume that the message had been delivered.
For a second time, a message which would have forestalled an invasion of Earth had been stopped en route.
And not only that, this one had fallen into the hands of a man to whom it gave total power: J. Walter Madison, who could use it in any villainous way he chose and at a moment when he considered it would be the most advantageous in a headline.
KNOWLEDGE WAS POWER! And Madison now knew that he was the only one on Voltar with the vital, pivotal information that the Emperor was on Calabar and Heller was holding him a captive!
WHAT A STORY!
But not for now. No, no, not for now. This one had to be built up to with the biggest BANG this universe had ever heard!
As he returned to Joy City, the glee in Madison threatened to bubble out and explode!
The fate of two empires was truly up for grabs! And J. Warbler Madman was the one who would do the tossing!