"I have no home." He followed her, down a corridor and past a series of half-closed doors. Lights showed here and there. He thought he recognized some voices—men's voices, mixed with sleepy, women's murmurs. Abruptly Eleanor vanished and he was alone.
He felt his way through a haze of shapes. Once he crashed violently against something. A hail of shattered objects cascaded upon him.
"What are you doing here?" a hard voice demanded. It was Herb Moore, somewhere close by. "Get out of here, you third-rate derelict! Class eight-eight? Don't make me laugh!"
Unnerved, confused by the taunting face, Benteley lashed out. The face crumpled. Then something slammed into him and he was bowled over. Choked and crushed by a rolling, slobbering mass, he fought his way upward, struggling to catch hold of something solid.
"Pipe down," Eleanor whispered. "Both of you!"
Benteley became inert. Beside him Moore puffed and panted and wiped at his bleeding face. "You'll be sorry you hit me. You don't know what I can do."
Stumbling, Benteley retreated in a panic. The next thing he knew was that he was sitting on something low, bending down and fumbling for his shoes. His coat was lying on the floor in front of him and his shoes lay separated from each other by an expanse of rich carpet. There was no sound; the room was utterly silent and cold. In a corner a dim lamp flickered.
"Lock the door." Eleanor's voice came from nearby. "I think Moore's gone off his head. He's out there in the hall shambling round like a maniac."
Benteley found the door and tugged at its old-fashioned manual bolt. Eleanor was standing in the centre of the room, one leg pulled up, unlacing her sandals. As the man watched, awed and astonished, she kicked off her sandals, unzipped her slacks, and stepped from them. For a moment bare ankles gleamed in the light.
Then he was stumbling his way to her, and she was reaching for him.
Much later he awoke.
The room was deathly cold. Nothing stirred. No sound, no life. Through the open window grey morning light filtered, and a wind whipped icily round him.
Figures lay sprawled out, mixed with disordered clothing in heaps. He stumbled between outstretched limbs, half-covered arms, stark-white legs that shocked him. He distinguished Eleanor, lying against the wall, legs drawn up under her, breathing restlessly between half-parted lips. He wandered on—and stopped dead.
The grey light filtered over another face and figure—his old friend Al Davis, peaceful in the arms of his soundly sleeping wife.
A little further on were more persons, some snoring dully, one stirring into fitful wakefulness. Another groaned and groped feebly for some covering. Benteley's foot crushed a glass; a pool of dark liquid leaked out. Another face ahead was familiar. A man, dark-haired, good featured... .
His own face.
He stumbled against a door and found himself in a hall. Terror seized him and he began running blindly. Silently his bare feet carried him along carpeted corridors, endless and deserted, up noiseless flights of steps that never seemed to end. He blundered wildly around a corner and found himself caught in an alcove, a full-length mirror ahead of him, blocking his way.
A wavering figure hovered within the mirror. He gazed mutely at it, at the waxen hair, the vapid mouth and lips, the colourless eyes. Arms limp and boneless at its sides; a spineless, bleached thing that blinked vacantly back at him, without sound or motion.
He screamed—and the image winked out. He plunged on along the corridors, feet barely skimming the carpets. He felt nothing under him. He was rising, carried upward by his great terror, a screaming, streaking thing that hurtled towards the high-domed roof above.
Arms out, he shot soundlessly through walls and panels, in and out of empty rooms, down deserted passages, a blinded, terrorized thing that flashed and wheeled in desperate efforts to escape.
With a crash he struck against a brick fireplace and fluttered down to the soft carpet. For a moment he lay bewildered, and then he was stumbling on, hurrying frantically, hands in front of his face.
Sounds ahead, and a glowing yellow light that filtered through a half-opened doorway. In a room a handful of men were sitting at a table covered with tapes and reports. An atronic bulb burned in the centre, a warm, unwavering miniature sun that pulled him hypnotically. Coffee cups, writers, men murmuring and poring over their work. One huge heavy-set man with massive, sloping shoulders.
"Verrick!" he shouted at the man. "Verrick, help me."
Reese Verrick glanced up angrily. "What do you want? I'm busy."
"Verrick!" he screamed, pulsing with terror. "Who am I?"
"You're Keith Pellig," Verrick answered irritably, wiping his forehead with one immense paw and pushing his tapes away. "You're the assassin picked by the Convention. You have to be ready to go to work in less than two hours."
Chapter VI
Groves continued working at his navigation table.
"Captain Groves, they're coming," Konklin said.
Groves nodded, and then returned to his navigation instruments.
The ship was now thirty astronomical units from the sun. Against the blackness of space bits of cold fire glowed, distant planets and suns wheeling silently round the creaking, lumbering ore freighter.
Down in the cargo hold fog lay over the dozing men and women. The warmth of the reactors had crept everywhere: the vibrating metal floor had become a surface of dull-glowing heat. Within the last few hours dust and water vapour had settled on flushed skins, on pots and pans, and was dripping from the walls to form warm pools.
Bruno Jereti sat running his horny fingers over the threads of a steel bolt. "I'm too old to get excited. If we're going back, that's all right with me."
Mary Uzich lay sprawled out resentfully among the bedding piled everywhere. "All those years of planning and working—and now we're giving up."
"We didn't know Cartwright was going to be Quizmaster." The old carpenter tossed the bolt aside. "I voted to go back myself."
"Then why did you join the Society? What the hell did you come along for, if you're going to back out now?"
Jereti picked up a pipe wrench and examined it intently. "I suppose you don't remember the burnings."
"Burnings! You mean all the books?"
"I mean the other burnings. My grandad used to take me down to watch about once a week. It was sort of a public event, like a park concert."
"What the hell's a park concert?" Mary felt sleepy and sick. The metallic dust choked her throat. "I wish the filter system worked better," she complained.
"I'm talking about the things they burned," Jereti continued. "Television sets and cars and mixers—that sort of stuff. Once a week they burned them. Billions of dollars worth. They had a burning place in the centre of every town. We used to watch the cars and toasters and clothes and oranges and coffee and cigarettes—every goddamn thing in the world—flare up promptly at noon on Saturdays."
"That doesn't sound like fun."
"It was against the law to snatch any of it. Nobody had the money to buy it, so it was burnt. That's when I decided to become a Prestonite." The pipe wrench came apart in his hands and he began reassembling it. "They tried all the ways they could to sell the merchandise, but there was always too much of it."
"And the principle underlying all this made you cynical."
"The fault is with human nature; it's natural for one man to take advantage of another, if he can."
"Yet a little while ago you were willing to risk your life on this idealistic voyage in search of Flame Disc."
"A little while ago, but now Cartwright is in, and that means we're in, too. Maybe I shall get some of the things I used to see them burn."
"So you'll go back?"
"Well, perhaps. I'll have to think it over." Jereti grinned slyly. "The assassin might get Cartwright. I have to consider all the aspects."
The metallic clouds, the vibration, the half-visible shapes, made the cargo hold seem a wasteland of phantoms. Mary Uzich brooded unhappily; th
e Society and John Preston's planet had become totally unconvincing.
"Maybe we're making a mistake," she said. "I've always believed in Flame Disc. Since I was a kid and picked up one of his books I've thought how wonderful it would be if we could get away from them. But maybe we need them to lead us."
"Captain Groves won't let them turn the ship back," Janet Sibley mumbled. She wiped her eyes with her drenched handkerchief. "He has a cupboard full of guns up there."
Janet Sibley moaned wretchedly. "I hate that dirty old boarding-house——" Her misery welled up in an agonizing flood. "I just can't go back!"
"How long did you live there?" Mary asked her.
"Eighteen years."
"Eighteen years ago I was just learning to walk."
"You're young and attractive," Janet Sibley quavered. "You can go anywhere. You don't know what it's like to sit in a filthy little room, just sitting and waiting."
"When did you join the Society?"
"I've sent a little money to the Society as long as I can remember. But I never went to any of the meetings. They sent me pamphlets, and I studied Mr. Preston's books. Then one day Mr. Cartwright came to see me. He couldn't talk me into going to a meeting; I was too afraid. But later on Captain Groves came and talked to me, because he was club leader for the Hill area where I lived. So I came. That was three years ago. And then Mr. Cartwright instructed me the other day to bring my things and not say anything to anybody."
Janet Sibley ceased talking; Larry Thompson and Louise Tyler were listening.
Thompson gazed down at the old woman. His blue eyes were blank with shock, the eyes of a terrified boy suddenly faced with age and death and poverty.
Louise reached up and brushed the boy's blond hair back. "What planet was it, Larry."
"They went to Ganymede."
"Would you like to tell me—what those altereds are like?"
He made a jerky gesture. "The air's thin. About like Mars. Huge bladder-lungs. Spindly little legs." He shuddered. "Everybody in my family went, but me. Better to be dead!"
"Suppose we had children after we reached the Disc? They wouldn't be like Earth children. We'd change, too. The Disc is going to create altereds."
Thompson's mouth twitched violently. "I wouldn't have children that were monsters. If I'd met you before this trip started——"
"You can't raise a family on Earth! There're no jobs, nothing. Why do you think people go to work-camps? Or to squatters' colonies? Spawning monsters—but at least they're alive."
"Have you ever seen them?"
"Yes, I've seen them. I'm older than you... I was married once before. Bob and I signed on for a work-camp on Venus. Bob got fungoid spores in his lungs the first week. He swelled up and split open in front of my eyes. I came back to Earth."
"I didn't know," Thompson said.
Louise indicated her neck. "You don't see any luck charms there, do you? I knew they don't help; they're not the answer."
Thompson grabbed hold of her shoulders. "Then what is?"
Louise pulled away from him. "You're bright. And you're young. Maybe you could pass one of the Quizzes, if you had help. Every year a few hundred young men like you win classifications. And Cartwright's Quizmaster now. That might help."
"How did you vote?" Thompson shouted at her. "Good God, did you vote to go back?"
"I didn't vote. I'm just waiting."
Ralf Butler nodded curtly, and Nat Gardner moved forward. Butler and Paul Flood stood together watching tensely. Behind them Jack McLean remained warily in the doorway of the control bubble.
"This won't take long, Captain," Gardner said shyly. He was grimy and sweaty, straight from the reactor chambers where he had been going over the pipes to the firing jets.
Groves laid down his navigation instruments and removed his glasses. "Well?" he demanded. "What do you want? You seem to be the spokesman."
Jack McLean spoke up, confident and unhampered. "Captain, we're heading back home."
There was silence. The baldness of the statement had shocked everyone, including Butler. He glared angrily at McLean; the salesman shrugged and moved away.
"What's this about a vote?" Groves asked. "Konklin tells me you took some sort of vote and removed Cartwright. He tells me you replaced him with that." Groves indicated the sloppy, food-stained figure of Dr. Flood.
"Look at it this way, Captain," Gardner went on quickly, flushed and embarrassed. "There's no reason for this trip, now. Not with Cartwright as Quizmaster. Is there?" Gardner's voice was humble, pleading, and he glanced round nervously for support. "Cartwright didn't know he was going to become One."
"He knew before we took off," Groves said.
Gardner blinked uncertainly. "Let's get back to Earth where things are happening. We made Flood President of the Society, and his orders are to turn back."
"That's right," Flood said quietly, his pulpy fingers fiddling aimlessly with the lapel of his coat. "You're under orders to me, Groves."
Groves didn't respond. His massive face was thoughtful as he mulled over what Konklin had told him and what he had decided on his own. He said finally: "If you try to interfere with the course of the ship I'll lock you all up."
"If you don't turn back," Flood said, "we'll put somebody else up here."
"Who?" Groves challenged.
Butler answered, as Flood had momentarily floundered. "All we do is signal the base at Pluto for a patrol ship to grapple us down."
It was true, Groves realized. If he didn't turn the ship it would be in Verrick's hands in a matter of hours. He moved towards the door.
"Where're you going?" Flood demanded excitedly.
"To the hold. I want to know if a vote was really taken." Groves started along the corridor; the delegation streamed after him.
"Consider!" Flood gasped, "with Cartwright Quizmaster we can explore officially, and on a vast scale."
"If a Directorate finds the Disc," Groves pointed out, "it will belong to the Directorate and not to us." He halted at the entrance hatch of the cargo hold. "Konklin," he called.
Konklin pushed through the delegation.
Groves pondered, his face distorted in concentration. "I can take your word. Did they really take a vote?"
Konklin wanted to scream. Of course they hadn't taken a real vote! Only a faked, strong-arm vote, with a gun, knives and fists. He opened his mouth—but the muzzle of Butler's gun glinted. They were watching him: Butler, McLean, Flood, all with the same confident look.
"That's right," Konklin croaked, courage leaking out of him. "They took a vote."
Groves nodded. "If the majority wants to turn back," he said slowly, "then maybe we ought to give this thing up."
Groves entered the cargo hold. Listless shapes were watching him. Silent and unmoving, they waited.
Groves said to Butler: "We'll return the way we came. We'll deal with the Directorate and no one else."
Butler said easily: "You can set her down at Batavia. We'll send no signals."
Groves turned to the waiting grey shapes. "Because of your vote we're going back. You're the Society; if the Society has made up its mind to go back, that's it."
One of the Japanese optical workers approached Captain Groves. He bowed and straightened up again.
"Captain," he said in a reedy tenor, "I suggest a vote be taken in your presence. The results Mr. Butler obtained——"
Butler smashed the Japanese in the face. The little man's spectacles broke and shattered and he slid back, a suddenly crumpled doll. Butler snatched out his gun and spun towards Groves. He fumbled wildly for the switch as Groves reached into his own leather jacket.
Aiming calmly, Groves shot Butler's head to fragments.
Groves then swung round to cover Nat Gardner. Dr. Flood crouched and fired wildly. Konklin came to life and kicked Flood in the groin. Flood, his face a sickly grey, retched violently.
"I was down in the reactors," Gardner said slowly. "He told me..." Anger suffused his features. "Yo
u son of a bitch!" he said thickly, and headed straight for McLean. McLean smashed at him with a length of pipe. All at once everyone was fighting desperately in a dusty inferno.
The women were screaming shrilly, milling back and forth and trying to drag their children and possessions to safety. For a moment the crazed shape of Janet Sibley emerged, a frenzied figure smashing at one of the Mexicans with a section of metal railing.
It was a long time before the fury began to die but gradually it spent itself. Finally the figures lay about the cargo hold, exhausted.
Jereti managed to struggle awkwardly to his feet. He hung to the wall, shuddering and plucking at his broken teeth.
"Butler's dead," Thompson said, his voice thin with horror. "He has no head." He began to giggle hysterically.
"Shut up!" Groves said sharply. "Anybody else dead?"
"I don't think so," Louise Tyler answered. "But a lot are hurt."
"The son of a bitch," Gardner repeated monotonously as he kicked at the unconscious form of Jack McLean, "came down and told me they took a fair vote."
Doctor Flood was a frightened blob of quivering flesh, his gold-tooth smile a leer of pain. "It was all Butler's idea," he stammered as Konklin approached him. "I went along with him like everybody else."
"You want to resign your position?" Konklin asked.
Flood agreed eagerly. "It was all Butler's idea. I never———"
"We'd better put a guard on the transmitter," Groves said, "so that nobody can put through a call to Neptune."
He stood pondering a moment, then moved slowly out of the cargo hold. A few minutes later he was back in the control bubble.
Chapter VII
Eleanor stevens appeared from the hall. "Verrick, this isn't Keith Pellig. Get Moore down here and make him talk. He's trying to injure Benteley; they had a fight."
Verrick's eyes widened. "This is Benteley? That goddamn Moore has no sense; this'll foul up things."
Benteley was beginning to recover some sanity. "Can this be fixed?" he muttered.
"He was out cold," Eleanor said in clipped tones. She had pulled on her slacks and sandals and had thrown a coat over her shoulders. "Get one of the lab doctors in here."
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