Made testy by the heat and close quarters, the men muttered half-mutinously. “That’s crazy!” Manuel Gomez said. “You dragged us here to tell us that? It’s impossible!”
“Haven’t you seen any television lately?” Johnson said. “Don’t you read the fax sheets? The Hegemonic Council is meeting on Mercury two months from now. It’s supposed to prove that the planet is safe or something. But we’ll make it mighty unsafe for them!”
“Sure we know about that,” Gomez said. “So what? Every planet has a secure Council Chamber in its Ministry of Guardianship building, and you can bet they’ll be surrounded by Guards every moment they’re outside the Ministry. We’d never be able to get to them outside.”
“Right,” Johnson said. “They’ll be expecting us to try something when they make the trip through the dome to the Ministry, and we wouldn’t have a chance then because they’ll be ready for us.”
He paused. “That’s why we’re going to kill them while they’re inside the Ministry,” he said.
“Impossible!”
“Insanity!”
“Not a chance!”
“Have you completely lost your mind, Boris?” Arkady Duntov said. “Every corridor, every room, every nook and cranny in a Ministry building has an Eye and a Be You can’t even look suspicious inside a Ministry. The first move we made, Beam-plugs would pop all over the place. Even if we wanted to try some kind of suicide charge, we wouldn’t get ten yards. It’s totally impossible.”
“That’s exactly what the Council would think,” Johnson said. “That’s why my plan will work.” Well, I expected a reaction like this, he thought. It’s a good sign. If even my own men think I’ve gone nuts, the Council should be taken totally by surprise.
“What plan?” Gomez said. “What plan could you possibly have that would let us kill the Council in a building where every room and corridor is equipped with Beams and Eyes?”
“Correction,” Johnson said. “There are two rooms in the Ministry that don’t have Beams and Eyes.”
“Oh … ?” said Arkady Duntov.
“Sure. The Council Chamber itself, for one. The Hegemonic Council doesn’t want the Guardian monitoring their own doings. You can bet that Unpermitted Acts go on in there.”
“So what good does that do us?” Mike Feinberg said. “We’d have to get inside the Council Chamber, and that’s plain impossible. You know what the security setup is on those Chambers? They’re completely surrounded, all four sides, top and bottom, by corridors that are always kept clear. The moment anyone, even a Guard, steps inside one of those corridors without prior authorization, all the corridors are immediately filled with radiation. Sure, if we were careful—and lucky—we might be able to get agents into the building, but the moment anyone entered that box of corridors, every Beam in them would pop.”
“And what happens to the Council when the corridors are filled with radiation?” Johnson asked rhetorically.
“Don’t be silly, Boris!” Feinberg said. “The whole Council Chamber is lined with two feet of lead. They just sit tight till the emergency’s over. They’re, totally self-contained in there.”
“And what do they breathe when they’re all sealed up in there,” Johnson said, “vacuum?”
He could feel the tension suddenly rise in the dank grotto as the men suddenly fell utterly, raptly silent.
“It’s typical of the Hegemony,” Johnson said. “Everything’s supersecure. And there is the weak point! A diversionary attack on the outside of the building should make them seal off the Council Chamber, right? No sweat there. So once the Council Chamber is sealed off, where do they get their air supply from?”
No one ventured a guess.
“We’ve got an agent inside the Mercury Ministry of Guardianship, in Maintenance,” Johnson said. “As soon as I heard about the Council meeting on Mercury, I got a full plan of the building from him. When the Council Chamber is sealed off, air is supplied by lead lines from a small pumproom two floors below. We don’t have to get into the Chamber. Once the Chamber is sealed off, all we have to do is drop a vial of nerve gas concentrate into the air lines at the pumproom end.”
“But how can we do that?” Feinberg said. “The moment we get into the pumproom, the Beams’ll pop.”
“Think, man, think!” Johnson exclaimed excitedly. “How could there possibly be Beams in the pumproom? Remember, in an emergency, the Council is completely dependent on the pumproom for air. They wouldn’t dare have Beams in there—because if they did, anything—a wrong word, a false move—would kill the men in the pumproom with radiation. If that happened at the same time that the Chamber was sealed off, the Councilors would suffocate. No, all they have in the pumproom itself is about half a dozen Guards guarding the Maintenance personnel. And of course the door and walls of the pump-room are lead-lined in case something makes the Beams in the adjacent corridors pop. If we can get half a dozen men inside, we can gun down the Guards, close the lead door, and gas the Councilors through the air lines before anyone can possibly break in.”
“But how do we get inside the pumproom?” Gomez said. “The moment we start burning through the door, the Beams in the outside corridor will pop.”
“You’re the expert, Feinberg,” Johnson said. “How much delay between the time an Eye spots an Unpermitted Act and the time the corresponding Beam pops?”
“Two, three seconds at the very most,” Feinberg said.
“And how long before the radiation in the immediate area reaches a lethal level after a Beam pops?”
“Say, another two seconds maybe.”
“Well,” said Johnson, “that gives us five seconds from the time we make our move to get inside and get that lead door shut behind us.”
“It just can’t be done,” Feinberg said. “We can’t burn our way in that fast with laseguns, or even blast our way in that quick. Come to think of it, we can’t do either, since we’ll have to have that door intact to seal the room off when the Beams pop.”
“Right,” Johnson said. “But what if the door is opened for us? Six men could jump inside and get the door shut behind them in five seconds, couldn’t they?”
“Of course,” Feinberg said. “But what are we going to do, knock on the door and ask the Guards to let us in? The Guardian might even consider that an Unpermitted Act.”
“That’s the easiest part of all,” Johnson said. “What worries me, is can we forge enough travel passes to get a couplside and g hundred agents to Mercury in time for the festivities? What about it, Mason, can do?”
“It won’t be easy,” Mason said, “but it can be done. But just how do you intend to get into the pumproom?”
Johnson laughed. “That agent I mentioned,” he said, “the one on the Ministry Maintenance staff? Name’s Jeremy Daid—and he works in the pumproom.”
Johnson grinned broadly, as the mood of the men abruptly changed, as they nodded their heads, smiled at him. They were confident now, as he was. It all sounded so terribly improbable until that final revelation—and then, it was all so obvious.
Still, it was hard to get used to, hard to get used to the fact that after ten years of failure at far less ambitious projects, the Democratic League was so close to destroying the entire Hegemonic Council. And there wasn’t a flaw in the plan that Johnson could see. …
Arkady Duntov paused, stared nervously around the rock-walled chamber, studied the stolid, calm, unreadable faces of the eight Prime Agents of the Brotherhood of Assassins. Seven of them seemed lost in thought, as if still weighing the new information. But Robert Ching seemed to be smiling knowingly. But what could the First Agent know that the others didn’t? Or was it a matter of knowledge? Perhaps Ching knew no more facts than the others, perhaps it was his very mind that was different, a mind that saw relationships where others saw only chaos—and a mind that saw Chaos where others saw Order?
“So Johnson plans to assassinate the Council by gassing them through the air lines,” Duntov continued. “The League agent in
the pumproom will let them in. They’ll probably pay with their lives for their success—the plan seems to have no provisions for escape, but … Boris does not usually think that far ahead, and perhaps, even if he has, he’s probably willing to make the sacrifice.”
“What do you make of it, First Agent?” Brother Felipe said.
“Yes, First Agent, what do you think?”
The Prime Agents watched Robert Ching, waiting for him to speak. But when Ching spoke, he turned to Duntov, standing before the massive rock table, smiled blandly and fixed Duntov with a, mild yet penetrating stare that made him somehow nervous and reassured at the same time.
“What do you think, Brother Duntov?” Ching asked. “You were there, you know Boris Johnson.”
“What … what do I think about what, sir?” Duntov stammered.
“About Johnson’s plan, to begin with,” Robert Ching said.
Duntov himself wondered what he really thought of Johnson’s plan. He began to muse aloud. “Well, it’s quite complicated, to be sure…. By attacking the Ministry from the outsi, they get the Council to seal the Chamber … that should work. If they’re very careful, and lucky, they should be able to get half a dozen agents to the pumproom door at the right time without arousing suspicion. Not an easy thing to do, but the League has had plenty of practice in that kind of thing…. And once inside the pumproom, they’d have surprise on their side and they should have no trouble eliminating the Guards—and then killing the Council will be child’s play. Obviously, the key factor is getting inside the pumproom within five seconds of the time the Beams in the corridor pop. If can do that, the plan should work. And they do have an agent in the pumproom. …”
“So …” said Robert Ching, “an excellent analysis, Brother Duntov. You see what this implies, do you not, Brothers ?”
Duntov saw that the Prime Agents were staring at Ching blankly, as ignorant of that which was obvious to Ching as he himself was.
Robert Ching seemed to sense this, and he laughed. “Consider,” he said. “The Hegemonic Council’s lives are at stake. The Democratic League is risking its very existence. Hundreds of men involved. … Either the death of the entire Hegemonic Council in the event of success, or the destruction of the Democratic League in the event of failure. And all this, the entire plan, hundreds of lives, depends on one man. One man!”
Suddenly, Duntov saw it, and now of course it was obvious. It all came down to Jeremy Daid, the man in the pumproom!
“The League agent in the pumproom. …” he muttered.
“Exactly,” said Robert Ching. “Consider … if this Daid succeeds in getting Johnson and his men into the pumproom, the Hegemonic Council is doomed. If he fails, the Council survives and the Democratic League is doomed. One man … what does this suggest to you, Brothers?”
“The Hand of Chaos!” Smith exclaimed. “Perfect Randomness! That the fates of both the Council, with its rigid Order and great resources, and the Democratic League, with its complicated planning, should be determined by one man, who is himself a mere pawn! Chaos, sheer Chaos!”
Robert Ching smiled. “I think not,” he said. “Consider. Consider the Hegemony, so tightly Ordered, with such complete, near paranoid security arrangements. Does it not seem peculiar that the Hegemonic Council should happen to be meeting on the one planet where the League happens to have an agent in the one place that will enable them to assassinate the Council? Does it not seem strange that the Hegemony, with its Guardians and its Guardsand its psychoprobing and its obsession with security should not have discovered a League agent in such a sensitive position? When so many Random Factors seem to correlate, one should begin to suspect the Randomness of it all; one should begin to see the hand of Order operating behind the facade of seeming Chaos. …”
“What are you getting at, First Agent?” Brother Felipe said.
? whose edge is Mr. Jeremy Daid? The League’s—if the Council is ignorant of his connection with the League. But if the Council is aware of what Jeremy Daid is, and is using him as part of the bait. …”
“Of course!” Duntov blurted. “The whole thing’s a trap!”
Ching nodded. “I think we can safely assume that it is,” he said. “Though of course we have no way of knowing just what the details of the trap are. But that need not be a factor—we can assume that the Council’s plan, whatever it is, will work. In matters such as these, Mr. Boris Johnson is no match for Vladimir Khustov. The question before us, is what action do we take?”
“Perhaps we should take no action at all,” N’gana suggested. “Though the League is superficially the enemy of the Hegemony, if you analyze its actions in terms of the social dynamics of the Theory of Social Entropy, you realize that far from being a true Random Factor, far from increasing Social Entropy, it is actually a predictable factor—the ‘Disloyal Opposition’—and thus it decreases Social Entropy. Why not let the Hegemony destroy the League? We should welcome its destruction—especially with Project Prometheus so far advanced.”
“You have a point,” Robert Ching said. “Yes … the League must be eliminated soon, and now is as good a time as any. But I don’t think it should come about as the result of a successful trap set by the Hegemony. That would increase Order. Besides, while I do wish to see the Democratic League removed as a Social Factor, I don’t want to see Boris Johnson killed.”
“You’re going soft, First Agent,” N’gana chided. “I do believe you’ve developed a certain fondness for Johnson!”
Ching smiled, “Why not?” he said. “I admit it. The man is a bumbler, he stumbles in the dark, ignorant of even the Democracy he professes to champion. He does not even have the assurance of the Theory of Social Entropy that the Hegemony must someday collapse. The history of the Democratic League is a catalogue of dismal failure. Yet still he fights on. Blind courage is, after all, a Random Factor. So is heroism. So too, for that matter, is sheer stupidity—and Johnson, paradoxically, is a source of all three. Besides, the man is on the same side as we are, when all is said and done. We both fight for the same goal—the destruction of the Hegemony and the freedom of Man. Despite his many shortcomings, does not such a man deserve better than death at the hands of the Hegemony?”
Brother Felipe laughed. “I do believe that all your logic is merely a rationalization for emotion, First Agent,” he said, not unkindly. “You allude to Markowitz simply to justify your emotional desire to save Boris Johnson!”
Robert Ching smiled, then shrugged. “Again, I plead guilty1; he said. “But consider: is not emotion itself a Random Factor? If we save Boris Johnson for no rational reason whatever, are we not remaining true to Chaos? Observe: I do not suggest we save the League, only Johnson. The League must be destroyed, yet not by the Hegemony. We must interpose ourselves between the Council and the League. First we save the League from the Council, in such a way that it is clear that we are doing it. Perhaps … yes, we should have both the League and the Council at our mercy. Then we pick and choose. Who is saved and who is destroyed should be our prerogative. And … yes, there is a way we can destroy by saving!”
“I gather you are hatching a plan of your own, First Agent,” Felipe said.
“Indeed!” said Robert Ching. “And this will be the most purely Chaotic thing we have ever done. Markowitz would be most amused. In fact, short of an Ultimate Chaotic Act, nothing we could do could be more Chaotic.”
Arkady Duntov glanced around the table. The Prime Agents were nodding in solemn agreement, though they knew not what the plan was. They agreed because Ching was Ching. And Duntov, even knowing that he was more ignorant than the rest, found himself agreeing too, agreeing with what he knew not. …
Now Ching turned to Duntov. “I think the time has come for you to sever your relationship with the Democratic League Brother Duntov,” he said. “In fact, I think it only fitting that you lead our little expedition to Mercury yourself. You have served Chaos secretly, Arkady Duntov, and you have served Chaos well. It is time you looked a bit c
loser upon the face of that which you serve. It is time you served Chaos directly. I have plans for you, Brother Duntov, plans as big … as big as the Galaxy.”
Duntov was struck dumb. He could only nod woodenly. He felt exalted, exalted by something he could not understand, something he served on blind faith, something he suspected he would always serve out of faith alone. Now his faith was to be rewarded, somehow.
Yet the thought was bittersweet. For faith was what he had lived by, faith in a great unknown. Would that faith be lessened by closer contact with men who were closer to Chaos than he could ever be? Or would it be strengthened?
“If a man asks you, where can this Chaos of which you speak be detected by human senses, take him outside at night and point to the stars—for in the limitless heavens themselves, shines the countenance of Chaos.”
—Gregor Markowitz, Chaos and Culture
7
THIS FAR southwest, many miles beyond what had once been Newark, the periphery of Greater New York was a seemingly endless expanse of huge, low, glass-roofed buildings—mile upon mile of hydroponic greenhouses, completely covering the Jersey lowlands like an immense, glaring mirror.
Only the center express strip of the glideway that crossed the glass plain, arrow straight on elevated pylons, was occupied, and that but sparsely. For the only thing at the end of this particular glideway was the city spaceport, and interplanetary travel was rigidly controlled by the pass system, and as such, systematically discouraged.
Boris Johnson stood on the express strip of the glide-way, squinting against the flashes of sunlight reflected like passing floodlight beams in his face as the glideway whisked him towards the spaceport at thirty-five miles an hour. His luggage had already been tubed to the spaceport ahead of him, but the three most important items were secreted on his person.
A vial of nerve gas concentrate was concealed in the hollow heel of his left shoe. A lasegun, disassembled, was hidden all over him—parts of it sewn into seams of his clothing, other parts in his other shoeheel, still others brazenly tucked in his underpants.
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