"That man who just left is an esper," Jan Yargo told her father.
"An esper?" Ben Yargo, Prime Thinker of Earth, rose from his chair, incredulous.
"Yes. I saw it in his mind." She frowned, seeing his expression. "Is that bad?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, "if s bad."
He had needed a man whose every move was predictable. And he had got Max Krull.
The fate of the world hung on an esper.
JEFF SUTTON has also written:
FIRST ON THE MOON (F-222) BOMBS IN ORBIT (D-377) SPACEHIVE (D-478)
Atom Conspiracy
by
JEFF SUTTON
ACE BOOKS, INC. 1120 Avenue of the Americas New York, N.Y. 10036
the atom conspiracy
Copyright ©, 1963, by Jeff Sutton
An Ace Book, by arrangement with Thomas Bouregy & Co., Inc.
All Bights Reserved
Printed in U.S.A.
Ben Yargo, 90th Prime Thinker of the Empire of Earth, broke the fateful news to the World Council of Six at the planet capital in Sydney, Australia, on 26 November, 2449 A.D. An atomic conspiracy had been discovered.
History does not record the reactions of the individual Council members. However, such a conspiracy directly violated the First Law of Mankind—There shall be no atomic research—as decreed by Edward Crozener, who founded the Empire of Earth some 450 years earlier, in 1999 A.D., resurrecting it from the remnants of civilization which survived the day-long Atomic War of 1970. Crozener's decree, intended to prevent another such holocaust, had been the Empire's most rigidly enforced law. Such a conspiracy, at the time, was unthinkable. Yet the Council did not order a sweeping investigation.
Curiously, a single agent was assigned to look into the incident. ..
Blak Roko's Post-Atomic Earthman.
Kim Lee Wong was last to enter.
He came through the tall, gold-embossed doors of the Council Chamber hiding his nervousness behind a mask of calm. The other members of the World Council of Six already had gathered—statue-like and silent—around the long polished table. By the wall he saw the ascetic face of Ivan She-vach, World Manager, and wondered why he was there. Council meetings were usually secret, restricted to members and, of course, the Prime Thinker, who ruled the planet. An emergency?
The thought frightened him. He nodded deferentially while he took his seat, conscious again that his official intelligence (IQ 208) placed him as the body's junior member. Eve Mallon (IQ 213), mathematician and only woman on the Council, inclined her head. The others didn't acknowledge him, nor did he expect it. He returned her greeting almost gratefully (she represented North America) before flicking his almond eyes around the table.
Taussig of Europe ..."
Lincoln of Africa ...
Serrano of South America . . .
Sociologist, lawyer, educator—faces of power and prestige —power won at the polls by virtue of intelligence. Each represented the most brilliant mind in one of the world's six major political subdivisions. Around them swirled the angry tides of politics, lapping at the throne of the Prime Thinker. He looked last at . . .
Kingman of Anzaca . . .
The face of the representative of the powerful Austra-New Zealand block was thin, harsh, veined, with tight bloodless lips and eyes that were black pools. His long hands were talons gripping the arms of his "chair. Wong shivered and looked at the omate clock set high on the rear wall, facing the one empty chair at the head of the table. Eight fifty-seven, three minutes before the Council would come to order. More precisely, it would open with the arrival of Ben Yargo, the Prime Thinker, for he was as punctual as the clock itself. A revolving scale below the center of the dial face showed the date: 11:26:2449.
At exactly 8:58 a.m., the tall doors opened and closed behind Ben Yargo, who crossed the wide expanse of floor with the easy steps of a man who ruled a planet. The Council and the Manager rose with one accord. Wong watched covertly.
Yargo was middle-height, stocky, with short-cropped iron-gray hair, undersized ears pinned tight to his skull and a face of hewn granite. The skin was swarthy and rough, the nose crooked, the lips full and sensuous. But it was the eyes that Wong saw—chill, ice-blue, hard as diamonds, nestled deep under jutting orbital ridges. He thought of a panther staring out from the dark places of a cavern. Yargo's apparel, knee-length green shorts with' matching short-sleeved shirt under the flowing purple cape of office, revealed heavily muscled arms and legs. Little in his appearance suggested his background—philosopher and ecologist—nor the fact he was, by official test, Earth's greatest intellect. He had won office with an IQ 219 the last two terms.
The Council members watched him with varying expressions: Eve Mallon's eyes were tender, Taussig's appreciative, Kingman's vindictive; Lincoln and Serrano appeared vaguely puzzled. Wong cast a sidelong look at the Manager; She-vach's face held undisguised hostility. Only the Prime Thinker stood between the Manager and supreme power. Yargo was chief world executive; Shevach was a whip, but Yargo was the arm that wielded it.
Yargo nodded curtly to the Council and fitted himself into the well-cushioned chair set on a slightly raised dais. The members resumed their places and waited expectantly. The clock struck nine, and Ben Yargo said, "Council is in session."
He paused, looking slowly around the circle of faces before resuming. "I wish to apologize for calling this extraordinary session, expecially"—he smiled at the Chinese biochemist—"just as Wong was starting his vacation. I hope I haven't caused too much inconvenience."
"It's an honor," Wong murmured politely.
"Hardly that," Yargo countered gravely, "but an extraordinary emergency has arisen." He paused to let his words sink in. Lincoln, the dusky-skinned lawyer, looked faintly perturbed; Kenneth Kingman, the engineer, curled his lips, and
Taussig, the sociologist, raised his eyebrows. Yargo caught Ivan Shevach's bemused look and said slowly, "There is evidence of atomic research."
"No!" It was Lincoln who denied the statement. Yargo looked inquiringly at him; the lawyer recognized the invitation to speak.
"Perhaps I should apologize for the expletive." He bowed politely. "But the fact is, I was astonished—I still am." He shook his head incredulously. "I can't imagine that anyone . . . anyone would break the First Law."
"But someone has," Yargo countered softly.
"The proof?" Kingman interjected harshly.
"A man was found dead in a Sydney hotel room yesterday—dead of radiation bums."
Someone gasped and Serrano asked sharply, "Who?"
"Identity has just been established, only moments before this meeting. The victim's name was"—Yargo watched the ring of faces carefully—"William Bixby Butterfield." There was no change of expressions.
"Who was Butterfield?" Serrano pursued. He licked his
lips nervously. *
"A physics professor on the faculty of the University of Palmerston North . . . before he disappeared."
"Disappeared?"
"Some five years ago, the fall of 2444," Yargo supplied. "Could the bums have occurred any other way, perhaps excessive X-ray treatment?" Lincoln asked. "Not in this case." "Why?"
"Expert medical opinion," Yargo replied bluntly.
Lincoln shook his head hopelessly. "It's bad."
Taussig broke the following silence. "The point is, what are we going to do about it? Or what can we do? If the news became public . . ." He left the words dangling, watching the Prime Thinker.
"The news won't . . . can't be made public," Yargo declared emphatically. "The coroner is bound to absolute secrecy." He added, "So are all persons present."
"The public would be highly disturbed," Eve Mallon said softly.
"But we must investigate," Lincoln ins
isted.
"Of course. That's why I called this session. The Council is advisory in such matters."
Kingman said, "I suggest an immediate all-out investigation—that the Prime Thinker commandeer the full resources of the Government's agents of police."
Yargo remained poker-faced. "Any other suggestions."
"The suggestion has merit," Wong ventured.
Yargo nodded gravely. "Any others?"
Lincoln asked with great solemnity, "What alternative do we have? Atomic research means world destruction. We can't risk that, gentlemen."
"Lincoln's right," Kingman agreed. He shifted his head, caught Shevach's eye and continued, "I realize it's irregular but I'd like the Manager to express his views."
"Certainly." Yargo's voice was tinged with annoyance. "Would the Manager have any comments?"
"The Manager would," Shevach replied. He rose, a slim elegant man of middle-age with a high-domed forehead and sharp pale features. He was the only non-elective official present, an appointee of Yargo's predecessor. As such, he could be removed from office only by the Prime Thinker with unanimous Council assent, a move that Kingman had repeatedly blocked.
"As World Manager, I am naturally concerned with public reaction. No one needs reminding that the ban against atomic research is our First Law. Nor does anyone have to be told of the unrest—if not riots—that might occur if the information we have becomes public. I heartily endorse the views expressed.
"With the Prime Thinker's permission, I would be happy to launch an investigation immediately." He let the words fall and sat down. Silence.
Yargo studied each person in turn; he looked last at Eve Mallon and his eyelid drooped, just a trifle. There was a bustle and she rose from her seat, a slender, gracious woman in the late thirties, gowned in a golden-colored semi-transparent tunic that showed the lines of her body in sharp relief. Her blonde hair, lacquered in a high bun, sparked with jewels. She spoke with assurance.
"With the Prime Thinker's permission?"
"Certainly." Kingman's lips curled as Yargo half-rose in a courtly bow. She was reputed to be his mistress.
"First, we can assume a conspiracy, or at least the beginnings of one. Atomic research isn't a one-man operation. But even so, I must oppose the proposed plan. I can give at least three reasons."
"Name them," Kingman snapped irritably.
"An all-out investigation would alert the conspirators, assuming such a conspiracy exists. It could in that case drive them underground—I believe that's the historical phrase for going into hiding. Secondly, we can't have an all-out investigation without alarming the public." She half-turned and smiled at Ivan Shevach. "After all, that is one of the Manager's prime concerns, isn't it?"
Kingman demanded. "What else?"
"If there is a conspiracy, we don't know who—or how many—are involved. Perhaps persons high up . . ."
Kingman sprang up. "I can't see the argument, but I can give an excellent reason for an immediate fullscale investigation regardless of public reaction."
Yargo said softly, "Give it."
"Espersl" He snapped the word. "This has all the earmarks of an esper conspiracy—one that we've got to crush before we wake up and find the damned peepers ruling the world."
Wong gave an audible gasp. Yargo smiled faintly. The esper problem was Kingman's pet whipping post. Since the Sawbo Fang affair, he'd used it on innumerable occasions in attempts to ram through pet legislation. The quiet voice of Taussig with its soft inflection broke in.
"There are only a few thousand espers in the world. With exception of a few hidden cases, all are on public record. While they have, shall we say, full privileges of citizenship, the possibility of danger is recognized. They are watched carefully." He hesitated, then continued.
"I don't believe it's any state secret that esper activities are closely monitored, even to the extent of tapping their homes and businesses. Then, too, we have the . . . searchers.' He seemed to hesitate over the last word. "The Manager can testify to that," he concluded.
"That is correct." Shevach rose languidly. "However, that in itself means nothing."
"Explain," Taussig demanded.
"Certainly. What do we really know about the espers?" "Plenty."
"We know they possess the power of telepathy, the ability to read minds, but we are prone to forget they are mutants . . ."
"What has that got to do with it?" Taussig challenged.
"The psychmasters point out that the ability to read minds is just one facet—the beginning phase—of their eventual evolution. How about Sawbo Fang? How do we know where the rest of the espers stand on the evolutionary ladder? What of clairvoyance . . . psychokinesis?" He rapped the questions out in rapid sequence. "I say they're dangerous."
"Poppycock," Taussig snorted indignantly. Mass peoples and cultures were his business. He faced the Manager and spoke tolerantly.
"Telepadiy is a confirmed fact, yes, but the Sawbo Fang affair was mass hysteria, born of ignorance. Sawbo Fang was a Burmese boy of eight. A rumor started that he had wild talents . . . could lift stones by mental powers, stir trees, even keep his body suspended in air. We have to remember his background. The boy lived in a small mountain village whose people were ridden with superstition and beliefs in black magic . . ."
"And died," Kingman interrupted.
"But not because of Sawbo Fang," Taussig said pointedly. "An earthquake leveled the village. He was blamed, killed by a mob, but that didn't make him a psychokinetic."
"Then why die searchers?" Kingman cut in.
"You know the answer as well as I do," Taussig replied. "The affair created a public clamor that started witch hunts. Thirty legal espers were stoned, burned, shot. The world was in an uproar demanding action, so we acted. We created secret agents . . . searchers ... to comb the world for hypothetical pk's. That satisfied the public. Personally, I'd like to remind my fellow Council members that the witches of pre-atomic Salem weren't really witches, but they were burned." He smiled bemusedly and sat down.
Kingman said angrily, "Reputable psychmasters have testified that Sawbo Fang was a psychokinetic . . ."
"We're getting off the track," Yargo broke in. "We're here to discuss a possible atomic conspiracy—not espers."
"I say it's the same thing," Kingman half-shouted.
"Rubbish," Taussig said, "there's never been a clairvoyant or pk outside of TV and science fiction."
The Prime Thinker broke the strained silence that followed. "I believe the arguments in favor of an all-out investigation have merit. However, I have decided against such action on the grounds offered by Council member Mallon. I believe a covert investigation would serve better."
"I take it you intend to direct the investigation yourself?" Kingman challenged.
"That is correct."
"But irregular."
"Irregular?"
"Investigation is a police function." Yargo waited.
"The police function under the administration of the Manager," Kingman continued belligerently.
"Yes, for the purpose of administration, but the Prime Thinker may, at his discretion, assume full direction of the police agency—for any reason whatever."
Kingman half-turned and looked inquiringly at the lawyer. Lincoln's dark face was forcedly thoughtful.
"Prime Thinker Yargo is correct. The Archon ruled in favor of Joseph Zwolinski, the sixty-third Prime Thinker, when he took direction of the agents during the worker rebellion in the submerged city of Molokai in the early part of the last century."
"One other point," Kingman persisted.
"Name it," Yargo snapped.
"It seems unwise for the Prime Thinker to embark on an investigation which he may not be able to finish." Yargo contemplated him coldly—he knew very well what the engineer meant. Elections were less than three weeks away and, this time, he faced formidable opposition in Ivan She-vach who, at IQ 217, was considered his leading contender. They would face each other at the polls in a b
attle of intelligence.
"In event of a change in office, I would naturally acquaint my successor with all the facts in the case. I can't see any problem there." He looked slowly at each person in turn; only Kingman was openly hostile. Shevach, in the background, smirked.
"Any other questions?" Silence—broken only by the faint sound of Wong shuffling his feet under the table. "Council is adjourned."
The Council of Six rose as a body. Ben Yargo gripped the edge of the table with strong, stubby hands and pushed himself back with a quick glance around, then left as he had entered—with easy steps, looking straight ahead.
CHAPTER TWO
Max Ktitjll langorously moved his arms in a slow breast stroke, feeling the pressure of the cool water against his flesh with almost sensuous pleasure. Above him the rays of the tropic sun struck the lagoon in dawn-slanted blows, giving the water a delicate shade of green. It darkened, becoming a deeper forest color in the shadowy depths where grotesque sculptured coral heads jutted from the ocean floor like calcerous ghosts. A school of small fish, with oddly bulging eyes and narrow orange fins high on their saucershaped bodies, swam past his faceplate and disappeared in a canyon of twisted rock.
He zoomed deeper, swimming between ledges of white coral and fronds that swayed with the passage of his body until he reached a small amphitheater formed of rock and fronds. He entered it and let his body drift, studying the familiar forms of bottom life, now just feet below his faceplate: small red crabs poised on shell-studded rocks, the black beads of their eyes unmoving; large spider crabs that scuttled past with an odd sideways motion; hordes of shell creatures of all shapes and colors. It was a world he loved —had loved since his assignment to Waimea-Roa three years before.
He knew every foot of Abiang Lagoon, named for the chain's principal atoll, just as he knew every sandy cove of the twenty-two mile-long L-shaped string of atolls which formed the Waimea-Roa group. They lay on the breast of the South Pacific like a carelessly-flung string of pearls, except that their pearl-luster sands were dotted with waving cocoa-nut palms and the lesser foliage of fern, pandanus, mulberry and breadfruit. He knew its beaches and villages and people, knew them and loved them and devoutly hoped he would never be transferred. Not that it was likely with his IQ rating.
Jeff Sutton Page 1
