He rolled on his back and lay for a long while watching the silvery bubbles of expired air shoot toward the paler surface waters. Finally he pulled his waterwatch close to his face and sighed. Seven a.m.—time for work. He twisted around and swam leisurely, breaking surface close to the shore, pausing to admire the beauty of the sun-drenched lagoon. Tall wind-bent cocoanut palms shaded beaches which gleamed like ropes of coral sand. On the opposite side, by the low-lying barrier reef, the ragged yellow sails of Paha Jon's outrigger lay idle.
He contemplated the scene with quiet satisfaction. Waimea-Roa was a peaceful oasis in a turbulent yet strangely stagnant world, where the future seemed but a mirror-reflection of the past. The centuries had passed it by. Elsewhere men were mining and farming the sea-bottoms, building domed cities on the ocean floors—living in crowded mainland communities, packed so close together that, for the workers, all semblance of privacy had long-since vanished. Elsewhere people were rigidly separated according to caste— LIQ's and MIQ's and HIQ's, the low, middle and high IQs; a man's standing was determined by his IQ rating. But not here. Waimea-Roa was the backwash of the world.
He raised his eyes. Several miles beyond the reef Black Chimney Rock jutted high above the sea. The morning light gave it a brilliant sheen, more like a man-made artifact than anything created by random nature. It was, he knew, the hard core of a small volcanic mountain whose softer shell had eroded away. A black dot moved reefward from the rock, splitting the combers like a playful dolphin until, finally, it vanished beneath the waves. August Cominger riding his torp, returning from one of his frequent explorations of the sea-bottom, he thought.
Cominger was a hermit who had appeared in the atolls years before, building a small house on the bluffs of Te-Tai, a miniature atoll adjoining Abiang. He had sought neither friends nor acquaintances and, in time, had become almost a legend. Krull felt a tinge of envy. Torps were costly. The hermit owned the only one in the atolls.
He remembered the time, sighed and swam the remaining few strokes to the beach, removed his gear and started along a well-worn path leading inland through the dense foliage. The greenery abruptly thinned and he came to Abiang's central village, a scattering of native huts and plastic houses along the atoll's single road, which ended in a central square.
Krull's house—a standard green plastic portable model, as befitted his station as an agent of police—stood at one end of the square immediately adjacent to a cubical concrete and plasto-glass building whose entrance bore the legend Headquarters, Agency of Police, Territory of Waimea-Roa. A smaller sign under it read Martin Jonquil, Inspector-Agent in Charge.
He entered his small bachelor quarters, stripped and ducked under a shower. His strong slim body was burned to the mahogany color of a native, a far call from the comparative whiteness of his skin when he had lived alone the wind-swept shores of Cook Strait, in his native New Zealand. He grinned ruefully. There was no question why he'd drawn the atolls. He had stood at the foot of his class, IQ 113 on SPIM, the Standard Police Intelligence Measure. His classmates had drawn Greater London, New Berlin, Tokio Two, Nome, Sydney, the massive California, all the large centers of population—and intrigue; and he had been sent to Waimea-Roa. He was glad.
He dried himself and slipped into a pair of thigh-length tan trousers and matching short-sleeved shirt, put on a sun helmet and sandals. Finally—it was a regulation requirement —he donned a shoulder holster containing his snubbed service revolver and flinging the black cape of office around his shoulder walked next door to the station.
"Morning, Derek."
A small wizened halfbreed of indeterminate age and a perpetually-cheery smile returned the greeting. "The old man's waiting for you."
"Thanks." He flung Derek a mock salute and crossed the small room, knocking lightly on the Inspector's door.
"Come in."
He entered, idly wondering what was in his superior's mind. "Good morning, Martin."
"Morning, Max." Jonquil briefly glanced up from a paper he was studying. "Sit down—be with you in a second."
"Thanks." Krull slid into a bartered chair and idly studied his superior, a middle-aged stocky man with slivers of silver coursing through his black hair. His nose was prominent, beaked, his lips full and square chin cleft. His fingers drummed restlessly on the desk while he read, a sign he was disturbed. Krull's thoughts were pleasant. There had been a deep friendship between them from the start. In a way, it was a father-son relationship, yet more comradely. They swam the lagoon, dived, fished, drank together, and shared a mutual hobby, art. Krull rated himself as fair, excelling in figure sketches; he rated the quiet Jonquil as tops. The Inspector's forte was seascapes executed in sweeping strokes. Jonquil rated unusually high for an agent: IQ 172. He could have been almost anything, Krull thought. But he had chosen the police; ironically, he had been shanghaied to Waimea-Roa.
The Inspector finished, pushed the paper aside and contemplated the younger man a moment before speaking, his dark eyes grave and brooding. Krull grew uneasy.
"Max, you're going to leave the atolls ... for a while."
"Why?" Krull asked, startled.
"Orders." He indicated the paper on his desk.
The younger agent breathed deeply. "I suppose it had to come some day," he said simply, "but I won't like it. I'd always hoped to stay here."
"It's just a job—a special job. You'll return when it's over."
"That's something. Where to?"
"Sydney."
"Sydney?"
"The House of the Prime Thinker." ^What!"
"You'll report to him direct." His eyes met and held Krull's. "It's a confidential job."
He sat back and stared at the Inspector. "There must be some mistake."
"There's no mistake." Jonquil leaned back and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling while he fished a cigaret from his pocket, lit it, and blew a cloud of smoke upward.
"I'm not informed of the details," he said. "You know how orders are—pieces of paper with times and dates and destinations. But I can surmise. I suppose the Prime Thinker has some sort of investigation in which he can't use local police. Perhaps the police are the subject of it. Perhaps it's a job that reouires an outsider, someone not committed to local politics. Those are my surmises."
"But why me? I'm IQ 113. Why not a high-rated agent?"
"IQ 113's not bad."
"Don't sell me. I'm not sensitive on the score." Krull grinned weakly. "Besides, it's a matter of public record— and 113's not enough to solve a rape in a cage with two rabbits."
"I don't know what the job is, but you can handle it," Jonquil replied confidently. "The Prime Thinker wouldn't tab you without reviewing your record."
"What record—tossing a wife-beater in the cage for the night?"
"You can handle it," Jonquil asserted.
"Okay, so I can handle it. When do I leave?"
"Tomorrow morning, on the nine o'clock carrier. Reservations are made." Jonquil smiled briefly. "Why not take the day off, rest up."
"Thanks." Krull answered bleakly. He urgently needed to escape. "Think I'll go swimming."
CHAPTER THREE
KnuLL managed to. keep his composure as he left the station. He nodded casually to Derek, remarking he wouldn't be back for the day and returned to his house. He stood for a while with his hand still on the doorknob, looking at a sketch of Paha Jon's grand-daughter, Rea. She had large almond eyes above a straight nose, a heart-shaped mouth. Her hair was long, straight, and wisps fell over one shoulder. She wore a provacative smile—and little else. He knew the meaning of the smile. He sighed and donned his trunks, then picked up his swim gear and headed for the lagoon.
The cool green water felt good again, particularly after the session he'd just been through. He swam beneath the surface until he reached a particular coral head he knew— he and Rea sometimes played tag there—and allowed his body to relax and drift.
He thought and felt the tension come, and fear. Years ago he had learn
ed to live with the fear; then, in the quiet backwaters of Waimea-Roa, it had vanished, replaced with peace and security. Now it was on him again.
Esper. He was an esper. Worse, a hidden esper. If they caught him now he'd have to undergo surgery, have the mind power removed. Not that he would mind that—he very seldom used it—but it would cost him his job, place him under a social stigma, make him an outcast. Paha Jon's granddaughter—no woman—would have him. Not an esperl
He looked across the years, resurrecting fragments of memory, his first knowledge of what an esper was—what it meant. He had been playing games with his mother. What games? He forgot now; but suddenly she had looked strangely at him. He could see her eyes (they were brown) grow strange, then fearful. He remembered his parents' whispers far into the night. There were more games, new games.
Guessing games.
His mother had appeared unnaturally constrained; her smile was a mask of sorrow. What am 1 thinking of, Max? A big ship. You're thinking of a big ship, Mama. Now what?
Mr. Krinker's toy store. He's standing in the doorway. Now who?
He didn't know. The pictures, never sharp, had faded away again as they so often did; but his mother persisted. He remembered his parents' looks, the tears in his mother's eyes. Finally they told him, explaining what a mutant tele-path was in the simple kind words parents use when they try to explain things to children. Esper—he was different.
There had been countless admonitions.
Don't tell anyone.
Don't play guessing games.
She reminded him before school, questioned him every evening. Cautioned him.
Don't put down what the teacher is thinking on tests. Don't . . . don't... don't.
Little Max didn't. He had understood the meaning of some of the tests from the teacher's thoughts. So he grew, silent, alone, shunning his playmates until his mother warned him it was dangerous. Don't he different.
He decided early in life he couldn't shield his talent forever. If he erected a mind shield—a simple thing for an esper, he later learned—the shield was the give-away. If he didn't, the risk was equally great. Sooner or later he would encounter a legal esper; and legal espers shunned their hidden cousins. In the end he hid another thing—his IQ. At an early age he figured that the smart kids would be placed with smart kids—greater danger. But if he were just a dumb kid . . .
In time he scarcely realized he was any different from his playmates. Most of his school tests were ridiculously easy, but he seldom managed more than a passing mark. It was fun, in a way, the careful calculations to determine the range of scores he should make—the balancing to keep in the safe level of low-normals.
He made one more decision while still a boy: he would be a police agent. Police agents were mainly low MIQ's; a few —like those at the top—were superior. But he wouldn't be at the top, or anywhere near it; and the safest place to escape detection would be among the agents. He applied for admission to the World Police Academy.
Well, he was an agent now. But he was stepping into Ben Yargo's house, working under the eyes of the most brilliant mind on the planet. How long could he escape detection? How long?
CHAPTER FOUR
Edward Cfozener, founder of the Empire of Earth, made Sydney, Australia, the planet Capital in 1999 A.D. (The old name Australia refers to the largest land mass in the world state of Anzaca, which includes the former New Zealand and adjacent South Pacific islands). The city was the logical choice.
Like other Anzaca metropoli, it escaped the severest blows of the Atomic War due to downpole winds which held back radiation-polluted air. In the dark decades following the war (1970-2000 A.D.), it became the largest citadel of civilization—a beacon in a shattered world.
Crozener decreed the Capital should never be moved. He wrote: It shall remain as a symbol of human triumph over the madness of the atom.
Crozener's Second Law of Mankind—The world shall be governed by intellect—shaped planet government. Under his plan a Prime Thinker, who competed for office in publicly administered machine-scored intelligence tests, headed the planet. A Council of Six, elected in similar manner, with each member representing one of the planet's six major political subdivisions served as the advisory arm.
Under Crozerian principles, the peoples of the world gradually fell into three classes determined solely by genetics— the low, middle and high IQ's (commonly called the LIQ's, MIQ's and HIQ's). Crozener's famous "60-35-5 proclamation" existed for generations: sixty percent manual laborers (LIQ's), thirty-five percent high clerical and semiprofessional workers (MIQ's), and five percent representing the higher sciences, arts, administration and upper-govemment levels (HIQ's).
His edicts remained supreme for centuries.
Blak Roko's Post-Atomic Earthman.
The great bluffs of the Sydney Heads—sheer sandstone cliffs towering over the sea—wheeled toward Max Krull below the seaplane carrier. Sydney Basin, enclosed on three sides by flat highlands, spun into view; the city was below. Wharves, jetties, beaches, factories, the neat geometric patterns of colored houses reaching to the far horizon whirled by; the harbor was alive with the ballooning spinnakers of sailing yachts. A long train of ore ships, their decks awash, threaded in through the narrow channel from the sea, towed by a powerful subtug. Their cargo, Krull knew, would be manganese, cobalt, iron and nickel ores from the sea-bottom mines off Melville Deeps, a submerged city off the coast of Brisbane.
The ore train was headed toward the southern side of the port, a part of the city which housed both larger industrial plants and homes of the LIQ's, mainly laborers of less than 100 IQ. It was a sprawling, dirty, crowded dark area, quite unlike the clean tree-shaded northern part of the city where the intellectual elite lived. The vastness of the city awed him. Fifteen million people. He smiled. There had been less than four thousand in Waimea-Roa.
The stewardess' voice broke into his thoughts. "Fasten your seat belts, please."
The plane banked, dropped toward the harbor, straightened and raced over a thin channel of water lined with docks; the pontoons touched down with a slight jolt and tiiey taxied toward a float based at the bottom of a wide gangplank leading to street level. Krull loosened his safety strap and waited until the cabin was empty before picking up his bag and leaving. He stood for a moment among the milling people, trying to orient himself by the City's skyline. He would be met by an agent named Cranston. ("Don't seek him out, let him find you.") His hotel quarters had been reserved. He would be escorted to the House of the Prime Thinker. He wouldn't wear police garb. He would be provided with essential papers.
"Mr. Krull." A hand tapped his elbow and it wasn't a question—it was a statement. He turned, staring at a short, rotund man wearing a wide smile that amply exhibited his dentures. His eyes were sky-blue, jovial, and although he wore a weave hat Krull guessed that he was bald—it was that kind of face and figure.
"I'm Cranston." Krull gripped the almost dainty hand—it felt moist—and he winced. "Come along, I'll show you to your quarters."
Krull followed him up the gangplank. Cranston drove through a crowded thoroughfare, past pastel-tinted stores jammed by early afternoon shoppers. Krull had almost forgotten the LIQ section with its dirty narrow streets, jammed shops and noise. Most of the people wore the somber grays or browns of workers, the men in sandals, shorts and open shirts and the women in simple tunics. Here and there he caught the flash of scarlets, emerald greens and lavenders, clothes which marked their wearers as middle or high IQ's. Not that dress was a matter of law, but few LIQ's could afford the luxury of color. Occasional huge photographs plastered on buildings reminded him that election was only two weeks away. He studied them curiously. Yargo . . . Shevach . . . Harshberg . . . Sherif: the faces of the candidates for Prime Thinker stared out over the crowd in black-and-white, color, and a few were animated for sound.
Sherif's face intrigued him. It was a peasant face, hard, square and dark, but even in the photographs the eyes seemed alive. He r
emembered hearing he was anti-Crozener, a man who wanted to rebuild society and erase all class differences. He had been stoned, berated, but refused to budge from his principles. Krull found himself liking the man's looks.
A huge cube suspended over one intersection displayed Yargo's face on each facet. The lips moved and a voice intoned, Good government for all the people . . . Good government for all the people ...
A monorail slid by, momentarily drowning the voice. Noisy street hawkers peddled their wares from plastic handcarts, competing with small dark shops that clung to the edges of the street like rows of kennels, each distinguishable only by its signs and displays of wares on outside racks. They came to another talkie photo of Yargo.
Supposing he loses Krull thought. The possibility momentarily startled him. What then?
They came to an area where the stores were spacious, well-lighted, almost stately in appearance. The streets were broad, lined with graceful eucalyptus trees and free of the numerous public TV screens found in the LIQ quarters: The crowds had vanished, the noisy hawkers gone, replaced by a scattering of unhurried shoppers. The men wore pastel-colored shorts, open shirts and sheer capes that seemed to serve no purpose other than to testify to the affluence of the wearers. The women wore sheer clinging tunics (yellows and pinks were in vogue) designed to reveal more than conceal, and elaborate lacquered hair-styles—knots, buns and conical designs sprinkled with gems. All wore colored sandals. Sleek white bubble-topped Capricoms and luxurious Regals lined the curbs while uniformed chauffeurs passed the time watching dashboard TV's. Most of the buildings were topped with copter landings and a number of the small craft were darting between the building-formed canyons. Even the air seemed cleaner.
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