Cranston kept up a steady line of chatter, pointing out the highlights as if Krull were a complete stranger to the world capital. The wide thoroughfare narrowed, the trees vanished and they entered a busy area that seemed a curious mixture of LIQ and MIQ, with businesses of all varieties. Cranston turned abruptly down a ramp leading to a subterranean garage.
"The Edward Crozener Hotel, not fancy but comfortable." He turned the car over to an attendant and led Krull to a lift. The room assigned him proved light and airy, with a view overlooking St. George Avenue. It contained besides the few pieces of furniture a small private bath, the inevitable wall TV and a movie box with portable screen.
"Any kind of pix you want. Just ask the desk." Cranston inspected the room. "Take it easy for the afternoon. I'll pick you up at nine tonight—sharp." He tossed the keys to Krull, gave a toothy smile and departed.
That's that, Krull thought, everything according to schedule, including a night visit with the ruler of the world.
After a while he turned on the TV. The screen glowed to life—a man who looked like a cross between a mortician and an educator was making a pitch for distinctive clothing.
"Zarkman's clothes of distinction are the mark of high IQ. Look about you. When you see a man dressed in Zarkman's super togs, chances are he's IQ 150 or above. Remember, Zarkman's clothes come in all pastel shades—darker if desired—and are tailored to fit all occasions. Zarkman's clothes mean high IQ . . . Zarkman's clothes mean high IQ . . • Zarkman's clothes mean ..."
He reached over disgustedly and snapped off the set, looking ruefully at his own dress. He didn't think they gave the impression of IQ 150.
The knock came at the door at precisely 9:00 a.m., followed by the single spoken word: "Cranston." Krull opened it and the fat man beamed at him. "Ready?"
He nodded, closed the door behind him and followed Cranston to the car. They drove slowly through traffic, then faster as they reached the outskirts of the city where the crowded noisy streets gave way to wide tree-lined avenues lined with large well-lighted homes set amid spacious lawns. He turned into a shady lane that spiraled upward toward a massive house, its lights agleam against the starry night. He stopped at a sentry box, nodded genially without producing credentials and drove up the hill, parking under a portico. Nodding familiarly to the guard, he led Krull directly into the house. Krull had no time to look around; the agent headed directly toward a staircase.
I'm here. The thought startled him. Somehow he was there without being prepared for it. Did Yargo keep a peeper agent? He suppressed a touch of panic, trying to stifle his thoughts. No mind shields . . . No mind shields. Don't think the word esper.
Think of the lagoon, he told himself. Think of the formless swirling waters, fish schools, fronds and coral. No, that wasn't natural. An esper would recognize such thoughts in a place like this as a deliberate evasion.
Don't think of espers.
Cranston started up the stairs with Krull at his heels. He felt sweaty, nervous, anxious, all at the same time. No mind shields.
Think of Rea Jon—that day on the beach—how you tried to capture her provocative smile in a sketch. They were halfway up when a woman appeared above them and started down the stairs. Krull had the impression of youth, vitality, a well-formed body.
No mind shield. Think of Rea Jon.
Cranston nodded familiarly to her, then she was past. Krull heard the tattoo of her sandals suddenly cease, had the feeling she had stopped, turned—was watching himl
No mind shields.
The thought popped unbidden into his mind and he desperately tried to concentrate on Rea Jon as Cranston led him through a door.
CHAPTER FIVE
A squahe man with dark—was there some silver?—hair rose from a desk at the far side of the room and the agent halted.
"The Prime Thinker . . . Agent Krull." Cranston wheeled and left, leaving Krull to stare at the solid figure advancing toward him. For an instant he was speechless.
Yargo extended a hand and smiled. Krull grasped it feeling bewildered. He looked so natural, so friendly—not at all like the stem visage so often seen on the TV's; not like the world's number one brain. What was it? IQ 219. Yargo indicated a seat across from his desk saying something about being happy he had consented to the assignment.
Consented? Krull answered automatically, "It's an honor, Sir."
His eyes dropped to the desk and he saw a thick volume with the name Alexander embossed in gold across the cover. Yargo caught his look and smoothly swept the book to one side without appearing to do so, then went through the formalities, went through them nicely, Krull thought. He asked a few questions about the atolls, hoped Krull would enjoy his present assignment—stated he had chosen him on the basis of his record. All very smooth. The name "Alexander" popped into his mind while Yargo talked. Alexander—who was Alexander? Alexander the Great was an obscure figure in preatomic history; it must be some other Alexander.
Yargo offered him a cigaret, which he accepted, extending a light in return. The older man leaned back and took a few puffs.
No mind shields.
The thought popped into his mind and he tried to banish it by concentrating on the figure opposite him.
Don't think it. . . Don't think it: No mind shield.
There, he had thought it and Yargo hadn't batted an eye. Concentrate, don't think that word. Esper—the word formed in his brain and he concentrated harder on the features of the man sitting opposite him.
Yargo's expression altered, became serious and Krull tried to follow his words, feeling all at once easier. The Prime Thinker was saying he had chosen him because he needed an agent with no local ties—Jonquil's wordsl—either with the police or other Government officials. Krull felt his tensions melt.
The Prime Thinker paused, then added, "Before I describe your present assignment I would like to caution you on the need for absolute secrecy."
"I understand."
Yargo hesitated then said slowly, "It's an investigation into the possibility of illegal atomic research."
Krull started imperceptibly, but Yargo didn't appear to notice. He related the evidence, and Krull made a mental note of the name, William Bixby Butterfield, the radiation victim, thinking it might provide a starting point.
"There are a few points you might consider," Yargo pointed out. "The police intelligence appears to know nothing of the situation. Assuming that's true, and assuming there is some sort of conspiracy involving atomic research, it must be small. Also, for obvious reasons, it must be centered in a fairly remote place. Finally, it must be restricted to the research phase because of the obvious impossibility of building an actual reactor without the knowledge leaking out." He studied the agent casually, but Krull had the distinct impression he was being disected atom by atom.
"In other words, the Prime Thinker doesn't believe the danger is . . . perhaps . . . critical?" he asked, after an interval of silence.
"Any atomic research is dangerous," Yargo replied. "If it exists, I don't believe it has reached an advanced state. But that's why you're here—to nip it in the bud, to quote a pre-atomic saying." He hesitated, and described the reaction of each Council member to the proposed investigation. "That's so you'll get a clear mental picture," he added.
Krull nodded and Yargo continued. "One other thing. I realize it'll make your task much more difficult but you'll have to mask your activities. We can't afford to alarm either the conspirators—if they exist—or the public. No one must know what you're looking for but myself, and of course the Manager and the Council."
Krull readily saw his point but remembering his supposed IQ managed to retain a blank look.
"Dope—you'll be investigating a supposed dope ring. You're working for me because the ring may involve members of my Government. But don't give any explanations unless you have to." There was a note of pity in his voice—the pity a genius might feel for a moron, Krull thought. He allowed a look of comprehension to cross his face.
/> "Dope, of course. I'm glad you thought of it. A perfect cover." He hesitated, as if momentarily confused. "What land of dope?"
"Heroin," Yargo snapped impatiently.
"Yes, heroin," Krull echoed slowly. The interview closed with Yargo's repeated caution to maintain secrecy; he rose, pumped Krull's hand again and escorted him to the top of the stairs. Cranston was waiting at the bottom. Krull started down. No mind shield. He began hurrying, as if anxious to return to the cover of night.
The door had scarcely closed behind Krull before the girl he had passed on the stairs started toward the library with rapid steps. She knocked at the door and opened it without waiting for an answer. Yargo looked up inquiringly and his face softened; in the eight years since his wife had died his daughter had become his whole world. Or almost.
"Father, who was that man who just left?"
"Why?" He looked curiously at her. Jan seldom bothered with his visitors and was even less seldom disturbed; now she was visibly agitated.
"He's an esper."
"What?" Yargo rose from his chair, incredulous.
"Yes, he's an esper." Jan repeated calmly. "I saw it in his mind when I passed him on the stairs."
He looked alarmed. "Do you think he . . . ?"
"No," she cut in, "he wasn't paying attention to me."
Yargo gave an audible sigh of relief. Jan was a telepath. Fortunately, he had discovered it when she was little more than a babe, had tutored her so well that no one ever suspected. Now that her mother was dead, only he knew. Not that it was a crime to be an esper. Still. ..
"Is it bad?"
"Yes, it's bad," he said simply. "Tell me exactly what you saw—or should I say read?"
"He was scared—tried to keep thinking about mind shields." "What else?"
"He was trying to mask his thoughts, keep them innocuous—tried to resurrect strong memories in an effort to override the word mind shield."
"What thoughts?"
She hesitated. "The information may be important," Yargo said sharply.
"A Polynesian girl on a beach—a naked girl."
"Oh." Yargo masked a smile. "At least our esper appears normal."
"Can I be of any help?"
"You stay out of this," he observed quietly. "You can't take a chance."
"I wouldn't be," she replied. "I know how to use mind shields even if your visitor doesn't."
"We'll see."
He watched her leave, engrossed in thought, and thanked God she had learned to use mind shields.
Stirring, he reached into a desk drawer for a dossier and began scanning it, information he had already digested. But there might be a clue. His eyes flashed down the sheet. Max Krull, IQ 113, graduate of the World Police Academy, Sydney Campus, class of 2446 A.D., 5'10", 170 pounds, dark short-cropped hair, muscular, small mole on left ear lobe. He dropped his eyes: unimaginative, steady, loyal, dependable, unsophisticated; no highly placed friends or relatives; no political affiliations; normal sex life, friendly, unobtrusive . . . only talent appears to lie in art—a good hand at sketches; excellent memory for detail. He read the last line: Capable of only limited mental work. The dossier was signed: Martin Jonquil, Inspector-Agent of Police, Territory of Waimea-Roa.
He thoughtfully tucked it back into the drawer. So, Max Krull, IQ 113, was an esper—a hidden esper. No doubt the IQ rating was as false as his talent was real. He cursed softly. The future of mankind, perhaps, hung on the agent's performance; what he did, whom he saw, what he said . . . what he found. He had needed a man whose every move was predictable. And he had got Krull.
The fate of the world hung on an esper.
He held his hand out and studied it curiously. Steady. Strange, it should be shaking. He forced Krull from his mind and picked up the thick volume he had been reading before the agent's arrival. Its archaic cover proclaimed it a pre-atom-ic publication: Alexander. He read it far into the night. Alexander the Great.
He had use for Alexander.
CHAPTER SIX
Ivan Shevach, World Manager, thoughtfully pursed his lips while scanning a photostatic copy of a dossier on his desk. His face, pale under the indirect lighting, was puzzled, as if some obvious fact were eluding him. He reached the end of the record and backtracked, picking out isolated bits of information of particular interest. Max Krull, Agent of Police, Territory of Waimea-Roa, had, it seemed, an IQ 113. Then there was the end notation: Capable of only limited work. It didn't jibe with his idea of the kind of agent needed for such a job. After a while he looked up. Jordan Gullfin, his chief of special agents, was watching stolidly. The Manager contemplated the man's flat face and smashed nose before murmuring, "Interesting—very interesting."
"That's what I thought." Gullfin's voice was a husky hom in the small office.
Why did Yargo pick an IQ 113 agent? And why one from Waimea-Roa? Why that particular man?"
"Maybe he didn't want someone too bright. This guy sounds like a fishbrain."
"That's the whole point." Shevach looked up sharply. "You're keeping him under constant surveillance?"
"Not around the clock. I didn't think it was that important."
"I do. From now on it's around the clock—and let me do the thinking. I want to know every move he makes, everything he learns, every contact—and the reason for the contact." He smiled narrowly. "It could make the difference whether or not you become Chief of World Agents."
"You'll get it," Gullfin promised quickly. "He won't get a second of privacy."
"Are his rooms bugged?"
"They will be."
"Cameras?"
"We'll even have them in the bathroom." "You're keeping Yargo covered?"
"Every move. We got Saxon, his confidential secretary, in the bin."
"You can trust him?"
Gullfin grinned evilly. "With those pleasure palace photos we got of him, we sure can. He'll come through, all right, and he's got Yargo's complete confidence . . ."
"Excellent," Shevach cut in, "I want to know every development, immediately, and that applies to all of Yargo's contacts."
"You'll get em." Gullfin rose to go. "Personally, I think this guy Yargo is loose upstairs, at least according to Saxon."
Shevach became instantly alert. "How so?"
"Hell, he goes to sleep nights reading about some stiff that's been dead a century, at least."
"Oh . . . ?" The Manager looked curious. ''Who?"
"Alexander—some bird named Alexander."
"Alexander the Great?"
"Yeah, that's the guy."
Shevach watched his lieutenant depart, then snapped on the intercom.
"Gelda, get me all the books and tapes available on Alexander the Great—biographies, histories, everything." He cut the connection and sat musing. After a while he got up, walked across the room and opened an inlaid paneled door, staring for a moment at the array of dials exposed. He moved a switch, punched a button, and a counter began spinning. Behind the panel a selector moved across tables of random numbers and finally stopped: the number 11234 appeared in a glass window. He moved his hand to another circular dial and spun the number of the indicator reading. Something wh'rred inside the machine and a small booklet popped into a slot at the base of the console.
He picked it up and eyed it curiously: CLOIM, the Crail-Levy-Osman Intelligence Measure. He returned to his desk, read the instructions on the first page, slid out the answer sheet, glanced at his desk clock and went to work. He finished with three minutes left to go, sighed with satisfaction, then returned to the machine and inserted the answer sheet in another slot. A mechanism hummed to life as electronic scanners scored the paper. Within seconds a red light blinked above another window and the number 216 appeared. IQ 216 on a randomly selected subject wasn't too bad, he thought.
Habit was stronger than comfort. Max Krull awoke at dawn despite the fact the city still slept, elated with realization he was on his own. It was his second full day in Sydney. He had spent the first getting acquainted wi
th the city again and, incidentally, learning the names of leading Government officials he might have occasion to contact. Yeah, he was on his own. He had a job to do—clear cut— and no one to tell him how to do it.
He relived the interview over morning coffee. There were things he liked—and didn't like. But he definitely liked the feel of freedom. Cranston's last act (who was Cranston, by the way?) had been to deliver his official credentials, together with a short speech. He couldn't forget the speech. Summed up it gave him full freedom of action—to go where he wished, see whom he wanted, request assistance and a lot more. The credentials witnessed the fact the roly-poly Cranston hadn't exaggerated. They gave him the full stamp of authority; they also bore the Prime Thinker's official seal and counter-signature.
Against this was the fact he knew virtually nothing of the task confronting him. A man had died of radiation; an atomic conspiracy might exist—somewhere in the world. That could mean Antarctica, Tibet, the upper Amazon, Sydney, or one of the floating or subsea cities. It could be anywhere.
Why had Yargo picked an IQ 113 Agent?
He was at the door of the Bureau of Public Records at 8:00 a.m. sharp, much to the annoyance of an LIQ clerk, a gaunt middle-aged woman with a tired face.
"Good morning," he said cheerfully. "I'd like to see the autopsy report on the death of William Bixby Butterfield." He gave the place and date of death and watched her disappear between two ceiling-high rows of ledgers. He noticed a picture of Shevach tacked to one wall underscored by the words: I promise Government reform.
The reminder of the coming election made him grimace. He wasn't certain he wanted to be in Sydney when the event occurred, or in any large city for that matter. The election of the Prime Thinker was a world holiday for all except skeletal maintenance, police and public utility crews. It was a day when all laws except those governing felonies were suspended, when revelry and debauchery reigned. It was the one day of every five years when all class distinction was cast aside. He wasn't at all certain he was prepared for it, especially after the quiet of the atolls. He saw the clerk returning with a puzzled look.
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