"Vacation," Krull said cheerfully. "Jonquil in?"
"Isn't he always?" Derek answered. Krull laughed and knocked on the Inspector's door. He went in at the answering grunt—Jonquil's face lit up with pleased surprise.
"Krull, I'm glad to see you. How come back so soon?"
"You won't be so happy when I give you my load of troubles," Krull said humorously, "but it's good to be home."
"Home is the hunter," Jonquil quoted.
"A nice kettle of fish you stuck me in." Krull grinned. "Now you're going to have to bail me out."
"Rough, eh? I thought it might be." He extended a pack of cigarets. Krull lit his and inhaled deeply.
"Advice is what I need—plenty of it. He looked intently at the Inspector. "Are you acquainted with my assignment at all?"
"No—only that they needed a good man." "Good, hell, they needed a goat."
"I've found that to be one of the prime requirements for the force." Jonquil chuckled. "Don't be bitter."
"Not bitter—just puzzled," Krull confessed. "I've broken every other law so I might as well break another and spill the works."
"Let's have it." The Inspector leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head as Krull began talking. When Krull finished, he remained silent, idly watching his ciguret smoke curl upward. Finally he said, "You really do have problems."
"Enough to strain my 113 IQ," Krull wryly commented.
The inspector was thoughtful. "I don't know how much help I can give you," he said finally. "Frankly, I don't understand the implications any better than you do.".
"It's not the assignment that has me baffled, it's the people." Krull shrugged helplessly. "I don't know enough about the background politics to make any assessment."
"Perhaps I can help there." He learned back and puffed on his cigaret. "You probably don't know that I served with the Agency of Police in Sydney for several years." His eyes met Krull's.
"I still have friends there and, of course, have maintained a certain amount of communication. I know a little about the backgrounds of some of the people you've mentioned—a gread deal about several of them. I only mention this so you can assess my opinions."
"A run-down on personality profiles is just what I need," Krull affirmed. "Right now I can't pick the villains from the heroes—except in the Manager's setup," he added.
"Okay, let's start there," Jonquil suggested. "I can tell you this much: Ivan Shevach is arrogant, ambitious, ruthless—and brilliant, but his mind has a twist. I think he's capable of anything to achieve his end which, of course, is power. Now, with elections so close, he'll do anything he thinks will help him—or hurt Yargo."
"That's about the way I sized him up."
"He uses people like Gullfin and discards them when their value is lost. His tactics are both intellectual and physical, which makes him doubly dangerous. He's a mean one, Max. Don't underestimate him, and try to steer clear of him. That's the best information I can"give you."
"It's not a question of steering clear of him, but of eluding him. His men are bird dogs."
"That could be a problem." Jonquil looked up interestedly. "Did anyone get off the plane with you?"
"Some guy that looked like a commercial traveler—a tall, lanky bird lugging a sample case."
"It's my guess he'll board the plane with you again."
"A shadow?"
"I would guess so. I don't think Shevach would let you out of sight a minute after what's happened." "Okay, I'll watch him."
"Gullfin's probably a bigger danger because he's unpredictable," Jonquil offered. "He's a sadist and a killer and, unlike Shevach, has no mental brakes to control his emotions. Shevach's a logician. Because of that there's a certain predictability about his actions. That doesn't hold with Gullfin. He's an out-and-out killer with no thought of consequences." He paused.
"I can't place Kruper or Cathecart, but they're probably latecomers, of Gullfin's ilk."
"How about a gent named Peter Merryweather?"
The Inspector's head jerked up, startled. "Merryweather— is he in it? You didn't mention him before."
Krull nodded. "He didn't seem to be too important." He caught Jonquil's intent look. "Or is he?"
"Tell me about him," he brusquely ordered. Krull related their meeting and the gaunt man's offers of aid. The Inspector smiled faintly when he gave Merryweather's job as public relations for the Manager. Finally he asked, "Max, you've heard of the searchers?"
Krull was jolted. "But they hunt hidden espers."
"And pk's and other dangerous mutants," Jonquil finished grimly.
"Merryweather—a searcher?"
"The Searchmaster," Jonquil corrected. "He heads the thing. His agents are all over the world." "Oh," Krull said in a small voice.
Jonquil's face was perplexed. "I can't figure out what he's after."
"I'll watch him," Krull supplied quickly. "How about Yar-
g°r
"You can trust Yargo implicitly," he flatly stated. "He's a rock of integrity."
"I would have guessed so," Krull broke in, "only several things disturbed me."
"Such as ... T
"His apparent disinterest in what I do, almost as if he weren't too concerned about the case . . . aside from lip service."
"Typical of him," Jonquil interjected. "That's the way he operates—confidence in the men he selects."
"What did he know about me?" Krull challenged.
"Don't make any mistake," Jonquil advised. "He studied your record exhaustively—enough so that he was completely satisfield you were the man he needed."
Krull grinned wryly. "At IQ 113?"
"Intelligence is not the only attribute," Jonquil rebuked. "Perhaps, in this case, he was more interested in loyalty, dependability and courage ... as well as mental attributes. Knowing what I do of him I can tell you this: He made his evaluation and is willing to back it by not tying your hands."
"There's one other thing," Krull reminded. "Cranston. Cranston was Yargo's man—and he tried to kill me."
"You don't know that he was Yargo's man," the Inspector pointed out. "It's more probable he cast his lot with Shevach."
"Why would Shevach want to kill me?"
"Why would Yargo?" Jonquil countered. He leaned back in his chair and gave him a fatherly look. "Max, you've got one strike against you—one thing to leam, which you couldn't be expected to know from atoll duty. A position of power is always a center in intrigue—and the office of the Prime Thinker is the biggest such center in the world. No one knows that better than Yargo, which is probably the reason your revelation didn't shake him. He's dealing with dozens of intrigues, Max, and the Cranston affair was just another twig on the blaze. You can't hold him responsible on that account. My best advice would be—trust him implicitly, but don't always try to understand him. That's just my opinion, but that's the way I'd play it."
"Well, I feel somewhat better," Krull confessed. "Frankly, that was my own opinion, but it's nice to have it confirmed." He paused a moment. "That takes us to Bok."
"Herman Bok, President of the World Council of Espers."
Jonquil spoke the words half-aloud, then his voice rose. "That's the man I can tell you most about."
"Glad to hear it—he really has me stumped."
"You and lots of other people." His eyes narrowed slightly and when he spoke his voice was grim. "Herman Bok is an old man with the face of a saint and a voice to match. He leaves the impression of righteousness and dedication to his fellow men—just a shade short of appearing sanctimoni-ous.
"The way he struck me," Krull admitted.
"Don't let it fool you. He's dangerous, cunning, with a lust for power that probably overshadows even Shevach's."
Krull lifted his head, surprised, and found himself echoing Bok's words: "How can a man of eighty-seven be dangerous?"
"What's age got to do with lust?" Jonquil rasped. "He's a master schemer, plotter, but too wily to pin down." He looked inquiringly at Krull. "Doesn't
it strike you as strange that he's hung onto the presidency of the espers for eight consecutive terms? That's power, boy—power that's secured by harsh means."
"I did think of that," Krull confessed. For a moment his eyes avoided the Inspector's. "Of course I don't know much about the esper set-up, or about espers."
"The espers are dangerous," Jonquil said point-blank. "They believe they are some kind of super race, destined to rule the world. That's their prime objective. It's not just persecution that has led the Government to keep sharp strings on them. Give 'em half a chance and we'd be under their heel. That's why the searchers."
"I never particularly considered them dangerous, perhaps due to their small numbers," Krull said mildly.
"The ruling class is seldom large," Jonquil pointed out. "History will authenticate that fact. But there's never been a ruling class as potentially dangerous as the espers. Think, Krull, of the power that resides in the ability to read minds and, far more dangerous, mutants like Sawbo Fang." He smiled half-apologetically. "Maybe I'm a crank on the subject but that's the way I feel."
"Guess I'll have to reappraise my thinking ..."
"Not on my say," Jonquil interrupted quietly. "I'm just telling you my viewpoint—but I could be wrong." The tone of his voice indicated he didn't think he was.
Krull hesitated as if loath to ask the next question, but finally did: "Do you know anything about his secretary, Anna Malroon?"
"Not a thing," Jonquil replied promptly. "She is, of course, a peeper, but I never heard her name until you mentioned it." He grinned knowingly. "A man could use up a lot of secretaries in eighty-seven years."
"Yeah, I can see that," Krull said drily. They fell into a discussion of the pros and cons of Krull's position and what steps he might take next. Jonquil was of the opinion he should stick to the elusive past of William Butterfield in an effort to reconstruct the conspiracy and, secondly, keep open the strong possibility that Herman Bok had a long finger in the case.
When they finally finished, the Inspector asked, "When will you be returning?"
"Morning carrier." Krull grinned. "I'm going to make the most of my vacation."
"Do that." Jonquil glanced at his watch. "Let's tie on the feed bag."
After lunch Krull returned to his quarters debating how to pass the afternoon. Merryweather was a disquieting figure in his mind. The searchmaster! There was something sinister about him. Was he suspected? He tried to push Merryweather from his mind by thinking of Rea Jon. She lived on Ati-Ronga, the northernmost atoll—he decided to go swimming and see her later.
He stripped, donned a pair of trunks and sandals, got his swim gear and sheath knife and headed for the lagoon. At the beach he adjusted his oxygen equipment, donned his goggles and flippers and tucked his knife in his belt, studying the scene a moment before entering the water. There were several sails in the distance and the hulk of Paha Jon's outrigger. Beyond, Chimney Rock protruded black and shining above the sea; the base must be a fantastic jungle, he thought. If he had a torp like the hermit . . . He regretfully dismissed the conjecture and entered the water, swimming along the bottom in the direction of the reef.
He paused to explore some coral heads and investigate a niche where a giant crab had scuttled at his approach; he swam leisurely, feeling his tensions gradually melt away. This was a peaceful secure world, with its waving sea fronds and familiar bottom life. He paused occasionally, watching the bubbles from his exhalation valve slide upward through the water like gleaming silver spheres. He came to a coral garden filled with odd toadstool formations, arches, and bizarre limbs reaching crookedly through the deeps, the ghost arms of a stone forest. It was a favorite spot of his, an enchanted fairyland built from the calcerous skeletons of untold eons of marine zoophytes. He knew its every turn and twist and passage from countless hours of exploration. He dived deeper, made a loop in the water and shot into a naiTOw tunnel, stroking toward the pale circle of light at the opposite end. As he emerged, he glimpsed movement out of the comer of his eye and automatically spun around and withdrew into the shadows.
Swimmer—another swimmer in the green depths of the lagoonl It wasn't one of the natives—somehow, he knew that with certainty. He was startled momentarily; one didn't expect to encounter anyone in such a spot. The thought flicked through his mind that the unknown swimmer was seeking him—trailing him. He moved forward to get a better look; the newcomer was swimming with a slow leisurely breast stroke but moved with purpose, turning neither left nor right. Krull saw he would pass just to one side of him. His curiosity was aroused and he moved out from the shadows—the strange swimmer instantly altered his course and came toward him. Krull saw the bubbles rising from his exhalation valve and caught the impression of a long lean body, whiter than that of a native. Suddenly the newcomer stopped, kicked himself into upright position and started to fumble with something in his hands. Speargunl
Krull froze, whirled, dived and began stroking furiously toward the protecting arms of coral. He reached the tunnel and cast a backward glance—the other swimmer had lowered the gun and was moving toward him with a powerful leg kick. Krull swam through the tunnel, emerged on the other side and began treading his way into the network of coral, twisting among the bizarre formations in an effort to shake his pursuer or, at worst, keep him from getting a clean shot. Halfway through the stone jungle he reached a clearing and looked back. The strange swimmer was closer than ever. He struck out again, expecting to feel the fish spear rip through his body. He reached the end of the stone jungle, hesitated, and headed toward the roof with powerful strokes. Just this side of it was another skeletal forest, where he could twist through to safety. He was almost there when a danger signal flamed in his mind—he automatically veered to one side and dived deeper. He felt the stir of the spear, heard it clump against the coral just inches from his body, and noted it had no line attached—a sign that his pursuer probably had a quiver of the missiles.
He breathed easier as the shadows of the coral outcrops closed around him, and twisted through the labyrinthine formations searching for a spot he knew, a natural cavern with an opening just large enough to accommodate his body. He rounded a familiar formation and saw it, a black hole crouched deep in the pinkish-white rock. He cast one hurried backward look before darting into the narrow opening into a world of stygian darkness. He paused, treading water, and drew his knife, moving into a position where he was facing the opening. He waited, aware that his heart was pounding furiously. If he were trapped inside ...
The water beyond the entrance seemed peaceful and undisturbed. A school of small fish swam past and disappeared and a large crab scuttled across the floor of the lagoon, moving between waving sea fronds. Still he waited. An odd silvery fish with bright red stripes and a hideous mouth paused to gape in front of him and suddenly darted away. He tensed, bracing his legs against the back of the shallow cave. An instant later his pursuer came into view, swimming cautiously, holding the deadly speargun ready, peering ahead and to both sides as he kicked his way along.
Krull drew his body backward, tensed, and propelled himself violently outward just as the other passed the mouth of the cave. He crossed the swimmer's back, reached down and managed to circle his arm around his throat. A strong hand reached up and caught Krull, pulling his head violently down in an effort to break the hold. Krull brought his knife down in a short sweeping arc—once, twice, thrice. His assailant's body contorted and went limp.
The pale green waters took on a pinkish tint, and he could see the ugly red where he had struck. He moved forward again, got hold of an arm and tore the goggles and oxygen mask from the dead face. The sightless eyes of the supposed commercial traveler stared blankly at him.
He shivered. His victim was tall, well-muscled, with a broad flattened nose, high cheek bones and heavy ridged brows over "sunken eyes. In life the face might have been classified as tough, he thought. He shuddered again and pulled the body through the narrow opening of the cavern, wedging it between two
coral outcrops. He pushed back and grimly surveyed his work.
Mr. Mystery Man had found his niche in eternity.
Two killings in almost as many days. He was beginning to see why Yargo had selected a low IQ agent. He felt like the executioner on a whale farm—except these were humans. Well, he'd better get used to it. He swam thoughtfully back to the beach. His victim had come fully prepared for the death struggle, had known that Krull wouldn't leave the atolls without at least one swim in the lagoon. It meant that his moves were being assessed, predicted.
He removed his goggles and fins on the beach and started a slow search of the sands. Just yards away from where he had entered the water he found footprints and, in the nearby shrubbery, a sample case. It contained sandals and some clothes. His fingers extracted a wallet from one of the pockets and he flipped it open; there was an I.D. card and a miniature gold shield pinned to the inside flap. He studied the card curiously; it identified its owner as Winslow J. Earlywine (IQ 121). Agent of Police, Sydney District. He wasn't surprised. He returned the contents to the case, pushed it back into the bushes and started back toward the village.
Cranston.
Earlywine.
Who next?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Although the Empire of Eardi was founded upon Crozer-ian principles, dissidents appeared from time to time. Some early writers (e.g., Huxtel, 2210, and Brinkton, 2309) saw Crozener as harsh, unjust, a dictator who imposed his philosophy of government upon the planet without the people's consent. Huxtel portrayed civilization as "... a monstrous vegetable, devoid of thought."
Chau, in his Regression Into Stagnation (2356), followed Brinkton's earlier thesis that human progress had stopped, the world was static and mankind was living "in an intellectual vacuum, much like a hive of bees."
Kloppert's Slumbering Race (2395) argued that humanity had cut itself off from its natural destiny, the conquest of the stars. He referred to space as "the waiting cosmic biosphere" and termed human efforts to develop a far-flung empire of submerged cities as an "escape into a womb" symbol. Wallfort, in his remarkable biography, Edward Crozener, The Saintly Benefactor (2396), argued against Klop-pert, stating that only dangerous progress had been stopped (i.e., atomic research). Wallfort noted that Leon Konstantine (IQ 213), the seventh Prime Thinker, had ruled that satellites used as weather stations and communications relays did not violate Crozerian principles, and that such space vehicles had been used for these purposes since Konstantine's time. He saw this as proof that mankind had not abandoned space. Far from being in a state of slumber, as claimed by Kloppert, Wallfort contended that planetary civilization had achieved a serene equilibrium, in which the very predictability of the future was its greatest assurance of security.
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