"The election booths . . ." An attendant opened the booths to display their interiors. Each was furnished identically— a straightback chair and writing table holding several pencils.
"They keep it honest," Krull observed. "Of course," Jan chided.
The Psychmaster placed a booklet on each table and limped to his seat. Clender ordered the candidates to station themselves by their booths and read the instructions.
The test would start at the sound of a gong, would last exactly sixty minutes, and would be terminated by a second gong. Any candidate not leaving his booth within ten seconds of the final gong would be automatically disqualified.
The Archon rose. "That is the law and I so testify." The subarchons nodded assent. Silence.
A gong sounded.
Harshberg popped through the door of his booth like a scared rabbit. The others followed more slowly. When the doors were closed, the Psychmaster dropped a note on the podium. Clender examined it.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the first official test is titled, Test of Motives Behind Historical Political Actions. Needless to say, this test definitely favors William Harshberg who is a political scientist. For example . . ."
Jan moodily snapped the screen off, turning pensively toward Krull. "I'd forgotten, you haven't had breakfast."
"I'll help," he offered.
"You won't budge from this room," she replied firmly. "Until after your father gets elected." He smiled crookedly. "He'd better." "He will."
"Sure." After she left he turned on the screen. The camera had returned to the outside of the building. The streets were jammed with jostling, singing crowds bearing placards and huge pictures of the candidates. A woman tried to thrust a Yargo poster in front of the camera and was shoved aside by a rough-looking LIQ bearing a Shevach placard. Two men hoisted a thin elderly woman in front of the camera and she shrilled, "Down with the atom fiends!"
Hands reached up, caught her and she was pulled back into the crowd. The camera rested for an instant on a young blonde with a brilliandy painted face. She saw the camera, winked and started to pose. The celebration was starting early.
He snapped the scene off when Jan returned. They ate in silence. She didn't turn the set on until the time for the candidates to emerge from the election booths. Yargo and Sherif appeared stolid-faced, unconcerned; Shevach seemed a bit anxious; Harshberg was plainly jittery. The Psychmaster gathered the tests and held them so the audience could see the numbers, then limped to the computer and fed the first one into a slot.
"Test number one . . . Ben Yargo," he called.
Clender broke in. "The test will be scored automatically and translated into IQ points, which will flash on the master screen at the top of the panel." He broke off as a light winked; there was a low hum1 followed by a number on the screen: 212.
"Two-twelve, pretty good," Krull mused aloud.
"Yes, it's good," Jan agreed.
"Test number two . . . Ivan Shevach."
They waited, tense. The light blinked again and number 210 appeared on the screen. "Beat him," Krull said gleefully. "Of course."
The Manager's face was slighdy furrowed. Sherif scored 214; his expression didn't change.
There was an agonizing moment. The thin political scientist tensed in his seat and leaned slightly forward, his eyes riveted on the computer. The screen came to life: 223. Jan gasped involuntarily. A smug smile creased Harshberg's face. Shevach looked visibly perturbed. Yargo didn't change expression and the squat Sherif merely glanced at the reading.
"Don't worry," Krull consoled, "the subject matter was in his field. He won't get that break again."
"I hope not." Jan was shaken. The camera flashed to the exterior of the building. The crowds were noisier. Elect Ben Yargo and We want Sherif banners competed with signs backing Shevach and Harshberg. One sign borne by a grim-faced delegation proclaimed: Down with the atomic conspirators. The camera paused at a comer to show several women dancing, cheered on by a ring of festively-clad celebrants.
The second test turned out to be the analogy variety-things that resembed other things in obscure ways. It was strictly a powerhouse affair and, as Clender explained, was more nearly related to pure IQ than the mere possession of factual knowledge.
To Krull's disappointment, Jan left and didn't return until almost time for the tests to be scored.
The scene was a replica of the first, except for the results:
Yargo: 219 Shevach: 220 Sherif: 217 Harshberg: 214
Krull relaxed with a satisfied smile. That put Yargo's total one above Shevach, a tie with Sherif, and only six behind the political scientist. Jan didn't share his enthusiasm.
"It's too close," she murmured.
"He's got it whipped."
"I hope so, I hope so," she said pensively. "If only he can overcome Harshberg's lead."
"That's the least of his worries," Krull said. "It's Shevach I'm worried about."
"Sherif's strong, too."
"Yes . . ." They turned back to the screen. Yargo and Sherif remained impassive, Shevach was sucking his long un-derlip nervously and Harshberg seemed vacillating between elation and despair. If the next test were favorable, he could easily become the 91st Prime Thinker.
The Psychmaster pushed the button to activate the random number dial for test number three. The dial was a blur of movement, gradually slowing, stopping on number 7777. He read the official number and the Archon testified to its correctness. The doors closed behind the candidates.
"Test number 7 ... 7 ... 7 ... 7, selected at random, is entitled Alexander the Great—simply Alexander the Great. Ladies and gentlemen, this test is unusual in that it takes us into ancient history. It is noteworthy . . ."
Jan snapped the set off. "That's strange."
"Yeah," Krull said thoughtfully. She started to say something and abruptly stopped. He looked puzzled. The test struck an odd chord, but. ..
Everyone's heard the name Alexander," Jan replied evenly. All at once she seemed anxious to drop the subject. She smiled and grasped his hand. "But I feel better. Shevach was the only one Dad was afraid of and he's beating him. I'm glad." Krull looked into her eyes and she dropped his hand and retreated toward the door.
"I'll get some more coffee."
"No—stay."
She smiled demurely. "No." She whirled and disappeared through the door and he heard her laugh echoing in the hall. He looked at his hand. The spot she had touched felt warmer than the rest of his body. Strange, she was no more beautiful than either Rea Jon or Anna, but she was more»exciting.
He browsed restlessly around the room but she didn't return until time for the test scores to be read. He turned to the set while she poured the coffee, impatiendy watching the returns.
The camera closed in on the candidates. Yargo was grim. Shevach's face glistened with perspiration; he was sucking his lower lip and his eyes seemed to have become small gimlets. Sherif remained imperturbable; Harshberg's face muscles were twitching and his jaw hung slack. The camera swung back to the Psychmaster.
"Test number one . . . Ben Yargo." Werner inserted the test into a slot; a light came on accompanied by a hum which ended suddenly as a number flashed on the screen: 229.
"Wonderful." Jan's face was jubiliant. An awed sigh rose from the auditorium. Werner inserted another paper. "Test number two—Ivan Shevach."
The lights and humming came and died, and both Krull and Jan leaned involuntarily toward the screen. The number was 227.
"He's won, he's won," Jan whispered. "Wait," he cautioned.
Sherif scored 220. There was a moment of anxious waiting while Harshberg's test was fed into the machine. He scored 211.
"He's won," Jan exclaimed. She impulsively flung her arms around Krull's neck and suddenly drew back, as if appalled at her action.
"I don't mind," he said, grinning. He was elated. Now, maybe, his troubles were over. Perhaps Yargo could get Shevach appointed inspector of oyster beds off Easter Island. He turned back to the screen.
The Archon was giving Yargo's official—and winning—IQ as 220, one higher than Shevach and three above Sherif, who led Harshberg by one point. Krull started to snap the set off, then froze. The door of the chamber burst open and a squad of armed agents marched in.
"What's happening?" Jan worriedly asked.
"I don't know."
The agents halted. A stalwart, familiar-appearing gray-haired man strode to the center of the room. Krull was startled. It was Joseph Grimhorn, Chief of World Agents.
"What's the meaning of this?" The Archon eyed Grimhorn caustically.
"Your honor, I am sorry but a felony charge has been placed against two persons present." "Is there a court order?"
"There is, your honor, initiated earlier. My office just received it a few moments ago." "And the nature of the complaint?"
"Fraud—fraud involving the operation of the computer." "Whatl" The Archon was startled. "Sworn out against whom?"
"Karl Werner, the Psychmaster, and"—Grimhom's face became sad—"Ben Yargo, the Prime Thinker." "And the complainant?"
Grimhorn swung angrily on his heels and leveled a long finger. "Ivan Shevach."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ben Yargo came home that evening—came without trumpet or drum or waving banner, came without the cheering throngs and honor guard that had escorted him to the Hall of Elections. He was still Prime Thinker, still free, but only because of the privilege of immunity accorded his office. He returned to a house that lay on the hill like a shadow-box, brooding and silent, seemingly deserted—an oasis unmindful of the raging political fires.
Krull sat alone, watching the screen, half his mind occupied by the sudden change in Yargo's fortunes. Jan had fled precipitously following Grimhom's charge, nor had he seen her since. Once he had heard her footsteps echoing in the lower hall as she rushed to greet her father.
The stillness had come again.
Psychmaster Werner had been booked and released on his own recognizance without making a statement; a team of engineers were methodically examining the election computer under the watchful eyes of Grimhom's chief deputy and a squad of agents. The Archon had suspended elections of the Council of Six on the legal requirement they follow the declaration of election of a Prime Thinker—an act which hadn't come off. The old council remained, sadly divided between an outraged Kingman and a calm Eve Mallon.
The-scene in the Hall of Elections had immediate worldwide repercussions. Supporters carrying Yargo banners were mobbed, their signs shredded. There were riots in New Berlin, Greater London, Rio de Janeiro; California mobs stormed government offices and Shanghai was in the throes of looting. The Capetown Royal HIQ Society ("All members above IQ 160") demanded immediate self-rule; the Turkish Council of Mayors called for recognition of Sherif as Prime Thinker. New Delhi was in flames. But the public would not be robbed; along with the riots were wild celebrations as the world workers claimed their long-awaited holiday.
The Archon immediately called a special session of the
World Court to decide what action should be taken if election fraud were determined. Yargo's current term expired in ten days. Who would succeed him if the election were found invalid? It was a situation that never before had occurred, one that threatened to split the government right down the middle.
Harshberg demanded the court void the entire election and set an immediate date for a new one. Mustapha Sherif told a TV audience: "I have faith in Ben Yargo's integrity. Let's wait and see." He was stoned leaving the station. She-vach was vociferous. He demanded Yargo's test scores be voided and the office conferred on the highest scoring candidate of the remaining three—which happened to be himself.
Eve Mallon told a press conference that Shevach's charge of fraud had been made prior to the election, thus his participation in an election believed by him to be fraudulent made him a party to the fraud. Shevach claimed he had acted in the interests of good government on the basis of anonymous information; he had merely held off having the warrant served until the selection of the test verified the charge.
Eve Mallon countered by producing evidence that Shevach's secretary had withdrawn all books and tapes of Alexander the Great from the public library long before the election. Shevach couldn't explain that. Grimhorn promptly charged the Manager with "participation in a felonious act," which, if proven, would bar him from public office. Shevach responded by attempting to have Grimhorn removed from his post; he suggested Gordon Gullfin as interim Chief of World Agents. Eve Mallon hurriedly formed a council block consisting of herself, George Lincoln, Kim Lee Wong and Hans Taussig that effectively stymied the move despite Kingman's angry opposition. UPOP rushed out a spot survey which showed sixty-seven percent of the people believed Yargo guilty, twenty per cent thought him innocent and thirteen percent gave no opinion. Broken down by IQ, most of the twenty per cent supporting Yargo were HIQ's.
The fast-breaking news answered the question perturbing Krull. Alexander the Great—he remembered now—he had seen the book on Yargo's desk. It could be a coincidence, of course, but it looked bad.
Shevach stated Yargo was harboring the fugitive killer, Max Krull, and demanded his immediate arrest. The words had scarcely ended before there was a sharp rap on the door, followed by an imperative exclamation.
"Krull!" He opened it and faced Yargo's chief of special agents.
"Hello . . . Foxhill." There was no reaction to the name. "Let's get the hell out of here," he barked. "Why?" "Mob coming."
Sure, there would be a mob. Shevach would see to that. Gullfin and the Searchmaster were probably behind it stirring it to a frenzy. But what of Jan?
The agent saw the question in his eyes and said, "The Prime Thinker and his daughter have gone. They're safe."
"Where to?"
"I wouldn't know," Foxhill snapped, "but you'd better step on it if you want to beat your admirers."
"Okay," Krull said shortly, "I'm ready. Where to?"
"Wherever you want. You're on your own now," the agent responded grimly. "Ill drive you to any place of your choosing."
"Why?"
"Yargo's orders." Krull tried to assimilate the information. Yargo's sole motive was to get him out of his hair. That made sense. It would leave him an outlaw, exposed to every hand, but if he could crack the conspiracy he could still vindicate himself. He followed Foxhill out the back of the house to his car. They got in and the agent started the engine.
"Where to?"
Krull hesitated—one place was as good or bad as another. He decided on the LIQ district, thinking the crowd would be a good mask until he could formulate a plan of action. He spoke briefly, the agent nodded and started down the drive. They had scarcely reached the main thoroughfare before they passed a cavalcade speeding in the opposite direction, horns blaring. Krull looked back; the procession turned into Yargo's drive.
"Just beat "em," Foxhill muttered. Krull nodded grimly. It had been close. The crowds thickened as they drew closer to the heart of the city. People were dancing, shouting, hoisting botdes and waving banners bearing Shevach's name and picture; here and there large photos of him were plastered on buildings. Krull smiled sourly. It was too neat; it smacked of long planning. The crowd grew thicker and Fox-hill was forced to stop.
"You'll have to take it from here," he said. Krull nodded and jumped out, then looked back.
"So long, and thanks."
"Don't mention it."
He moved away, threading through the crowd without any particular destination. He needed a place to hide . . . a place to think. But where? He couldn't risk a hotel, not even a rat-ridden hole in the LIQ district. Gullfin's agents would be making the rounds.
And the Searchmasterl
He damned the gaunt man mentally, pushing through the mob. He was jostled and hemmed in until his progress practically came to a standstill. A drunk in an LIQ tunic wearing an expensive pink HIQ cape waved a bottle in his face and shouted, "We want Shevach . . . We want Shevach . . ."
A ha
nd reached out and snatched the bottle—and the drunk turned, cursing. A woman grabbed Krull's arm.
"Everybody celebrate, honey." He pushed the hand off and forced his way next to the buildings. People shouting, pushing, singing, dancing—people and banners and laughter and screams. People . . . Dusk. The shadows came, reached out. He reached a corner and found himself staring into a public screen diagonally across the intersection. Suddenly it was filled with a face—his face! A voice from the speaker rose harshly above the noise.
Watch for killer Krtdl. . . Watch for killer Krull...
He stared, fascinated, waiting for the picture to change. It didn't.
Watch for killer Krull...
He turned his head down and pushed away from the intersection, threading deeper toward the heart of the LIQ quarters. Damn, Shevach wasn't missing a bet. They'd keep his picture on the screens, keep shouting his name. If someone saw him, gave the alarm . . . The crowd would tear him to pieces. That's what Shevach wanted. He stepped into a doorway, hurriedly retreating when he found it occupied by lovers.
Shevach ... Shevach .. . Shevach ...
Someone started the refrain; it caught on—everyone was shouting the name. After a while it died out. Night came on and the faces under the yellow street lights looked like those of animals; faces and half-naked bodies and the smell of liquor and tobacco smoke. Bedlam. A fight haze was coming in, the lights took on a yellowish hue. More screens, each with the image of Krull staring out over the crowd.
Watch for killer Krull...
He hastily retreated. Hide. Hide where? He gave thanks for the crowd; it had forgotten the screens, forgotten KrulL forgotten everything but the revelry at hand. Several times he caught sight of black capes and stopped, watching until they melted away. Agents—there must be a hundred of them watching for him, combing the LIQ quarters. Maybe he'd picked the wrong place. Next time he looked up he was diagonally across from the Edward Crozener Hotel. A screen above street level was filled with his image. He started to turn a corner and stopped abrupdy. A gaunt figure stood by the comer of the hotel, towering above the revelers.
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