Jisbella turned pale. Dagenham turned on the Intelligence man. 'You make the decision, Yeovil. Do we try it my way or do we wait?'
Y'ang-Yeovil sighed. 'I was afraid of this,' he said. 'Damn all scientists. I'll have to make my decision for a reason you don't know, Dagenham. The Outer Satellites are on to this too. We've got reason to believe that they've got agents looking for Foyle in the worst way. If we wait they may pick him up before us. In fact, they may have him now.'
'So your decision is . . .?'
'The blow-up. Let's bring Foyle running if we can.'
'No!' Jisbella cried.
'How?' Dagenham asked, ignoring her.
'Oh, I've got just the one for the job. A one-way telepath named Robin Wednesbury.'
'When?'
'At once. We'll clear the entire neighborhood. We'll get full news coverage and do a full broadcast. If Foyle's anywhere in the Inner Planets, he'll hear about it'
'Not about it,' Jisbella said in despair. 'He'll hear it. It'll be the last thing any of us hear.'
As always, when he returned from a stormy civil court session in Leningrad, Regis Sheffield was pleased and complacent, rather like a cocky prizefighter who's won a tough fight. He stopped off at Blekmann's in Berlin for a drink and some war-talk, had a second and more war-talk in a legal hangout on the Quai D'orsay, and a third session in the Skin and Bones opposite Temple Bar. By the time he arrived in his New York office he was pleasantly illuminated.
As he strode through the clattering corridors and outer rooms, he was greeted by his secretary with a handful of memo-beads.
'Knocked Djargo-Dantchenko for a loop,' Sheffield reported triumphantly. 'Judgement and full damages. Old D.D.'s sore as a boil. This makes the score eleven to five, my favor.'
He took the beads, juggled them, and then began tossing them into unlikely receptacles all over the office, including the open mouth of a gaping clerk.
'Really, Mr. Sheffield! Have you been drinking?'
'No more work today. The war news is too damned gloomy. Have to do something to stay cheerful. What say we brawl in the streets?'
'Mr. Sheffield!'
'Anything waiting for me that can't wait another day?'
'There's a gentleman in your office.'
'He made you let him get that far?' Sheffield looked impressed. 'Who is he? God, or somebody?'
'He won't give his name. He gave me this.'
The secretary handed Sheffield a sealed envelope. On it was scrawled: URGENT. Sheffield tore it open, his blunt features crinkling with curiosity. Then his eyes widened. Inside the envelope were two Cr 50,000 notes. Sheffield turned without a word and burst into his private office. Foyle arose from his chair.
'These are genuine,' Sheffield blurted. 'To the best of my knowledge.'
'Exactly twenty of these notes were minted last year: All at on deposit in Terran treasuries. How did you get hold of these two?'
'Mr. Sheffield?'
'Who else? How did you get hold of these notes?'
'Bribery.'
'Why?'
'I thought at the time that it might be convenient to have them available.'
'For what? More bribery?'
'If legal fees are bribery'.
'I set my own fees,' Sheffield said. He tossed the notes back to Foyle. 'You can produce them again if I decide to take your case and if I decide I've been worth that to you. What's your problem?'
'Don't be too specific yet. And . . .?'
'I want to give myself up.'
'To the police?'
'For what crime?'
'Crimes.'
'Name two.'
'Robbery and rape.'
'Name two more.'
'Blackmail and murder.'
'Any other items?'
'Treason and genocide.'
'Does that exhaust your catalogue?'
'I think so. We may be able to unveil a few more when we get specific.'
'Been busy, haven't you? Either you're the Prince of Villains or insane.'
'I've been both, Mr. Sheffield.'
'Why do you want to give yourself up?'
'I've come to my senses,' Foyle answered bitterly.
'I don't mean that. A criminal never surrenders while he's ahead. You're obviously ahead. What's the reason?'
'The most damnable thing that ever happened to a man. I picked up a rare disease called conscience.'
Sheffield snorted. 'That can often turn fatal.'
'It is fatal. I've realized that I've been behaving like an animal'
'And now you want to purge yourself?'
'No, it isn't that simple,' Foyle said grimly. 'That's why I've come to you.. . for major surgery. The man who upsets the morphology of society is a cancer. The man who gives his own decisions priority over society is a criminal. But there are chain-reactions. Purging yourself with punishment isn't enough. Everything's got to be set right. I wish to God every thing could be cured just by sending me back to Gouffre Martel or shooting me . . . .'
'Back?'
Sheffield cut in keenly.
'Shall I be specific?'
'Not yet. Go on. You sound as though you've got ethical growing pains.'
'That's it exactly.'
Foyle paced in agitation, crumpling the banknotes with nervous fingers. 'This is one hell of a mess, Sheffield. There's a girl that's got to pay for a vicious, rotten crime. The fact that I love her - No, never mind that. She's a cancer that's got to be cut out . . . like me. Which means I'll have to add informing to my catalogue. The fact that I'm giving myself up too doesn't make any difference.'
'What is all this mish-mash?'
Foyle turned on Sheffield. 'One of the New Year's bombs has just walked into your office, and it's saying: "Put it all right Put me together again and send me home. Put together the city I flattened and the people I shattered." That's what I want to hire you for. I don't know how most criminals feel -'
'Sensible, matter-of-fact; like good businessmen who've had bad luck,' Sheffield answered promptly. 'That's the usual attitude of the professional criminal. It's obvious you're an amateur if you're a criminal at all. My dear sir, do be sensible. You come here, extravagantly accusing yourself of robbery, murder, genocide, treason, and God knows what else. D'you expect me to take you seriously?'
Bunny, Sheffield's assistant, jaunted into his private office.
'Chief' he shouted in excitement. 'Something brand new's turned up - A camera-jaunte. Two gimpsters bribed a teller to photograph the interior of Terra Trust and Exchange - Ooop. Sorry. Didn't realize you had -'
Bunny broke off and stared. 'Fourmyle' he exclaimed.
'What? Who? 'Sheffield demanded.
'Don't you know him, Chief?' Bunny stammered. 'That's Fourmyle of Ceres. Gully Foyle.'
More than a year ago, Regis Sheffield had been hypnotically fulminated and triggered for this moment. His body had been prepared to respond without thought, and the response was lightning. Sheffield struck Foyle in half a second; temple, throat and groin. It had been decided not to depend on weapons since none might be available.
Foyle fell. Sheffield turned on Bunny and battered him back the office. Then he spat into his palm. It had been decided not to depend on drugs since drugs might not be available. Sheffield's salivary glands had been prepared to respond with an anaphylaxis secretion to the stimulus. He open Foyle's sleeve, dug a nail deep into the hollow of his elbow and slashed. He pressed his spittle into the ragged cut and pinched the skin together.
A strange cry was torn from Foyle's lips; the tattooing showed livid on his face. Before the stunned assistant could make a move, Sheffield swung Foyle up to his shoulder and jaunted.
He arrived in the middle of the Four-Mile Circus in Old St Pat's. It was a daring but calculated move. This was the last place he would be expected to go, and the first place where he might expect to locate PyrE. He was prepared to deal with anyone he might meet in the Cathedral, but the interior of the Circus was empty.
&nbs
p; The vacant tents ballooning up in the nave looked tattered; they had already been looted. Sheffield plunged into the first he saw. It was Fourmyle's travelling library, filled with hundreds of books and thousands of glittering novel-beads. The Jack-Jaunters were not interested in literature. Sheffield threw Foyle down on the floor. Only then did he take a gun from his pocket.
Foyle's eyelids fluttered; his eyes opened.
'You're drugged,' Sheffield said rapidly. 'Don't try to jaunte. And don't move. I'm warning you. I'm prepared for anything.'
Dazedly, Foyle tried to rise. Sheffield instantly fired and seared his shoulder. Foyle was slammed back against the stone flooring. He was numbed and bewildered. There was a roaring in his ears and a poison coursing through his blood.
'I'm warning you,' Sheffield repeated. 'I'm prepared for anything.
'What do you want?' Foyle whispered.
'Two things. Twenty Pounds of PyrE, and you. You most of all.'
'You lunatic! You damned maniac! I came into your office to give it up . . . hand it over..
'To the O.S.?'
'To the . . . what?'
'The Outer Satellites? Shall I spell it for you?'
'No - ..' Foyle muttered. 'I might have known. The Patriot, Sheffield, an O.S. agent. I should have known. I'm a fool.'
'You're the most valuable fool in the world, Foyle. We want you even more than the PyrE. That's an unknown to us, but we know what you are.'
'What are you talking about?'
'My God! You don't know, do you? You still don't know. You haven't an inkling.'
'Of what?'
'Listen to me,' Sheffield said in a pounding voice. 'I'm taking you back two years to Nomad. Understand? Back to the death of the Nomad. One of our raiders finished her off and they found you aboard the wreck. The last man alive.'
'So an O. S. ship did blast Nomad?'
'Yes. You don't remember?'
'I don't remember anything about that. I never could.'
'I'm telling you why. The raider got a clever idea. They'd turn you into a decoy . . . a sitting duck, understand? You were half-dead, but they took you aboard and patched you up. They put you into a spacesuit and cast you adrift with your micro-wave on. You were broadcasting distress signals and mumbling for help on every wave-band. The idea was, they'd lurk near by and pick up the LP. ships that came to rescue you.'
Foyle began to laugh. 'I'm getting up,' he said recklessly.
'Shoot again, you son of a bitch, but I'm getting up.' He struggled to his feet, clutching his shoulder. ' So Vorga shouldn't have picked me up anyway,' Foyle laughed. 'I was a decoy. Nobody should have come near me. I was a shill, a lure, death-bait . . . Isn't that the first irony. Nomad didn't have any right to be rescued in the first place. I didn't have any right to revenge.'
'You still don't understand,' Sheffield pounded. 'They were nowhere near Nomad when they set you adrift. They were six hundred thousand miles from Nomad.'
'Six hundred thous-'
'Nomad was too far out of the shipping lanes. They wanted you to drift where ships would pass. They took you six hundred thousand miles sunward and set you adrift. They put you through the air-lock and backed off: Watching you drift. Your suit-lights were blinking and you were moaning for help on the micro-wave. Then you disappeared.'
'Disappeared?'
'You were gone. No more lights, no more broadcast. They came back to check. You were gone without a trace. And the next thing we learned . . . you got back aboard Nomad.'
'Impossible.'
'Man, you space-jaunted,' Sheffield said savagely. 'You were patched and delirious, but you space-jaunted. You space-jaunted six hundred thousand miles through the void back to the wreck of the Nomad. You did something that's never been done before. God knows how. You don't even know yourself; but we're going to find out. I'm taking you out to the Satellites with me and we'll get that secret out of you if we have to tear it out' He took Foyle's throat in his powerful hand and hefted the gun in the other. 'But first I want the PyrE. You'll produce it, Foyle. Don't think you won't.'
He lashed Foyle across the forehead with the gun. 'I'll do anything to get it. Don't think I won't'
He smashed Foyle again, coldly, efficiently. 'If you're looking for a purge, man, you've found it'
Bunny leaped off the public jaunte stage at Five-Points and streaked into the main entrance of Central Intelligence's New York office like a frightened rabbit. He shot past the outermost guard cordon, through the protective labyrinth, and into the inner offices. He acquired a train of excited pursuers and found himself face to face with the more seasoned guards who had calmly jaunted to positions ahead of him and were waiting.
Bunny began to shout: 'Yeovil! Yeovil! Yeovil!'
Still running, he dodged around desks, kicked over chairs, and created an incredible uproar. He continued his yelling: 'Yeovil! Yeovil! Yeovil!'
Just before they were about to put him out of his misery, Y'ang-Yeovil appeared.
'What's all this?' he snapped. 'I gave orders that Miss Wednesbury was to have absolute quiet'
'Yeovil!' Bunny shouted.
'Who's that?'
'Sheffield's assistant'
'What . . . Bunny?'
'Foyle!'
Bunny howled. 'Gully Foyle.'
Y'ang-Yeovil covered the fifty feet between them in exactly one-point-six-six seconds. 'What about Foyle?'
'Sheffield's got him,' Bunny gasped.
'Sheffield? When?'
'Half an hour ago.'
'Why didn't he bring him here?'
'Don't know . . . Got an idea . . . May be an O. S. agent . . .'
'Why didn't you come at once?'
'Sheffield jaunted with Foyle . . . Knocked him stiffer'n a mackerel and disappeared. I went looking. All over. Took a chance. Must have made fifty jauntes in twenty minutes. . .'
'Amateur!' Y'ang-Yeovil exclaimed in exasperation. 'Why didn't you leave that to the pros?'
'Found 'em.'
'You found them? Where!'
'Old St Pat's. Sheffield's after the -'
But Y'ang-Yeovil had turned on his heel and was tearing back up the corridor, shouting: 'Robin! Robin! Stop! Stop!'
And then their ears were bruised by the bellow of thunder.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Like widening rings in a pond, the Will and the Idea spread, searching out, touching and tripping the delicate subatomic trigger of PyrE. The thought found particles, dust, smoke, vapor, motes, molecules. The Will and the Idea transformed them all.
In Sicily, where Dott. Franco Torre had worked for an exhausting month attempting to unlock the secret of one slug of PyrE, the residues and the precipitates had been dumped down a drain which led to the sea. For many months the Mediterranean current had drifted these residues across the sea-bottom. In an instant a hump-backed mound of water towering fifty feet high traced the courses, northeast to Sardinia and south-west to Tripoli. In a micro-second the surface of the Mediterranean was raised into the twisted casting of a giant earthworm that wound around the islands of Pantelleria, Lampedusa, Linosa and Malta.
Some of the residues had been burned off; had gone up the chimney with smoke and vapor to drift for hundreds of miles before settling. These minute particles showed where they had finally settled in Morocco, Algeria, Libya and Greece with blinding pin-point explosions of incredible minuteness and intensity. And some motes, still drifting in the stratosphere, revealed their presence with brilliant gleams like daylight stars.
In Texas, where Prof John Mantley had had the same baffling experience with PyrE, most of the residues had gone down the shaft of an exhausted oil well, which was also used to accommodate radioactive wastes. A deep water table had absorbed much of the matter and spread it slowly over an area of some ten square miles. Ten square miles of Texas flats shook themselves into corduroy. A vast untapped deposit of natural gas at last found a vent and came shrieking up to the surface where sparks from flying stones ignited it into a roaring torc
h, two hundred feet high.
A milligram of PyrE deposited on a disc of filter paper long since discarded, forgotten, rounded up in a waste paper drive and at last pulped into a mould for type-metal, destroyed the entire late-night edition of the Glasgow Observer. A fragment of PyrE spattered on a lab smock long since converted into rag paper destroyed a Thank-You note written by Lady Shrapnel, and destroyed an additional ton of first-class mail in the process.
A shirt cuff, inadvertently dipped into an acid solution of PyrE, long abandoned along with the shirt, and now worn under his mink suit by a Jack-Jaunter, blasted off the wrist and hand of the Jack-Jaunter in one fiery amputation. A deci-milligram of PyrE, still adhering to a former evaporation crystal now in use as an ashtray, kindled a fire that scorched the office of one Baker, dealer in freaks and purveyor of monsters.
Across the length and breadth of the planet were isolated explosions, chains of explosions, traceries of fire, pin-points of fire, meteor flares in the sky, great craters and narrow channels, ploughed in the earth, exploded in the earth, vomited forth from the earth. It was as though an angry God had again visited His people with fire and brimstone.
In Old St Pat's nearly a tenth of a gram of PyrE was exposed in Fourmyle's laboratory. The rest was sealed in its Inert Lead Isomer safe, protected from accidental and intentional psychokinetic ignition. The blinding blast of energy generated from that tenth of a gram blew out the walls and split the floors as though an internal earthquake had convulsed the building. The buttresses held the pillars for a split-second and then rumbled. Down came towers, spires, pillars, buttresses and roof in a thundering avalanche to hesitate above the yawning crater of the floor in a tangled, precarious equilibrium. A breath of wind, a distant vibration, and the collapse would continue until the crater was filled solid with pulverized rubble. The star-like heat of the explosion ignited a hundred fires and melted the ancient thick copper of the collapsed roof. If a milligram more of PyrE had been exposed to detonation, the heat would have been intense enough to vaporize the metal immediately. Instead, it glowed white and began to flow. It streamed off the wreckage of the crumbled roof and began searching its way downward through the jumbled stone, iron, wood and glass, like some monstrous molten mould creeping through a tangled web.
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