"Told you? Did they have to tell you? What else would they be so busy at?"
Chandler hesitated, staring around. The words had been actually frightening. And yet, and yet, he realized, he had been sure within himself that the project he was working on was something very like that. A duplicate of the controlling machine. And that meant ...
A tail, thin, bearded man was moving forward, staring at Chandler angrily. He said dangerously, "You don't seem too reliable, friend. Which side are you on?" Chandler shrugged. "Why, yours, of course, I guess. I mean"
"You guess, hub?" The man nodded, then leaned forward and peered furiously into Chandler's face. "Look at his head!" he cried, his face only inches away from Chandler's own. "Don't you see? He's branded!"
Chandler fell back, touching his scar. The man followed. "Damned Hoaxer! Look at him! The lowest species of life on the face of the earth, someone who pretended to be possessed in order to do some damned dirty act. What was it, hoaxer? Murder? Burning babies alive?"
Hsi economically let go of Chandler's shoulder, half turned the bearded man with one hand and swung with the other, knocking him down. "Shut up, Linton. Wait till you hear what he's got for us."
The bearded man, sprawling and groggy, slowly rose as Hsi explained tersely what he had guessed of Chandler's Work, as much as Chandler himself knew, it seemed.
"Maybe this is only a duplicate. Maybe it won't be used. But maybe it will, and Chandler's the man who can sabotage it! How would you like that? The Exec switching over to this equipment while the other one is down for maintenance, and their headsets don't work!"
"There was a terrible silence, except for the sounds of the children playing ball. Two runs had just scored. Chandler recognized the silence. It was hope.
Linton broke it, his blue eyes gleaming above the beard. "No! Better than that. Why wait? We can use this fellow's machine. Set it up, get us some headsets, and we can control the Execs themselves!"
The silence was even longer; then there was a babble of discussion, but Chandler did not take part in it. He was thinking. It was a tremendous thought.
Suppose a man like himself were actually able to do what they wanted of him. Never mind the practical difficulties, learning how it worked, getting a headset, bypassing the traps Koitska would surely have set to prevent just that. Never mind the penalties for failure. Suppose he could make it work, and find fifty headsets, and fit them to the fifty men and women here in this clandestine meeting of The Society of Slaves . Would there, after all, be any change worth mentioning in the state of the world?
Or was Lord Acton, always and everywhere, right? Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. The power locked in the coronets of the Exec was more than flesh and blood could stand; he could almost sense the rot in those near him at the mere thought.
But Hsi was throwing cold water on the idea. "Sorry, but I know that much: One exec can't control another. The headpieces insulate against control. Well." He glanced at his watch. "We agreed on twenty minutes maximum for this meeting," he reminded the red-headed man, who nodded.
"You're right." He glanced around the group. "I'll make the rest of it fast. News: You all know they got some more of us last week. Have you all been by the Monument? Three of our comrades were still there this morning.
But I don't think they know we're organized, they think it's only individual acts of sabotage. In case any of you don't know, the execs can't read our minds. Not even when they're controlling us. Proof is we're all still alive. Hanrahan knew practically every one of us, and he's been lying out there for a week with a broken back, ever since they caught him trying to blow up the guard pits at East Gate. They had plenty of chance to pump him if they could. They can't. Next thing. No more individual attacks on one exec. Not unless it's a matter of life and death, and even then you're wasting your time unless you've got a gun. They can grab your mind faster than you can cut a throat. Third thing: Don't get the idea there are good execs and bad execs. Once they put that thing on their heads they're all the same. Fourth thing. You can't make deals. They aren't that worried. So if anybody's thinking of selling out, I'm not saying anyone is, forget it." He looked around. "Anything else?" "What about germ warfare in the water supply?" somebody ventured.
"Still looking into it. No report yet. All right, that's enough for now. Meeting's adjourned. Watch the ball game for a while, then drift away. One at a time."
Hsi was the first to go, then a couple of women, together, then a sprinkling of other men. Chandler, still numbed by the possibility that had opened before him, was in no particular hurry, although it seemed time to leave anyway.
The ball game appeared to be over. A ten-year-old with freckles on his face was at the plate, but he was leaning on his bat, staring at Chandler with wide, serious eyes. Chandler felt a sudden chill.
He turned, began to walk away, and felt himself seized. He walked slowly into the schoolhouse, unable to look around. Behind him he heard a confused sob, tears and a child's voice trying to blubber through: "Something funny happened."
If the child had been an adult it might have been warning enough. But the child had never experienced possession before, was not sure enough, was not clear enough. Chandler was clear into the schoolhouse before the remaining members of The Society of Slaves awoke to their danger. He heard a quick cry of 'They got him'. Then Chandler's legs stopped walking and he addressed himself savagely. A few yards away a stout Chinese lady was mopping the tiles; she looked up at him, startled, but no more startled than Chandler was himself. "You idiot!" Chandler blazed. "Why do you have to get mixed up in this? Don't you know it's wrong, love? Stay here!" Chandler commanded himself. "Don't you dare leave this building!"
And he was free again, but there was a sudden burst of screams from outside.
Bewildered, Chandler stood for a moment, as little able to move as though the girl still had him under control. Then he leaped through a classroom to a window, staring. Outside in the playground there was wild confusion. Half the spectators were on the ground, trying to rise. As he watched, a teen-age boy hurled himself at an elderly lady, the two of them falling. Another man flung himself to the ground. A woman swung her pocketbook into the face of the man next to her. One of the fallen ones rose, only to trip himself again. It was a mad spectacle, but Chandler understood it: What he was watching was a single member of the execs trying to keep a group of twenty ordinary, unarmed human beings in line. The exec was leaping from mind to mind; even so, the crowd was beginning to scatter.
Without thought Chandler started to leap out to help them; but the possessor had anticipated that. He was caught at the door. He whirled and ran toward the woman with the mop; as he was released, the woman flung herself upon him, knocking him down.
By the time he was able to get up again it was far too late to help... if there ever had been a time when he could have helped.
He heard shots. Two policemen had come running into the playground, guns drawn.
The exec who had looked at him out of the boy's eyes, who had penetrated this nest of enemies and extricated Chandler from it, had taken first things first. Help had been summoned. Quick as the coronets worked, it was no time at all until the nearest persons with weapons were located, commandeered and in action.
Two minutes later there no longer was resistance. Obviously more execs had come to help, attracted by the commotion perhaps, or summoned at some stolen moment after the meeting had first been invaded. There were only five survivors on the field. Each was clearly controlled. They rose and stood patiently while the two police shot them, shot them, paused to reload and shot again. The last to die was the bearded man, Linton, and as he fell his eyes brushed Chandler's.