“Little that is definite—much indefinite, unproven,” was the sober answer. “However… well, at risk of boring you with what you already know, I’m going to think out loud for a bit. This constant feeling of having to be on guard against telepathy,” Duke Harald added wryly, “is more than a trifle wearying. Or do I need to tell you that?”
“No,” said the other, sipping his brandy. “Think away.”
“Right. First, then, the aliens. We are agreed that to settle that problem Arkady needs both telepathy and a unified royal government. The present Council of Peers is too unwieldy and too divided to function effectively in any all-out war.”
“Agreed.”
“However, the only candidate for the crown who would have a chance of gaining solid majority support in the Council—thus avoiding civil war—must be able to convince the other peers that he can do what they cannot. The esper skill could supply that conviction.
“And, finally, Terra is the only human world where such skills can be learned. Unfortunately, the minimum training • period is two years. And, Council politics being what they are, our so-far hypothetical aspirant to the throne would be bold indeed to absent himself from Arkady for more than two or three months, at most.”
“Yet you are here.”
“Aye, I am here. Because of a rumor, a report—furnished initially by you—that the long training course demanded by the Terran adepts is unnecessary. That it is a screen, designed to cover Terra’s secret monopoly of certain drugs, hormones or what-have-you, which are the real and only road to esper power.”
Duke Harald paused and leaned forward in his chair.
“So,” he went on, “I decided I could gamble a few months absence from Arkady, to check that story in the only place where it can be checked. Inside the Esper Institute itself.”
“And?”
“And I have found certain curious, but on the surface negative evidence. For example; only today one of the senior Terran students, who is due to stand his vigil shortly, joked with me about something he called TPH. And then proceeded to explain it away as a sort of planetary myth, which no one should take seriously. That,” said Duke Harald, “is a tale which I have run into at least twice before, in almost the same terms.”
“Still—” Count Godfrey sounded doubtful.
“Oh, it’s slim enough, I admit. However—” Duke Harald’s voice trailed off. He rose to his feet and crossed to the long polished table where he had placed his military crossbelt. From the pouch he extracted the small wire-wound spool.
“Have you a playback that will handle this?”
“In the desk yonder.” The old ambassador nodded to the corner of the room. “Second drawer on the right—it’s built in.”
“Good.” Duke Harald strode over and began to insert the spool. “This,” he said, fingers busy threading wire between magnets, “may hold the answer—I hope. There, that does it.”
He straightened. Finger on the starting button, he paused and glanced around the quiet, spacious room.
“Three days ago,” he said, “I at last managed to conceal the transmitting unit of a Sonotec in the inner office of my course tutor, Master Elwyn. I delayed this long, I might add, mainly because I had to test unobtrusively the truth of something I heard when I enrolled. That the esper Prime Rule—the Rule of Privacy—extends to students as well as to outsiders; that no one’s thoughts will be invaded by an adept, save by prior voluntary consent.
“Well, then, I planted the Sonotec. The receiver and recorder I had given already to one of your best agents—who, by the way, must, be rewarded—so that if, by chance, the microbeam should be detected, it would not point to one of us directly. And tonight, your agent passed me this—a three-day record of Master Elwyn’s most secret conferences.”
“Does he—the agent, that is—know what’s on that wire?”
“Well, hardly.” Duke Harald looked quizzically at his old friend. “D’you think I’m that new at the game? No, the stuff went out—and was recorded—scrambled. My own code, too. I’ve set it up on your unit, so we’ll hear it in clear. That is,” he added with a grin, “if you feel up to it. It may well be an all-night job, even running it at fast scan.”
“Humph!” The old count, who had been leaning back with half-shut eyes, snorted and sat bolt upright. “It won’t be the first time I’ve missed a night’s sleep. Nor, I hope, the last.” He poured fresh brandy, turned on a waiting coffee maker and, thus prepared, settled back and closed his eyes once more. “Turn on your Master Elwyn; let’s hear what he has to say.”
It was a difficult wire to listen to; and most oddly garbled at times. In addition to the distortion inevitable to the use of pick-up elements measurable in millimeters, and the further loss of information imposed by the scrambling circuits, there were periods of peculiar fade-out, when the recorded voices dropped away to mere whispers despite all that the automatic volume control could do, and the talkers sounded as though their voices were filled with thin mush.
“An added precaution against them tracing the beam, if they do detect it,” said Duke Harald softly in explanation. “The receiver and recorder are portable; built into a brief case. Its location is shifted at least once an hour, following a random pattern.”
Time wore on. Time during which the coffee cups were emptied and refilled and emptied again; time during which only the sharp rustling of papers, or Master Elwyn’s voice discussing matters of pure and unimportant routine, reached the ears of the intently listening Arkadians. Duke Harald began to frown. And then, just as the little spool was beginning to show traces of empty core, it came.
“…Should know, as a senior, that the esper drug is not a subject for idle jests,” Master Elwyn’s voice came through with sudden clarity. “Not, certainly, where an outspacer is concerned.”
“Your pardon, master,” said a voice that Duke Harald recognized as belonging to his Terran acquaintance, Melton. “But I assumed… I believed, rather, just what I told our Arkadian friend. That TPH was nothing but a story.”
“In a sense, you were right. In another sense, however, the drug is… but hold! That would seem to be my call.”
The Arkadians could hear in the background a soft musical ringing; followed by a lengthy spell of silence.
“What’s wrong?” Count Godfrey asked in a whisper. “Did your transmitter go out? Now, of all times?”
“No—the carrier’s still on. Hear it?” There was a faint hissing sound coming from the machine, punctuated at that moment by a startling twang. “And that,” said Duke Harald, with a wry smile for his own momentary startle, “is Melton, getting restless. The only place I could hide the Sonotec was behind a leg of the visitor’s chair. And it sounds as though the springs creak!
“By the galaxy, I don’t know… yes, I do! Master Elwyn’s en rapport with another adept. They don’t use voice between themselves, you know.”
“Now, Melton,” the adept’s voice came in again, slowly and deliberately, “as I was saying, in a sense you are right. However, and in view of the fact that your initiation into the Esper Guild is almost upon you—your vigil is set for tomorrow night—there are some things that you now should know. To which end, I would suggest that you study these—”
An abrupt and thunderous crashing from the speaker, and all sound went out; even to the thin hiss of the carrier. The two noble conspirators stared at each other with a wild surprise. And Duke Harald reached out to cut the playback. Suddenly the speaker burst into a senseless gabble.
“What? Oh, sure,” said Duke Harald, and he deftly changed the scramble setting.
“Your grace,” a voice was saying, in purest Arkadian accents, “the Sonotec transmission went out at 0435 hours. From the nature of the readings at the time of the break, destruction of the sender is most likely. I shall try to pass this spool to you at the assigned time and place. I am now abandoning this location.”