Benteley got slowly to his feet. "Laura, I have to get going."
Al rose in amazement. "Why?"
"I have to collect my things from Oiseau-Lyre."
Al thumped him on the shoulder. "You're one of Verrick's serfs now; give the Hill traffic office a call and they'll arrange it."
"I'd rather do it myself," Benteley said.
"Why?" Laura asked, surprised.
"Less things get broken," Benteley evaded.
Al went on: "You'd better get your stuff here as soon as possible. Sometimes Verrick wants a person quickly, and when he wants you quickly———"
"The hell with Verrick!" Benteley snapped.
Their shocked looks followed him as he moved from the table.
"... more than ten thousand already, from all parts of Earth. Judge Waring's announcement that the first assassin will be chosen at this session——"
Al whistled appreciatively. "Verrick doesn't waste any time."
Benteley crouched down and snapped the television off. The sounds and images faded as he rose to his feet.
"You mind?" he asked. "I'm tired of the Convention and everything about it."
"It won't be for a time, anyhow," Al said, seeking to smooth things out. "They're still testing equipment."
"I went to Batavia expecting to get in on something big," Benteley continued. "Something beyond people grabbing for power, struggling to get to the top of the heap over each other's dead bodies."
Al Davis extended a chubby finger.
"Reese Verrick will be back in the number One spot inside a week. His money picks the assassin. The assassin is under fealty to him. When he kills this Cartwright person the limelight returns to Verrick. Wait a week, man. It'll be back the way it was."
Laura appeared at the doorway, her face flooded with peevish anxiety. "Al, couldn't we get the Convention? I can hear Judy Klein's set down the hall and they're choosing the assassin now!"
"I'll turn it on," Benteley said wearily. "I'm going, anyhow." He snapped on the power and as he moved towards the front door a thick voice swelled from the speakers out into the room.
"Oh, heavens!" Laura moaned, "it's that Sam Oster. Turn him off and get the Convention!"
Benteley closed the door, and with the grumble of Oster's voice still in his ears plunged down the dark path.
Sitting at his desk, his script gripped in his beefy, thick-fingered hands, his bull-neck jutting forward, his square face set in a rigid block, Sam Oster addressed his invisible audience with great care, picking each word with studied precision and letting it grind out harshly and methodically.
The engineers monitoring the transmission were following the Convention on another channel.
Oster clutched his script convulsively and read on. Sweat rolled down the gulleys of his flat, broken nose, down to his cracked lips and stubbled chin. Breathing hoarsely, he finished his speech and lay back exhausted as the indifferent engineers switched to the next programme.
He had ceased recording. A chance observation had disclosed that the ipvic technicians were speeding up the tape slightly, turning his angry words into the squeaks of a mechanical gnome and his gestures into the twitches of a puppet.
He got to his feet and snatched up the dispatches from the newsmachines that had come in during his speech. He scanned them and then headed at a shambling gait for the sound-proof ipvic booth. A few moments later he was facing Leon Cartwright on a closed-circuit connection.
"This is late to call you," he said, "but I———"
"Wait!" Cartwright cut him off. His face was pale and drawn; dark circles were round his eyes. "I don't trust these ipvic lines. I'm having Tate—President of IPVIC— investigated. He may be tied with Verrick in some way."
"Ipvic is a monopoly. If you don't use its lines you can't get your signal relayed to the ship." Oster ran his heavy hands along the so-called 'guarantee' meters; they alleged that the signal was not being tapped at any point. "And you have to keep in contact with the ship."
"I'm waiting as long as possible." Cartwright saw the wad of newstapes in Oster's fist. "What have you to tell me? I know you get first crack at the reports."
"Just one thing. It came over a few seconds ago; soon it'll be screeched from the public machines."
Cartwright's expression didn't change, but his knuckles whitened and he began rubbing his hands together as if to warm them. "They didn't waste any time."
Oster unrolled the tape. "His name is Keith Pellig."
"I've never heard of him."
"Me, neither. Strange; I've kept myself well posted on top-level material. But he must be something or Verrick wouldn't risk a million dollars on him." Savagely, Oster slammed the newstapes down. "Well, he's on his way. Get your Corps ready."
"Keith Pellig," Cartwright murmured.
"That's the assassin. The man who's going to kill you in cold blood."
Chapter V
The burnished wisp of grey slid silently in front of Ted Benteley. Its doors rolled back and a slim shape stepped out into darkness.
"Who is it?" Benteley demanded. Wind lashed through the moist foliage on the Davis house. Far-off sounds of activity echoed hollowly, and the Chemie Hill factories boomed dully.
"Where in God's name have you been?" a girl's clipped, anxious contralto asked. "Verrick sent for you an hour ago."
"I was here," Benteley answered.
Eleanor Stevens emerged quickly from the shadows. "You should have kept in touch when the ship landed. He's furious." She glanced nervously around. "Where's Davis? Inside?"
"Of course. What's all this about?"
"Don't get excited." The girl's voice was as taut as the frozen stars shining overhead. "Go back and get Davis and his wife. I'll wait in the car."
Al Davis gaped in amazement as he pushed open the front door and entered the room. "He wants us," Benteley said. "Tell Laura; he wants her, too."
Laura was sitting on the edge of the bed, unstrapping her sandals. She quickly smoothed her slacks down over her ankles as Al entered the bedroom. "Come on, honey," Al bade his wife.
"Is something wrong?" Laura leaped quickly up.
The three of them moved out into the chill night. Eleanor started up the car and rolled the doors shut; the car glided out on to the road and instantly gained speed. Dark houses and trees flashed past. Abruptly, with a sickening whoosh, the car rose above the pavement. It skimmed briefly, then arced high over a row of tension cables. A few minutes later it was gaining altitude over the sprawling mass of buildings and streets that made up the parasitic clusters round the Chemie Hill.
"What's this all about?" Benteley demanded. The car shuddered as magnetic grapple-beams caught it and lowered it towards the winking buildings below. "We have a right to know something."
"We're going to have a party," Eleanor said, with a smile that barely moved her lips. She allowed the car to come to rest against a magnetic disc; then she cut the power and threw open the doors. "Get out. We're here."
Their heels clattered in the deserted corridor as Eleanor led them from one level to the next. A few silent uniformed guards stood at regular intervals, their faces sleepy and impassive.
Eleanor waved open a double-sealed door and nodded them briskly inside. Fragrant air greeted them as they pushed uncertainly past her.
Reese Verrick stood with his back to them. He was fumbling angrily with something, his massive arms moving in rage.
"How the hell do you work this thing?" he bellowed. There came a protesting shriek of torn metal. "Damn, I think I've broken it."