"All the same," Verrick rumbled, "this chance business deposes a man for no reason and elevates an ass, a crackpot, picked at random, without regard to ability or class."
"Our whole system is built on Minimax. Everybody is compelled to play a Minimax game or be squashed; we're forced to give up deception and adopt a rational procedure."
"There's nothing rational in chance," Verrick answered angrily.
"The chance factor is a function of an overall rational pattern. In the face of random changes, no administrator can be a schemer. Everybody is forced to adopt a randomized reasoning: analysis of the possibilities of certain events tempered by the assumption that any machinations will be found out in advance."
"So we're a bunch of superstitious fools?" Verrick complained. "Everybody trying to read signs and harbingers. Two-headed calves and flocks of white crows! Dependent on chance, we're losing control because we can't plan."
"How can you plan with telepaths around? They find out every move."
Verrick pointed to his great barrel chest. "There are no charms hanging round by neck. I play a game of skill, not chance. What about Pellig—that's strategy, isn't it?"
"Strategy involves deception and with Pellig nobody is going to be deceived."
"Absurd!" Verrick growled. "You've been knocking yourself out keeping the Corps from knowing about Pellig."
"That was your idea." Moore flushed angrily. "I said then, and I say now: let them all know because there's nothing they can do. If I had my way I'd announce it over television tomorrow."
"You fool," Verrick rasped, "you certainly would!"
"Pellig is unbeatable." Moore was furious at being humiliated in front of everybody. "We've combined the essence of Minimax. Taking the bottle twitch as my starting point I've evolved a———"
"Shut up, Moore," Verrick muttered, moving a few steps away; people hurriedly stepped aside for him. "This chance stuff has got to go. You can't plan anything with it hanging over your head."
"That's why we have it!" Moore shouted after him.
"Then get rid of it."
"Minimax isn't something you turn on and off. It's like gravity; it's a law, a pragmatic law."
Benteley had moved over to listen. "You believe in natural law?" he asked.
"Who's this fellow?" Moore snarled, glaring furiously at Benteley. "What's his idea in butting in?"
Verrick swelled another foot taller. "This is Ted Benteley. Class eight-eight, same as you. We recently took him on."
Moore blanched. "Eight-eight! We don't need any more eight-eights!" His face became an ugly yellow. "Benteley? You're one of the Oiseau-Lyre throw-outs."
"That's right," Benteley said evenly. "And I came straight here."
"Why?"
"I'm interested in what you're doing."
"What I'm doing is none of your business!"
Verrick said hoarsely to Moore: "Shut up or get out. Benteley's working with you from now on, whether you like it or not."
"Nobody gets into the project but me!" Hatred, fear, and professional jealousy blazed on Moore's face. "If he can't hang on at a third-rate Hill like Oiseau-Lyre he isn't good enough to———"
"We'll see," Benteley said coolly. "I'm itching to get my hands on your notes and papers. I'll enjoy going over your work,"
"I want a drink," Verrick muttered.
Moore shot Benteley a last glance of resentment and then hurried after Verrick. Their voices trailed off as a door was slammed. The crowd of people shifted and began to murmur wearily and break apart.
With a shade of bitterness Eleanor said: "Well, there goes our host. Quite a party, wasn't it?"
Benteley's head had begun to ache. His eyes hurt from the glare of the overhead lights. A man pushing by had jabbed him hard in the ribs. Leaning against the wall, a young woman was removing her sandals and rubbing her red-nailed toes.
"What do you want?" Eleanor asked him.
"I want to leave."
She led him expertly through the drifting groups of people towards one of the exits—sipping her drink as she walked.
Herb Moore blocked their way. His face was a dark, unhealthy red. With him was the pale, silent Keith Pellig.
"Here you are," Moore muttered thickly, teetering unsteadily, his glass sloshing over. He slapped Pellig on the back. "This is the most important person alive. Feast your eyes, Benteley."
Pellig said nothing. He gazed impassively at Benteley and Eleanor, his thin body relaxed and supple. There was almost no colour about him. His eyes, his hair, his skin, even his nails, were bleached and translucent.
Benteley put out his hand; Pellig shook it. His hand was cool and faintly moist.
Benteley gazed at Pellig with dulled fascination. There was something repellent about the listless, slender shape. A sexless, juiceless, hermaphroditic quality.
"You're not drinking," Benteley's voice rolled out.
Pellig shook his head.
"Why not? Have some methane gale." Benteley fumbled a glass from the tray of a passing MacMillan robot.
Benteley thrust the glass at Pellig. "Eat, drink and be merry. Tomorrow somebody, certainly not you, will die. Pellig, how does it feel to be a professional killer? You don't look like one. You don't look like anything at all, not even a man."
Eleanor tugged furiously at his arm. "Ted, Verrick's coming?"
"Let go!" Benteley broke loose and gazed at the vacant face of Keith Pellig. "Pellig, how will it feel to murder a man you've never seen, a man who never did anything to you? A harmless crank, accidentally in the way of a lot of big people..."
Moore interrupted in a mumble of resentment. "You mean to imply there's something wrong with Pellig?"
Verrick appeared from the side room, pushing people out of his way. "Moore, take Pellig out of here." He waved the group of people brusquely towards the double doors. "The party's over. Get going! You'll be contacted when you're needed."
Verrick started for the wide staircase, his shaggy head turned to one side. "I'm going to bed."
Balancing himself carefully, Benteley said clearly after him: "Look here, Verrick, why don't you murder Cartwright yourself? Eliminate the middle-man. More scientific."
Verrick snorted with unexpected laughter and kept on his way. "I'll talk to you tomorrow," he said over his shoulder. "Go home and get some sleep."
"I'm not going home," Benteley said stubbornly. "I came here to learn what the strategy is, and I'm staying until I learn it."
At the first step Verrick halted and turned. There was a queer look on his massive face.
Benteley closed his eyes and stood with his feet apart, balancing himself as the room tilted and shifted. When he looked again Verrick had gone up the stairs and Eleanor Stevens was pulling frantically at his arm.
"You damn fool!" she shrilled. "What's the matter?"
She led him into a side room, closed the door, shakily lit a cigarette and stood puffing furiously. "Benteley, you're a lunatic."
"I'm drunk. This Callistoan beetle-juice..."
She pushed him down in a chair and paced in a jerky little circle in front of him, taut as a marionette on a wire.
Benteley gazed up at her without comprehension until she had hold of herself again and was dabbing miserably at her swollen eyes. "Can I do something?" he asked.
Eleanor found a decanter of cold water on a low table in the shadows. She emptied a shallow dish of sweets and filled it with water. Very rapidly she doused her face, hands and arms, then yanked down an embroidered cloth from the window and dried herself.