The Stars My Destination Page 5

  At the concrete building marked: ENTRY, the Presteign entourage stopped before a sign that read: YOU ARE ENDANGERING YOUR LIFE IF YOU ENTER THESE PREMISES UNLAWFULLY. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! Visitor badges were distributed to the party, and even Presteign of Presteign received a badge. He dutifully pinned it on for he well knew what the result of entry without such a protective badge would be. The entourage continued, winding its way through pits until it arrived at O-3 where the pit-mouth was decorated with bunting in the Presteign colors, and a small grandstand had been erected.

  Presteign was welcomed and, in turn, greeted his various officials. The Presteign band struck up tie clan song, bright and brassy, but one of the instruments appeared to have gone insane. It struck a brazen note that blared louder and louder until it engulfed the entire band and the surprised exclamations. Only then did Presteign realize that it was not an instrument sounding, but the shipyard alarm.

  An intruder was in the yard, someone not wearing an identification or visitor's badge. The radar field of the protection system was tripped and the alarm sounded. Through the raucous bellow of the alarm, Presteign could hear a multitude of 'Pops' as the yard guards jaunted from the grandstand and took positions around the square mile of concrete field. His own Jaunte-Watch closed in around him, looking wary and alert.

  A voice began blaring on the P.A., co-ordinating defense.

  'UNKNOWN IN YARD. UNKNOWN IN YARD AT E FOR EDWARD NINE. B FOR EDWARD NINE MOVING WEST ON FOOT.'

  'Someone must have broken in,' Black Rod shouted.

  'I'm aware of that,' Presteign answered calmly.

  'He must be a stranger if he's not jaunting in here.'

  'I am aware of that also.'

  'UNKNOWN APPROACHING D FOR DAVID FIVE. D FOR DAVID FIVE. STILL ON FOOT. D FOR DAVID FIVE ALERT.'

  'What in God's name is he up to?' Black Rod exclaimed.

  'You are aware of my rule, sir,' Presteign said coldly. 'No associate of the Presteign clan may take the name of the Divinity in vain. You forget yourself.'

  'UNKNOWN NOW APPROACHING C FOR CHARLEY FIVE. NOW APPROACHING C FOR CHARLEY FIVE.'

  Black Rod touched Presteign's arm. 'He's coming this way, Presteign. Will you take cover, please?'

  'I will not.'

  'Presteign, there have been assassination attempts before. Three of them. If -'

  'How do I get to the top of this stand?'

  'Presteign!'

  'Help me up.' Aided by Black Rod, still protesting hysterically, Presteign climbed to the top of the grandstand to watch the power of the Presteign clan in action against danger. Below he could see workmen in white jumpers swarming out of the pits to watch the excitement. Guards were appearing as they jaunted from distant sectors towards the focal point of the action.

  'UNKNOWN MOVING SOUTH TOWARDS B FOR BARER THREE. B FOR BARER THREE.'

  Presteign watched the B-3 pit. A figure appeared, dashing swiftly towards the pit, veering, dodging, bulling forward. It was a giant man in hospital blues with a wild thatch of black hair and a distorted face that appeared, in the distance, to be painted in livid colors. His clothes were streaming smoke as the protective induction field of the defense system heated him to burning, and the bright glimmer of flames appeared at his neck, elbows and knees.

  'B FOR BARER THREE ALERT. B FOB BARER THREE CLOSE IN.' There were shouts and a distant rattle of shots; the pneumatic whine of scope guns. Half a dozen workmen in white leaped for the intruder. He scattered them like nine-pins and drove on and on towards B-3 where the nose of Vorga showed. His clothes burst into flame and he was a firebrand driving through workmen and guards, pivoting, bludgeoning, boring forward implacably.

  Suddenly he stopped, reached inside his flaming jacket and withdrew a black canister. With the convulsive gesture of an animal writhing in death-throes, he bit the end of the canister and hurled it, straight and true on a high arc towards Vorga. The next instant he was struck down.

  'EXPLOSIVE. TAKE COVER. EXPLOSIVE. TAKE COVER. COVER.'

  'Presteign!' Black Rod squawked.

  Presteign shook him off and watched the canister curve up and then down towards the nose of Vorga, spinning and glinting in the cold sunlight. At the edge of the pit it was caught by the anti-grav beam and flicked upwards as by a giant invisible thumbnail. Up and up it whirled, fifty, seventy, a hundred feet. Then there was a blinding flash, and an instant later a titanic clap of thunder that smote ears and jarred teeth and bone.

  Presteign picked himself up and descended the grandstand to the launching podium. He placed his finger on the launching button of the Presteign Princess.

  'Bring me that man, if he's still alive,' he said to Black Rod. He pressed the button. 'I christen thee . . . the Presteign Power,' he called in triumph.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The star chamber in Castle Presteign was an oval room with ivory panels picked out with gold, high mirrors and stained glass windows. It contained a gold organ and robot organist by Tiffany, a gold-tooled library with android librarian on library ladder, a Louis Quinze desk with android secretary before a manual memo-bead recorder, an American bar with robot bartender. Presteign would have preferred human servants, but androids and robots kept secrets.

  'Be seated, Captain Yeovil,' he said courteously. 'This is Mr. Regis Sheffield, representing me in this matter. That young man is Mr. Sheffield's assistant!

  'Bunny's my portable law library,' Sheffield grunted.

  Presteign touched a control. The still-life in the star chamber came alive. The organist played, the librarian sorted books, the secretary typed, the bartender shook drinks. It was spectacular; and the impact, carefully calculated by industrial psychometrists, established control for Presteign and put visitors at a disadvantage.

  'You spoke of a man named Foyle, Captain Yeovil?' Presteign prompted.

  Captain Peter Y'ang-Yeovil of Central Intelligence was a lineal descendant of the learned Mencius and belonged to the Intelligence Tong of the Inner Planets Armed Forces. For two hundred years the I.P.A.F. had entrusted its intelligence work to the Chinese who, with a five thousand-year history of cultivated subtlety behind them, had achieved wonders. Captain Y'ang-Yeovil was a member of the dreaded Society of Paper Men, an adept of the Tientsin Image Makers, A Master of Superstition, and fluent in Secret Speech. He did not look Chinese.

  Y'ang-Yeovil hesitated, fully aware of the psychological pressures operating against him. He examined Presteign's ascetic, basilisk face; Sheffield's blunt, aggressive expression; and the eager young man named Bunny whose rabbit features had an unmistakable Oriental cast. It was necessary for Yeovil to re-establish control or effect a compromise.

  He opened with a flanking movement. 'Are we related anywhere within fifteen degrees of consanguinity?' he asked Bunny in the Mandarin dialect. 'I am of the house of the learned Meng-Tse whom the barbarians call Mencius!

  'Then we are hereditary enemies,' Bunny answered in faltering Mandarin. 'For the formidable ancestor of my line was deposed as governor of Shan-tong in 342 B.C. by the earth-pig Meng-Tse.'

  'With all courtesy I shave your ill-formed eyebrows,' Y'ang-Yeovil said.

  'Most respectfully I singe your snaggle teeth,' Bunny laughed.

  'Come, sirs,' Presteign protested.

  'We are reaffirming a three-thousand-year blood feud,' Y'ang-Yeovil explained to Presteign who looked sufficiently unsettled by the conversation and the laughter which he did not understand. He tried a direct thrust. 'When will you be finished with Foyle?' he asked.

  'What Foyle?' Sheffield cut in.

  'What Foyle have you got?'

  'There are thirteen of that name associated with the clan Presteign.'

  'An interesting number. Did you know I was a Master of Superstition? Some day I must show you the Mirror-And Listen Mystery. I refer to the Foyle involved in a reported attempt on Mr. Presteign's life this morning.'

  'Presteign,' Presteign corrected. '

  I am not "Mister". I am Presteign of Presteign.' 'Three attemp
ts have been made on Presteign's life,' Sheffield said. 'You'll have to be more specific.'

  'Three this morning? Presteign must have been busy.' Y'ang-Yeovil sighed. Sheffield was proving himself a resolute opponent. The intelligence man tried another diversion. 'I do wish our Mr. Presto had been more specific.'

  'Your Mr. Presto!' Presteign exclaimed.

  'Oh yes. Didn't you know one of your five hundred Prestos was an agent of ours? That's odd. We took it for granted you'd find out and went ahead with a confusion operation.' Presteign looked appalled.

  Y'ang-Yeovil crossed his legs and continued to chat breezily. 'That's the basic weakness in routine intelligence procedure; you start finessing before finesse is required.'

  'He's bluffing,' Presteign burst out. 'None of Our Prestos could possibly have any knowledge of Gulliver Foyle.'

  'Thank you,' Y'ang-Yeovil smiled. 'That's the Foyle I want. When can you let us have him?'

  Sheffield scowled at Presteign and then turned on Y'ang-Yeovil. 'Who's "us"?' he demanded.

  'Central Intelligence.'

  'Why do you want him?'

  'Do you make love to a woman before or after you take your clothes off?'

  'That's a damned impertinent question to ask.'

  'And so was yours. When can you let us have Foyle?'

  'When you show cause.'

  'To whom?'

  'To me.' Sheffield hammered a heavy forefinger against his palm. 'This is a civilian matter concerning civilians. Unless war material, war personnel, or the strategy and tactics of a war-in-being are involved, civilian jurisdiction shall always prevail.'

  '303 Terran Appeals 191,' murmured Bunny.

  'The Nomad was carrying war material.'

  'The Nomad was transporting platinum bullion to Mars Bank,' Presteign snapped.

  'If money is a-'

  'I am leading this discussion,' Sheffield interrupted. He swung around on Y'ang-Yeovil. 'Name the war material.' This blunt challenge knocked Y'ang-Yeovil off balance. He knew that the crag of the Nomad situation was the presence on board the ship of 20 pounds of PyrE, the total world supply which was probably irreplaceable now that its discoverer had disappeared. He knew that Sheffield knew that they both knew this. He had assumed that Sheffield would prefer to keep PyrE unnamed. And yet, here was the challenge to name the unnamable.

  He attempted to meet bluntness with bluntness. 'All right, gentlemen, I'll name it now. The Nomad was transporting twenty pounds of a substance called PyrE.'

  Presteign started; Sheffield silenced him. 'What's PyrE?'

  'According to our reports -'

  'From Presteign's Mr. Presto?'

  'Oh, that was bluff,' Y'ang-Yeovil laughed, and momentarily regained control.

  'According to intelligence, PyrE was developed for Presteign by a man who subsequently disappeared. PyrE is a Misch Metal, a pyrophore. That's all we know for a fact. But we've had vague reports about it . . . Unbelievable reports from reputable agents. If a fraction of our inferences are correct, PyrE could make the difference between a victory and a defeat.'

  'Nonsense. No war material has ever made that much difference.'

  'No? I cite the fission bomb of 1945. I cite the Null-G anti-gravity installations of 2022. Talley's All-Field Radar Trip-Screen of 2194. Material can often make the difference, especially when there's the chance of the enemy getting it first.'

  'There's no such chance now.'

  'Thank you for admitting the importance of PyrE.'

  'I admit nothing; I deny everything.'

  'Central Intelligence is prepared to offer an exchange. A man for a man. The inventor of PyrE for Gully Foyle.'

  'You've got him?' Sheffield demanded. 'Then why badger us for Foyle?'

  'Because we've got a corpse!' Y'ang-Yeovil flared. 'The Outer Satellites command had him on Lassell for six months trying to carve information out of him. We pulled him out with a raid at a cost of seventy-nine per cent casualties. We rescued a corpse. We still don't know if the O.S. was having a cynical laugh at our expense letting us recapture a body. We still don't know how much they ripped out of him.' Presteign sat bolt upright at this. His merciless fingers tapped slowly and sharply.

  'Damn it,' Y'ang-Yeovil stormed. 'Can't you recognize a crisis, Sheffield? We're on a tightrope. What the devil are you doing backing Presteign in this shabby deal? You're the leader of the Liberal party . . . Terra's arch-patriot. You're Presteign's political arch-enemy. Sell him out, you fool, before he sells us all out.'

  'Captain Yeovil,' Presteign broke in with icy venom. 'These expressions cannot be countenanced.'

  'We want and need PyrE,' Y'ang-Yeovil continued. 'We'll have to investigate that twenty pounds of PyrE, rediscover the synthesis, learn to apply it to the war effort . . . and all this before the O.S. beats us to the punch, if they haven't already. But Presteign refuses to cooperate. Why? Because he's opposed to the party in power. He wants no military victories for the Liberals. He'd rather we lost the war for the sake of politics because rich men like Presteign never lose. Come to your senses, Sheffield. You've been retained by a traitor. What in God's name are you trying to do?' Before Sheffield could waver in his strange alliance with Presteign, there was a discreet tap on the door of the Star Chamber and Saul Dagenham was ushered in. Time was when Dagenham was one of the Inner Planets' research wizards, a physicist with inspired intuition, total recall, and a sixth-order computer for a brain. But there was an accident at Tycho Sands, and the fission blast that should have killed him did not. Instead it turned him dangerously radioactive; it turned him 'hot'; it transformed him into a twenty-fourth-century 'Typhoid Mary'.

  He was paid Cr 25,000 a year by the Inner Planets' government to take precautions which they trusted him to carry out. He avoided physical contact with any person for more than five minutes per day. He could not occupy any room, not his own, for more than thirty minutes a day. Commanded and paid by the L.P. to isolate himself from life and love, Dagenham had abandoned research and built the colossus of Dagenham Couriers, Inc.

  When Y'ang-Yeovil saw the short blond cadaver with leaden skin and death's-head smile enter the Star Chamber, he knew he was assured of defeat in this encounter. He was no match for the three men together. He arose at once.

  'I'm getting an Admiralty order for Foyle,' he said. 'As far as Intelligence is concerned, all negotiations are ended. From now on it's a shooting war.'

  'Captain Yeovil is leaving,' Presteign called to the Jaunte-Watch officer who had guided Dagenham in. 'Please see him out through the maze.'

  Y'ang-Yeovil waited until the officers stepped alongside him and bowed. Then, as the man courteously motioned to the door, Y'ang-Yeovil looked directly at Presteign, smiled ironically and disappeared with a faint Pop!

  'Presteign!' Bunny exclaimed. 'He jaunted. This room isn't blind to him. He -'

  'Evidently,' Presteign said icily. 'Inform the Master of the Household,' he instructed the amazed Watch officer. 'The coordinates of the Star Chamber are no longer secret. They must be changed within twenty-four hours. And now, Mr. Dagenham.

  'One minute,' Dagenham said. 'There's that Admiralty order.' Without apology or explanation he disappeared too. Presteign raised his eyebrows. 'Another party to the Star Chamber secret,' he murmured. 'But at least he had the tact to conceal his knowledge until the secret was out' Dagenham reappeared. 'No point in wasting time going through the motions of the maze,' he said. ' I've given orders in Washington. They'll hold Yeovil up; two hours guaranteed, three hours probably, four hours possible.' 'How will they hold him up?' Bunny asked.

  Dagenham gave him his deadly smile. 'Standard F.F.C.C. Operation of Dagenham Couriers. Fun, fantasy, confusion, catastrophe . . . We'll need all four hours. Damn! I've disrupted your dolls, Presteign.' The robots were suddenly capering in lunatic fashion as Dagenham's hard radiation penetrated their electronic systems. 'No matter, I'll be on my way.'

  'Foyle?' Presteign asked.

  'Nothing yet.' Dagenham grinned his death'
s-head smile.

  'He's really unique. I've tried all the standard drugs and routines on him . . . Nothing. Outside, he's just an ordinary spaceman . . . if you forget the tattoo on his face . . . but inside he's got steel guts. Something's got hold of him and he won't give.'

  'What's got hold of him?' Sheffield asked.

  'I hope to find out.'

  'How?'

  'Don't ask; you'll be an accessory. Have you got a ship ready, Presteign?' Presteign nodded.

  'I'm not guaranteeing there'll be any Nomad for us to find, but we'll have to get a jump on the navy if there is. Law ready, Sheffield?' 'Ready. I'm hoping we won't have to use it' 'I'm hoping too; but again, I'm not guaranteeing. All right. Stand by for instructions. I'm on my way to crack Foyle.'

  'Where have you got him?' Dagenham shook his head. 'This room isn't secure.' He disappeared.

  He Jaunted Cincinnati-New Orleans-Monterrey to Mexico City where he appeared in the Psychiatry Wing of the giant hospital of the Combined Terran Universities. Wing was hardly an adequate name for this section, which occupied an entire city in the metropolis, which was the hospital. Dagenham jaunted up to the 43rd floor of the Therapy Division and looked into the isolated tank where Foyle floated, unconscious. He glanced at the distinguished bearded gentleman in attendance.

  'Hello, Fritz.'

  'Hello, Saul.'

  'Hell of a thing, the Head of Psychiatry minding a patient for me.'

  'I think we owe you favors, Saul.'

  'You still brooding about Tycho Sands, Fritz? I'm not. Am I lousing your wing with radiation?'

  'I've had everything shielded.'

  'Ready for the dirty work?'

  'I wish I knew what you were after.'

  'Information.'