Horn felt a shiver start up his spine. He frowned. "Duchane?"

"That's where the meeting is," Wu said. The colored disks cast an eerie, motley pattern over his reddish hair, but his face was dark. "To the center of things. Quickly."

Horn reached out and palmed the black disk. He felt again that uneasy sensation of free fall; there is no direction but outward. Perhaps it was half due to that, the suspicion that swept over him.

It was obvious, however, that Wu knew too much and he knew too little. All he knew about Wu was what the old man had told him; that could easily be lies and evasions. Wu could be anyone; he could be working for Duchane himself. He could be leading Horn into a trap. He had to have some organization behind him; he couldn't have all the information he displayed without it, not even with the help of Lil.

"You know a great many things," Horn said in the darkness. "Things that Duchane doesn't know: me and my location, Matal and his fate. And things that no one but Directors know: the secret tubeway and the meeting and its location. It is a wonder how you have learned so much."

"I am-"

"I know," Horn said impatiently. "You are an old man, and you have learned many things."

He started. Shadows over Wu's face. Put a hood over it. The resemblance clicked into place.

"You!" Horn said hoa.r.s.ely. "You were the priest with the embroidered symbol on your robe."

"The Prophet," Wu corrected gently.

THE HISTORY.

The pecking order....

Among men, as among chickens, it is a necessity.

Hen A can peck hen B; hen B can peck hen C; hen C can peck hen D. Until the pecking order is established, there can be no peace in the henyard.

What chickens know instinctively, men must learn for themselves: power is indivisible.

Garth Kohlnar learned that rule well as he fought his way up the dangerous ladder of power politics from an impoverished n.o.bility. Power is indivisible, and there are no means alien to it: intrigue, corruption, exposure of corruption, deals, betrayals....

The management of the Company had been set up as a check-and-balance. The five Directors were chosen by compet.i.tive examination from all qualified engineers among the Golden Folk. Their duties: to establish policy, elect the General Manager, and preserve the secret of the Tube.

The General Manager was merely an executive. It had never worked that way. Kohlnar had ruled the Company with an iron hand.

His death shattered the peace of the henyard. The pecking order had to be rediscovered....

12.

STALEMATE.

"Do you think," Wu asked, "that a man could live as long as I have with just the aid of his own senses?"

"Then the Cult exists only for your protection," Horn said sardonically.

"For my protection," Wu agreed, "and the consolation of the miserable. And possibly for other reasons which we can't go into at the moment. For we are there."

The car came to a stop. The door swung open. Outside it was a large, bare room with glistening, black marble walls. Wu motioned him out of the car. Horn unsnapped the belt and cautiously stepped out, his pistol in his hand. The room was empty.

Wu led the way to one black wall. A section of it slid aside as they approached. Behind it was a small, square room; its walls were black mirrors. It was lighted by hidden sources near the ceiling. Dark, disquieting faces peered out of the walls at them. As they turned around, the door slid shut and the floor pressed heavily against their feet.

"I have more eyes and ears than you think," Wu said, "but it is better to say no more. So does Duchane, and this car is probably tapped."

"It is." The heavy, powerful voice came from a side wall. Duchane was staring blackly out of it at them. "Welcome, Matal." His voice was impa.s.sive and unsurprised. "We've been waiting for you."

The car stopped. The door opened. Wu preceded Horn down a long hall. Like the other room below, it was walled in black marble. Even the heavy carpet underneath their feet was black.

"Your tastes run to the macabre," Wu said. His voice had changed; there was a bubbling breathlessness to it.

"Thank you," Duchane said. His voice came from near the ceiling. It was an unnerving experience, as if the building itself were alive, a part of Duchane. "It is, after all, my job."

They approached a door. Two impa.s.sive, black-uniformed guards stood on either side of it. It slid open in front of them. Beyond it was another short hall, two more guards, a second sliding door. And then a large, hexagonal room. It was black, as usual, but it was better lighted than any of the others. Horn watched the door close behind them. There was no visible seam. He tried to mark the spot.

The table was a polished, black hexagon to match the room. Three sides were occupied. Duchane had the door to his right; Fenelon was facing it; Ronholm had his back to it. A single guard stood behind Ronholm and Fenelon; each was dressed in the blue or green of the Directorship.

Duchane didn't have a human guard. Crouching beside his chair was a gigantic black hound. It was twin to the one Horn had seen dead upon the platform in front of the Victory Monument. Duchane's hand rested affectionately on the monster's head.

"You're late," Duchane said casually. "But now we can begin."

"I was-detained," Wu said breathlessly. "Where is the Director for Communications, the lovely Wendre?"

"She, too, is-detained. I expect her later-"

"I object to this entire air of intimidation," Ronholm broke in with quick, youthful anger. "I move that we hold our meeting, as usual, in the Directors' Room at the residence of the General Manager."

Duchane looked at Ronholm mildly. "There are obvious reasons why that is impractical. First, the General Manager is dead; we must respect this period of official mourning. Second, and more important, these are troubled times. Kohlnar has been a.s.sa.s.sinated. One of us may be next. The lower levels are muttering, and the word they use is 'revolt.' This is the only place whose absolute safety I can guarantee."

"I can guarantee the safety of my residence," Ronholm snapped, his handsome face flushed.

Duchane smiled broadly. "Can you?" He chuckled. "Can you really? The Director has made a motion. All in favor?" Only Ronholm's voice was heard. Duchane shrugged. "You seem to be in a minority."

Wu sank gratefully into a deep chair directly opposite Duchane. Horn stood behind the pseudo-Matal and watched Duchane.

Fenelon asked a pointed question in his high-pitched, aristocratic voice. "What can Security report about the a.s.sa.s.sin? Has he been found?"

Duchane's face, sprinkled with a golden powder, darkened. "Not yet. It is only a matter of hours. We know that he is on Eron. We are closing in."

"Are you?" Wu asked. "Are you really?"

Duchane shot him a swift, dark glance. "I'll get him. And when I'm finished with him, I'll give the remains to Panic." He caressed the huge, black head. "It will be justice for the death of Terror."

"You've mourned more over that h.e.l.l-hound than you have about Kohlnar," Ronholm said bitterly.

Duchane's eyes were heavy lidded. "Terror was my servant and my friend. No, we haven't laid our hands on the a.s.sa.s.sin. Not yet. But we've found the person who is even more guilty-the one who paid for the bullet."

"Who?" Ronholm blurted out.

Duchane let his eyes slide from Ronholm to Wu, from Wu to Fenelon. "In due time, fellow Directors." His lips twisted into the mockery of a smile. "First let us consider a more pressing matter: the election of a new General Manager."

"Kohlnar's body is scarcely cold!" Ronholm objected.

"Events do not wait on sentiment," Duchane said softly. "The immediate stabilization of Eron's leadership is vital. Discipline proceeds downward. We must present the Empire with a strong, new government, united behind one man, unshaken. If the Empire sees us faltering, fighting among ourselves, the hints of violence will become reality. We must decide now, and close ranks behind our choice."

"Sensible," Wu said.

Fenelon nodded. Ronholm looked sullen.

"I ask for nominations," Duchane said, his eyes flickering over them.

"Wendre Kohlnar." Surprisingly, it was Fenelon.

"Wendre!" Duchane exploded. "I ask for strength, and you give me a woman. Everything is against it: tradition, policy, strategy."

"Everything except common sense," Fenelon said slowly, his lean, chiseled face intent. "A woman, yes. But a woman qualified by birth and training. You ask for strength. I say that strength is not enough. Only Wendre has the confidence of the people. Only Wendre has the popularity to make rebellion hesitate before attacking-"

"Coddle them?" Duchane exclaimed incredulously. "Pamper these conquered slaves with a General Manager they'll like? Appease their hunger with golden blood? No, by Kellon! The only fit food for slaves is the whip; the only answer to rebellion is death!"

Horn was surprised to hear Wu's bubbling voice say, "Hear! Hear! I nominate our vigorous, bloodthirsty Director for Security for the office to which he aspires."

Duchane's eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction, but he only gave a slight nod of recognition.

"Wendre!" Ronholm said violently.

"Wendre," Fenelon echoed.

Duchane studied them silently.

"But where is the lovely Wendre?" Wu asked again.

"Here," Duchane said.

A door to his left, opposite the one through which Horn and Wu entered, slid open. Wendre stood behind it, dressed as Horn had seen her last. Her red-gold hair was disheveled; her dark-blue cloak hung from her shoulders revealing glimpses of torn gold beneath. Her hands were together in front of her. They were fastened with a thin snake of gleaming wire.

"Here she is," Duchane said sardonically. "The lovely Wendre. Patricide."

The room gasped. Horn couldn't separate the reactions. Wu was the first to regain his voice. "Ah, no!" he said.

"Fantastic!" Ronholm exploded. He half rose from his chair.

"Clever!" Fenelon said quietly.

A hand shoved Wendre. She staggered into the room. The door slid shut behind her. She stopped, straightened, and stood proudly in front of them. For a moment her smoldering, tawny eyes rested on Duchane, and then they turned to the other three Directors.

"Ask him for proof!" she said. Her voice was clear and unafraid.

Ronholm sank back into his chair. "Release her!" he said with cold intensity.

"Yes," Wu seconded. "Release her, and then we will listen to your proof."

"Of course," Duchane said blandly. "If she will come close-"

Wendre hesitated and then took two quick steps toward him. She held out her hands above the huge, black head of Duchane's hunter. The dog sniffed once, curiously, and then looked away. Duchane reached toward Wendre, touched the metal snake. It slithered off her wrists into his hand. He toyed with the half-alive thing as Wendre turned and walked away. It coiled and twisted in his hand.

"Proof," he mused. "A delicate thing. Without the a.s.sa.s.sin, we cannot prove that he was contacted by Wendre or her agent, given his instructions and his payment, and that he carried them out. I can build you a substantial edifice, however. Consider these questions: who was responsible for the planning of the Victory Dedication? Who opposed the use of my men as guards? And who, except for the quick action of one of my men, would have led the a.s.sa.s.sin aboard her scoutship and from there to safety?"

Horn's eyes narrowed. The pattern became clearer. That bullet hadn't been meant for him. Duchane had acted quickly after Kohlnar's death. He had commissioned an agent to a.s.sa.s.sinate Wendre.

It could have been planned earlier than that. Duchane could have hired him to a.s.sa.s.sinate Kohlnar.

Duchane had recovered quickly from the failure of the attempt on Wendre. He had arrested her and a.s.sa.s.sinated Matal. But Wu was speaking.

"Is this true?" he asked Wendre.

"Half-truth, twisted cleverly like that chain he has in his hand. Duchane's agent is a curious contradiction. He was so close that he could identify an unknown a.s.sa.s.sin. And yet his eyesight was so poor that he couldn't see the pistol the a.s.sa.s.sin had at my back. And his aim was so bad that the bullet came closer to me than to the a.s.sa.s.sin. Duchane's story is absurd. I was arrested at the Terminal cap before he knew that the a.s.sa.s.sin had come back to the monument and escaped-before he could have known. What was my motive in hiring someone to kill my own father?"

Duchane seemed amused. "Practical or psychological? Need I point out that your father was dying, that you had no hope of succeeding him in a peaceful transfer of authority? Only just now we heard your candidacy for your late father's office argued on the basis of your popularity with the people."

Wendre's chin came up. "I have no desire to be General Manager. I won't accept the nomination."

Duchane's lips twisted. "A little late, my dear. Shall I go into your psychological motives? Shall I recite from the Index? Shall I prove that you hated your father for making a loveless marriage with your mother, for using her money and the name of Kallion as rungs in the ladder of his ambition, and then for casting her aside to make room for a succession of mistresses? Shall I-"

"Shut up!" Wendre shouted. And then, quietly, "I'm glad I didn't even consider your suggestion of marriage." She turned to face the other Directors. "That was his price for dropping this absurd accusation. Does he really believe I'm guilty, or is he willing to shield a murderer to further his own ambition? He can't have it both ways."

"I won't even deny it," Duchane said calmly. "I suggest a third interpretation. Guilt and justice are irrelevant abstractions compared with the future of Eron."

"A fascinating suggestion," Wu mused. "The marriage of strength and popularity. It might make all the-"

"Never!" Ronholm exclaimed.

Wendre glanced at him gratefully. "Never," she echoed calmly.

"Not even to save the Empire?" Wu asked.

"I don't believe the Empire needs such measures to save it," she said coldly. "But if it is that rotten, it deserves to perish. I'd rather marry a barbarian."

Horn's eyelids flickered.

"Duchane has accused me of hiring the a.s.sa.s.sin," she went on, "but his edifice of truth turned out to be a house of cards. As good a case can be built against Duchane. Who has gained the most from my father's death? Who tried to get the Dedication security arrangements under his control? Who was in the best position to hire or a.s.sign a man daring enough and desperate enough to attempt the a.s.sa.s.sination? Who tried to have me a.s.sa.s.sinated and, failing that, tried to pin on me his own guilt? Who-"

"Enough!" Duchane roared. Responsively, a menacing growl rumbled deep in the throat of the h.e.l.l-hound named Panic. "I have additional proofs-"

"I suggest," Wu said quietly, "that these accusations are not only pointless but dangerous. If we fight among ourselves, how can we expect to suppress rebellion from below? Guilt has no meaning among us. If Wendre is publicly accused, Eron would suffer. She must be freed. In turn, she must forget your actions against her. It is a question of survival-our own and the Empire. We must not divide our forces now."