"That's right," Benteley said warily. "He loses both ways."
"Here's another," Eleanor said brightly. "I thought this one up myself." She nodded merrily to Rita. "I mean, you thought it up. But I made up the equation. Assign an arbitrary value of plus 40 for killing Cartwright. And then try this: assign a minus 100 by Cartwright for being killed. That takes care of that part; that's for Reese. Then there's my own, but that's not much."
"I don't understand what you're talking about," Rita said indifferently.
"I do," Benteley said. _"Look out!"_
Eleanor had already moved. On her feet like a silent cat, she grabbed up the aluminum candle and ground the tube of bubbling flame into Rita's face.
Benteley slammed the candle away; with a tinny grumble it rolled from the table and clanked onto the floor. Soundlessly, Eleanor slipped around the table to Rita O'Neill. Rita sat pawing helplessly at her eyes. Her black hair and skin were smoking and charred; the acrid odor of seared flesh filled the murky air of the bar. Eleanor yanked the woman's hand away. Something glittered between the girl's fingers, a jagged scarf-pin that came swiftly up at Rita's eyes. Benteley hurled the girl away; she clung to him desperately, clawing and stabbing blindly until he shook her loose. Green eyes wild and glazed, she spun away and vanished into the black shadows of the room.
Benteley turned quickly to Rita O'Neill. "I'm all right," Rita said between clenched teeth. "Thanks. The candle went out and she didn't get me with the pin. Better try to catch her."
People on all sides were leaping up and hurrying over. Eleanor had already disappeared from the bar, out into the corridor. A MacMillan medical attendant wheeled efficiently from its emergency locker, into the bar and over to the table. Rapidly, it cleared the people back, Benteley along with the others.
"Go on," Rita said patiently, her hands over her face, elbows resting against the table. "You know where she's going. Try to stop her. You know what he'll do to her."
Benteley left the bar. The corridor was deserted. He began to run toward the descent lift. A moment later he emerged on the ground level of the resort. A few people stood around here and there. At the far end of the corridor he glimpsed a flash of green and red; he raced forward. He turned a corner—and stopped dead.
Eleanor Stevens stood facing Reese Verrick. "Listen to me," she was saying. "Don't you understand? _It's the only way._" Her voice rose in shrill panic. "Reese, for God's sake believe me. Take me back! I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I left you but I won't do it again. I'm bringing you this, aren't I?"
Verrick saw Benteley. He smiled slightly and reached out to take firm hold of Eleanor's wrist with his iron-hard fingers. "We're back together. All three of us."
"You've got it wrong," Benteley said to him. "She didn't mean to betray you. She's completely loyal to you."
"I don't think so," Verrick said. "She isn't worth anything. She's treacherous, childish. She's no good."
"Then let her go."
Verrick considered. "No," he said finally. "I'm not going to let her go."
"Reese!" the girl wailed. "I told you what they said! I told you how you can do it. Don't you understand? You can do it, now. I made it possible. Take me back, please take me back!"
"Yes," Verrick admitted, "I can do it. But I had already worked it out."
Benteley stepped in fast. But this time not fast enough.
"Ted!" Eleanor screamed. "Help me!"
Verrick swept her up and lugged her in three giant strides to a supply-sphincter. Beyond the transparent balloon the dead, bleak surface of the moon stretched out. Verrick lifted the screaming, struggling girl high and with one quick shove, threw her sprawling through the sphincter, outside the balloon.
Benteley stood paralyzed, as Verrick stepped away from the sphincter. The girl stumbled and fell into the rubble and heaps of frigid rock, arms flailing, her breath a frozen cloud hanging from her mouth and nose. She tried to drag herself to her feet; her body half-turned toward the balloon, face distorted, eyes bulging. For one pleading instant she crept like a mashed insect toward Benteley, hands groping, clutching futilely.
Then her chest and visceral cavity burst. Benteley closed his eyes as an expanding mass of rupturing, lashing organs burst into the airless void of the Lunar surface, a sickening explosion of organic parts that immediately solidified to brittle crystals. It was over. The girl was dead.
Numbed, Benteley plucked out his hand weapon. People were racing up the corridor; an emergency alarm was wailing unhappily up and down. Verrick stood unmoving, without any particular expression.
Shaeffer knocked Benteley's popper from his numb hand. "No good—she's dead. She's dead!"
Benteley nodded. "Yes, I know." Shaeffer bent to pick up the gun. "I'll keep this."
"He's going to get away with it," Benteley said.
"It's legal," Shaeffer agreed. "She wasn't classified."
Benteley moved away. Vaguely, he made his way back to the ramp in the direction of the infirmary. Images of the dead girl drifted around him, mixed with the burning face of Rita O'Neill and the cold dead horror of the moon's surface. He stumbled onto the ascent ramp and started dully up.
Footsteps and hoarse, heavy breathing sounded behind him. The ramp shuddered under a ponderous weight. Verrick had followed.
"Wait a minute, Benteley," he said. "I'll come along with you. I have an arrangement I want to discuss with Cartwright, a business transaction I think he'll be interested in."
Verrick waited until Judge Waring, muttering and fumbling with his chair, had finally seated himself. Across from him Cartwright sat straight and white-faced, still coming out of shock.
"How's your niece?" Verrick asked.
"She'll be all right," Cartwright said. "Thanks to Benteley."
"Yes," Verrick agreed. "I always thought Benteley had something. I knew he could act when it was necessary. It was her face Eleanor struck for?"
"They can fix her up with artigraft. It didn't get to her eyes; mostly her skin and hair. It was her eyes the girl was after."
Benteley couldn't stop looking at Reese Verrick. Verrick seemed calm and collected. His breathing had returned to normal; his face had a gray, mottled look but his hands had stopped trembling. It was as if he were recovering his strength from an orgy of sexual passion, a spasm of total release, brief and overwhelming.
"What do you want?" Cartwright asked him. He turned to Judge Waring. "I don't know what this is about."
"No," Judge Waring agreed crossly. "What is this, Reese? What have you got on your mind?"
"I want you to be here," Verrick said to him. "I have a proposal to offer Cartwright. I want you to hear it out and see that it's legal." He got out his massive popper and placed it on the table in front of him. "We've come to a dead end. I think nobody will disagree. You can't kill me, Leon. I'm not an assassin; it would be murder and you'd be liable. I'm here as a guest."
"You're perfectly welcome," Cartwright said tonelessly, not taking his eyes from Verrick.
"I came here to kill Benteley, but I can't. Stalemate. Stalemate on all sides: you can't kill me, I can't kill Benteley, and I can't kill you."
Silence.
"Or can I?" Verrick said thoughtfully. He examined his popper. "I think maybe I will."
Judge Waring spoke up disgustedly. "You'll be out of the M-game the rest of your life. That's a stupid thing to do. What'll it get you?"
"Pleasure. Satisfaction."