These were people with skill in their hands—not their heads. Their abilities had come from years of practice and work, from direct contact with objects. They could grow plants, sink foundations, repair leaking pipes, maintain machinery, weave clothing, cook meals. According to the Classification system they were failures.
"I think everybody's here," Jereti said tensely. Cartwright took a deep breath of prayer and raised his voice so all could hear. "I want to say something before you leave. The ship is ready to go; it's been checked over by our friends at the field."
"That's correct," Captain Groves corroborated; he was an impressive, stern-faced Negro in leather jacket, gloves, and boots.
Cartwright rattled his scrap of crumpled metalfoil. "Well, this is it. Anybody have any doubts? Anybody want to back out?"
There was excitement and tension, but none of them stirred. Mary Uzich smiled at Cartwright and then up at the young man beside her; Konklin put his arm around her and pulled her close.
"This is what we've worked for," Cartwright continued. "This is the moment our money and time have gone to. I wish John Preston were here; he'd be glad to see this. He knew it would come, some day. He knew there'd be a ship heading out past the colony planets, beyond the regions controlled by the Directorate. In his heart he was certain that men would seek new frontiers... and freedom." He examined his watch. "Good-bye and good luck—you're on your way. Keep tight hold of your charms and let Groves do the steering."
One by one they gathered their meager possessions and shuffled out of the room. Cartwright shook hands with them, mumbled words of hope and comfort. When the last of them had gone he stood for a moment, silent and thoughtful, in the now deserted room.
"I'm glad that's over," Rita declared, relaxing. "I was afraid some of them would back out."
"The unknown is a terrible place. There are monsters out there. And in one of his books Preston describes weird calling voices." Cartwright poured himself a cup of black coffee from the silex. "Well, we have our part here. I don't know which is worse."
"I never really believed it," Rita said, smoothing her black hair with an unconscious push of her slim, competent fingers. "You can change the universe... there's nothing you can't do."
"There's plenty I can't do," Cartwright disagreed dryly. "I'll try a few things, start some activity here and there, put an end to something else. But they'll get me, before long."
Rita was appalled. "How—can you say that?"
"I'm being realistic." His voice was hard, almost savage. "Assassins have killed every unk the bottle ever twitched. How long do you think it'll take them to get the Challenge Convention set up? The checks and balances of this system work to check us and balance them. As far as they're concerned, I broke the rules by just wanting to play. Anything that happens to me from now on is my own fault."
"Do they know about the ship?"
"I doubt it." Morbidly, he added, "I hope not."
"You can last that long, until the ship is safe. Isn't that the—" Rita broke off, turning in fear.
From outside the building came the sound of jets. A ship was setting down on the roof, a sudden metallic whirr like that of a steel insect. There was a staggering thump, then voices and quick movements from the floors above, as the roof trap was yanked open.
Rita saw the look on her uncle's face, the momentary terror gleaming out, the brief flash of awareness. Then the benign weariness and quietude filmed over, and he smiled haltingly at her.
"They're here," he observed, in a faint, almost inaudible voice.
Heavy military boots showed in the corridor. The green-uniformed Directorate guards fanned out around the meeting chamber; after them came a calm-faced Directorate official with a locked briefcase gripped.
"You're Leon Cartwright?" the official inquired. Leafing through the notebook he said, "Give me your papers. You have them with you?"
Cartwright slid his plastic tube from his inside coat pocket, unsnapped the seal, and spread out the thin metal-foil. One by one he laid them on the table. "Birth-certificate. School and training records. Psych-analysis. Medical certificate. Criminal record. Status permit. Statement of fealty history. Last fealty release. All the rest." He pushed the heap toward the official and then removed his coat and rolled up his sleeve.
The official glanced briefly at the papers and then compared the identification tabs with the markings seared deep in the flesh of Cartwright's forearm. "We'll have to examine fingerprints and brain pattern later. Actually, this is superfluous; I know you're Leon Cartwright." He pushed back the papers. "I'm Major Shaeffer, from the Directorate teep Corps. There are other teeps nearby. There was a power shift this morning, a little after nine."
"I see," Cartwright said, rolling his sleeve down and putting on his coat again.
Major Shaeffer touched the smooth edge of Cartwright's status permit. "You're not classified, are you?"
"No."
"I suppose your p-card was collected by your protector-Hill. That's the usual system, isn't it?"
"That's the usual system," Cartwright said. "But I'm not under fief to any Hill. As you'll see on my paper, I was discharged earlier this year."
Shaeffer shrugged. "Then, of course, you put your power card up for sale on the blackmarket." He closed his notebook with a snap. "Most twitches of the bottle bring up unclassifieds, since they outnumber classifieds by such a margin. But one way or another, classifieds manage to get hold of the power cards."
Cartwright laid his power card on the table. "There's mine."
Shaeffer was astounded. "Incredible." He rapidly scanned Cartwright's mind, a suspicious, puzzled expression on his face. "You knew already. You knew this was coming."
"Yes."
"Impossible. It just occurred—we came instantly. The news hasn't even reached Verrick; you're the first person outside the Corps to know." He moved close to Cartwright. "There's something wrong here. How did you know it was coming?"
"That two-headed calf," Cartwright said vaguely.
The teep official was lost in thought, still exploring Cartwright's mind. Abruptly he broke away. "It doesn't matter. I suppose you have some inside pipeline. I could find out; it's in your mind, someplace deep down, carefully larded over." He stuck out his hand. "Congratulations. If it's all right with you, we'll take up positions around here. In a few minutes Verrick will be informed. We want to be ready," He pushed Cartwright's p-card into his hand. "Hang onto this. It's your sole claim to your new position."
"I guess," Cartwright said, beginning to breathe again, "I can count on you." He pocketed the power card carefully.
"I guess you can." Shaeffer licked his lip reflectively. "It seems strange... . You're now our superior and Verrick is nothing. It may be some time before we can make the psychological .change-over. Some of the younger Corps members who don't remember any other Quizmaster..." He shrugged. "I suggest you place yourself in Corps hands for awhile. We can't stay here, and a lot of people at Batavia have personal fealties to Verrick, not to the position. We'll have to screen everybody and systematically weed them out. Verrick has been using them to gain control over the Hills."
"I'm not surprised."
"Verrick is shrewd." Shaeffer measured Cartwright critically. "During his Quizmastership he was challenged repeatedly. There was always somebody filtering in. We were kept busy, but I suppose that's what we're for."
"I'm glad you came," Cartwright admitted. "When I heard the noise I thought it was—Verrick."