After a moment Mantell said, “What did you mean, we had a narrow escape?”
“Those of us who stood to risk exposure if Thurdan ever saw a true psychprobe chart of your mind.”
Mantell blinked in surprise. “You mean—you’re one of us?”
Harmon nodded smilingly. “I was the first. Then came Myra and the others. It would have been all over for us if Thurdan had seen your true psychprobe, knowing what you now know.”
“How did you keep him from seeing it?”
“I slipped Polderson a hypnodrug while he was beginning to set up the machine. The rest of it was simple; I merely ordered him to see only those things I wanted him to see. He took your probe. There was no mention of—ah—us—on it.”
Suddenly Mantell sat bolt upright. “What about that Space Patrolman’s story, though? Was it just a wild hoax, or was there any truth in it? I mean, about his knowing me back when—”
Harmon shook his head vigorously. “No. Your first psychprobing and this one said the same thing: you spent the last seven years on Mulciber. Unless new techniques for misleading the psychprobe have been invented, that’s the truth, Mantell.”
He nodded. That was one bit of reality he had salvaged from all this, then.
He climbed off the couch, feeling his feet rocking beneath him. “And—was there anything in what Myra said to Ben—about a second psychprobing being likely to damage my mind?”
“Such a thing has been known to happen,” Harmon admitted. “But it didn’t, in this particular case. Let’s be thankful for that.”
Relieved, Mantell straightened out his rumpled clothing and followed Harmon down the corridor back toward Thurdan’s office. Ben was sitting behind his desk. He looked every bit as massive seated as he did when standing. Mantell wondered how big Thurdan really was. Six feet six, probably, and two hundred seventy pounds. Probably Ben would be a rough man to tangle with in a fight, even figuring his age at sixty or so.
“Feeling better?” Thurdan rumbled.
“A little. Not much.”
Mantell flopped into a beckoning foam cradle and tried to scrub the throbbing out of his forehead with his fingertips. Every beat of his pulse, every contraction of his heart seemed to echo noisily through the caverns of his skull.
“May I leave?” Harmon asked. “I’m very tired myself. I’d like to—”
“Stay here,” Thurdan said, in that smooth, level voice that was so terribly unanswerable. “You’re a scientist, Erik. I want you to hear what Mantell’s going to tell us. You may be interested. Johnny, suppose you tell Myra and Dr. Harmon what you’ve been working on in the lab for the past few weeks.”
Mantell moistened his hps and looked straight at Harmon. “I’ve been developing a personal defense screen,” he said. “Invisible field and body-size. The kind of shield a man could wear and be absolutely invulnerable while he had it on.”
Myra tossed an interested glance his way. He saw that Thurdan was knuckling the portfolio he had sent him on the previous day, outlining the progress of his work so far.
Harmon looked more than a little impressed. In his feather-light voice he asked, “Is such a thing possible— this personal screen?”
“Tell them, Johnny.”
“I didn’t think it was possible, either,” Mantell said. “Until I built one.”
“What? You have succeeded?”
“It’s not finished yet,” Mantell added hastily. “It won’t be for a week or more, at least. But when I’m done with it, it will—”
“It’s going to keep me safe,” Thurdan broke in. “At last.” He peered intensely at the three figures ringing his desk. “You see? You see what Johnny is doing for me —and yet I was willing to run the risk of damaging his brain rather than let a possible threat to Starhaven’s security go unchecked.”
There was no reply to that. Thurdan was sweating. He seemed to be under some tremendous strain. His powerful fingers toyed with the crystal knickknacks on his desk.
“All right,” he said finally, his voice knifing through the tense silence. “You can go. All of you. Leave me alone.”
In the face of a dismissal like that, there was nothing to do but leave. Mantell and Myra and Harmon filed silently out of Thurdan’s office without looking back, and without a word once they reached the outer corridor. Mantell had already had one experience with Thurdan’s concealed audio pickups in the hall.
Myra and Harmon vanished in opposite directions down the corridor, heading toward their respective offices. Mantell caught the lift tube down and left the building. A cab lurked outside, and he engaged it and took it back to Number Thirteen.
He wanted to rest. The probing had left him thoroughly exhausted.
He reached the room a few minutes later, feeling soggy and bedraggled. He showered; the brisk play of ions on his skin refreshed him and left him clean. He swallowed a fatigue tab and sprawled out on the bed, utterly worn out from the strain and from the probing.
It had been a close thing, he thought.
Only Harmon’s fast work had saved them this time —and there was no way of telling how soon it would be before some accident would put information of the conspiracy into Thurdan’s hands.
That woidd be the end. Ben was quick and ruthless, and he would spare no one in order to keep Starhaven under his domination.
And—Thurdan had to die. Mantell felt an ungrudging admiration for the colossal old tyrant, but Myra and her group had logic on their side. Thurdan had to be put away now, before a number of contenders to the throne arose and made the task of continuing the peace of Starhaven impossible.
Mantell half-dozed. Some time passed, and he was barely conscious of its passing. Then the door chime rang twice before he climbed wearily off the pad and answered it.
One of the house robots stood outside in the hallway, smiling mechanically at him. It held a package in its rubberized grips.
“Mr. Mantell? Package for you.”
“Thanks very much,” Mantell said limply. He took the package from the robot and shut the door.
The package was the size and shape of a book. He knew by now that it must contain another message; this seemed to be the approved way of contacting people on a world where one man held access into all electronic means of communication.
He unwrapped it. The book, bound in attractive quarter-morocco, was called Etiology and Empiricism, by one Dr. F. G. Sze. Opening it, Mantell found a folded note inserted between pages 86 and 87.
Withdrawing the note, Mantell unfolded it. It said:
J.M.—
AFFAIRS REACHING A CRISIS. WE CANT RUN MORE RISKS. MEET ME CASINO OF MASKS TONIGHT TO DISCUSS B.T. IMMEDIATE ACTION. I’LL BE THERE AT 9 SHARP.
DON’T BE LATE, DARLING.
Mantell stared at the note, reading it again and again, his eyes coming to rest each time on the “darling” at the end, looking so impersonal and yet so meaningful in the capitalized vocotype.
Then the note began to wither. In an instant it was but a pinch of brown dust in his hand, and then not even that.
Chapter XV
The Casino of Masks was thronged that night as Man-tell threaded his way into the main hall. He found himself confronted with hundreds of shadowy faceless figures, people of uncertain line and undeterminable identity.
One of them was Myra. But which?
He wandered to the swirly board, where the croupier was pleading for new players. He watched the interplay of bright colors a while, placed and lost ten chips on a combination of blue-green-red-black. Red-violet-orange-green came in instead, and Mantell turned away in mild disappointment.