Verrick blinked. "What's it say? Is that voice——"
"That was John Preston." There was a peculiar expression on Moore's face. "He once recorded part of his Unicorn; the Information Library has it all down on aud, together with vid shots for us to compare."
Verrick gaped foolishly. "I don't understand. Explain it to me."
"John Preston is out there. He's been waiting for that ship and now he's made contact with it. He'll lead it to the Disc."
"But Preston died a hundred and fifty years ago!"
Moore laughed sharply. "Get that crypt open as soon as possible and you'll understand. John Preston is still alive."
Chapter IX
The MacMillan robot moved languidly up and down the aisle collecting tickets. Overhead, the midsummer sun beat down and was reflected from the gleaming silver hull of the sleek rocket liner. Below, the vast blue of the Pacific Ocean lay sprawled out, an eternal surface of colour and light.
"It really looks nice," the straw-haired young man said to the pretty girl in the seat next to him. "The ocean, I mean. The way it mixes with the sky. Earth is about the most beautiful planet in the system."
The girl lowered her portable television lenses, blinked in the sudden glare of natural sunlight, and glanced in confusion out of the window. "Yes, it's nice," she admitted shyly.
She was a very young girl, eighteen at the most. Her hair was curly and short, a halo of dark orange—the latest colour style—round her slim neck and finely cut features. She blushed and returned hastily to her lenses.
"How far are you going?" the young man asked presently.
"To Peking. I have a job at the Soong Hill, I think. I mean, I got a notice for an interview." She fluttered with her purse. "Maybe you can look at it and tell me what all those legal phrases mean. Of course," she added quickly, "when I get to Batavia Walter can..."
"You're classified?"
"Class 11-76. It isn't much, but it helps."
Her companion studied her papers. "You're going to compete against three hundred other class 11-76 people," he said presently. "For every vacancy they call a couple of hundred trained personnel. They they call an additional hundred untrained novices, like yourself, who have the classification but no actual experience. That way they have three hundred together in one spot, so———" He dropped her papers back in her lap. "Then they start taking bids."
"Bids!"
"They don't call it bidding, of course. Those who have the experience see the position going for less money and privileges to someone like yourself. To them the hiring office stresses youth and willingness to learn. To your group the office stresses need of experience. Both groups get panicky. The hiring office strategy is to pit one against the other, each individual and each group."
"But why do they do all that?"
"The one they finally condescend to hire takes the position on any terms they're willing to dole out. That's how the Hills get classified persons to swear on for their entire lives, and on any terms the Hill sets. Theoretically the skilled workers ought to be able to dictate to the Hills. But instead of being organized, they are pitted against each other."
"You sound so—cynical."
The young man laughed a thin, colourless laugh. "Maybe I am." He eyed the girl benignly. "What's your name?"
"Margaret Lloyd." She lowered her eyes shyly.
"My name's Keith Pellig," the young man said, and his voice was even thinner than before.
The girl thought about it a moment. "Keith Pellig?" For an instant her smooth forehead wrinkled unnaturally. "I think I've heard that name, haven't I?"
''You may have." Amusement was in the toneless voice.
"Where are you going?"
"Batavia."
"On business?"
"I'd call it business." Pellig smiled humourlessly. "When I've been there a while I may begin calling it pleasure. My attitude varies."
"You talk strangely," the girl said, puzzled and somewhat awed.
"I'm a strange person. Sometimes I hardly know what I'm going to do or say next. Sometimes I seem to be a stranger to myself. Sometimes what I do surprises me and I can't understand why I do it." Pellig stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. The smile had left his face and now he scowled, dark and troubled.
Peter Wakeman pushed the analysis across the breakfast table to Cartwright. "It really is Preston. It's no supernatural being from another system."
Rita O'Neill touched Cartwright's arm. "That's what he meant in the book. He planned to be there to guide us. The Voices."
Wakeman was deep in thought. "A few minutes before our call reached the Information Library another was received for an identical analysis."
Cartwright sat up with a jerk. "What does it mean?"
"I don't know. They say aud and vid tapes were rushed to them for analysis. Substantially the same material as we sent over, but they don't know who it was from."
"Can't you tell anything?" Rita O'Neill asked uneasily.
"First of all, they do know who sent in the prior information request. But they're not telling. I'm toying with the idea of sending a few Corpsmen over to scan the officials."
Cartwright waved his hand impatiently. "We have more important things to worry about. Any news on Pellig?"
Wakeman looked surprised. "Only that he's supposed to have left the Chemie Hill."
Cartwright's face twitched. "You haven't been able to make contact? Can't you go out and get him? Are you just going to sit and wait?"
In the few days since Cartwright had become Quizmaster there had been a corrosive change in him. He sat fumbling with his coffee cup, a hunched, aged, frightened man. His face was dark and lined with fatigue, and his pale blue eyes glinted with apprehension. Again and again he started to speak, then changed his mind and remained silent.
"Cartwright," Wakeman said softly, "you're in bad shape."
Cartwright glared at him. "A man's coming here to kill me, publicly and in broad daylight, with the approval of the system."
"It's only one man," Wakeman said quietly. "He has no more power than you. You have the whole Corps behind you, and all the resources of the Directorate. Each Quizmaster has had to face this." He raised an eyebrow. "I thought all you wanted was to stay alive until your ship was safe."
Cartwright smiled shakily, half-apologetically. "You've been dealing with assassins all your life. To me it's a new thing; I've been an nonentity. Now I'm chained here under a ten billion watt searchlight. A perfect target——" His voice rose. "And they're trying to kill me! What are you going to do?"
Wakeman thought to himself: 'He's falling apart; he doesn't care a damn about his ship.'
To Wakeman's mind Shaeffer's answering thoughts came. Shaeffer was at his desk on the other side of the Directorate building, acting as the link between Wakeman and the Corps. "This is the time to get him over there. I don't think Pellig is close, but in view of Verrick's sponsorship we should leave a wide margin for error."
Wakeman thought back: "At any other time Cartwright would have been overwhelmed to learn that John Preston is alive. Now he pays only little attention. And he can assume that his ship has reached its destination."
Wakeman turned to Cartwright and spoke to him aloud. "All right, Leon. Get ready, we're taking you out of here. We have plenty of time. No report on Pellig yet."
Cartwright blinked and then eyed him suspiciously. "Out where? I thought the protective chamber Verrick fixed up——"
"Verrick assumes you'll use that, so he'll try there first. We're taking you off Earth entirely. The Corps has arranged a retreat on Luna. While the Corps battles it out with Pellig you'll be 239,000 miles away."