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  All right: that was that. He walled uneasiness away in a corner of his mind, and thought he’d got rid of& it. That feeling, and that wall, both lasted for about& twenty seconds.

  “What is it, Milt?”

  The damp, precise voice with its flat, uninterested sound made, for Cannam, an instant picture of the& man himself: balding, nearly dwarfed by heredity,& upbringing, and the simple passage of the shrinking& years, face and carriage set in a single permanent underlying expression of weary, worldly, disappointment. A slumping Marsman: a unique. There was,& simply, no good anywhere in the world, that aspect& always said; and the statement seemed at the same& time his armor and his somber, sad delight.

  Cannam swallowed hard, trying to sound casual. The wall had melted.

  The attempt didn’t come near succeeding. Well, he told himself, that’s showbiz. Sure.

  “About the Stunner.”

  Quist’s voice had an edge to it, increasing word by word, over all the miles. “You doing all right, kid?”

  There was no reason—there was no reason at all—for a public figure like Miltiades- Cannam to become hesitant with a simple man of figures and percentages like Quist. But the thought didn’t help any;& reason had nothing to do with the feeling. Or with& anything? he wondered suddenly, and forgot the& question.

  “Listen,” he began again with the flat-voiced man. The unimpressible man. “Have you heard the news?”

  “I’ve heard it,” Quist said, without a change in his voice. “Thoth?”

  “Thoth. Where you are.” Quist wasn’t going to make it easy; that much was clear. Cannam forced& one more sentence into the waiting sad vacuum. “You& know what that can mean to us.”

  "Us?”

  Don’t panic. There was no reason for panic, and& Cannam knew it. He would always have fans, a following, a dependable market. He would always be able to find backers—audiences—approval—applause.& His voice shook, went savage. “You’re in this with me,& Quist. You know that.”,

  And the reply was like a shrug: cool, distant and quite horribly unafraid. Could he possibly feel like& that? Really feel like that? Cannam thought that perhaps he could, the cold man of figures and percentages;& that was what made the voice horrible to hear. “I’m& in,” Quist said, “but I’ll get out.”

  The man had no emotions, that was it. A terrible state, certainly; even—well, all right, even fear, even& the terrible momentary sensation (it could happen to& anyone) of unimportance, was preferable to that& lack; Cannam, knowing that he truly did believe that& much, at least, wondered, still, uncontrollably,& whether—whether, being himself, he had to. “And& you know that," Quist went on coolly. Strainlessly.

  There was no winning move. There would never be a winning move. “You understand, we might run into& some delays,” Cannam said, talking more quickly& than he wanted to. “Backing, for instance. Things& like that. I don’t mean the money won’t come& through....”

  Hearing his own sentences in his own voice, he stopped, imagining the cool patient face of Quist; the& money-man. The winner. Desperation was worse than& useless; it was a distress-flag, and rigging it meant, in& Cannam’s world, that you were announcing yourself& as food for sharks.

  Quist, after a second of pale distant silence, made a small chuckling sound, remote, unconcerned, controlled.

  “You don’t mean there are going to be any delays, either, Milt.”

  “But—” He had to explain. He had to—smooth matters over. But Quist wouldn’t bother to let him.& The money-man’s voice cut effortlessly in. Who was& he, after all, for Miltiades Cannam to fear?

  “Listen, Miltie-boy, you think I’m stupid? You think we’re all of us stupid?” The tone wasn’t corrosive, but meaninglessly jolly; Quist sounded as if he’d& never so much as dreamed of worry, never even& imagined what it might be like to be uncertain—to be& afraid. Money-men, after all, didn’t need imagination;& only the stars needed that. (Though there were some& few, who were stars, and unfrightened as well. Cannam didn’t dwell on the fact; perhaps there was some& easy explanation.) “We want that money.” Had Quist& been talking while Cannam went idly, uselessly, drifting off into thought? “All this news, you know, it& worries everybody. You know how it works, that& kind of thing. I mean, suppose something—well,& okay, suppose something happens?”

  Nobody, not even the money-man, wanted to say the words. Cannam tapped the ball back into Quist’s& court with (as firm and assured as, suddenly, he& could make it sound) only one word:

  “Impossible.”

  Quist made his chuckling-sound again. “That’s not what our people are saying.”

  “Then your people ought to get the facts. The—” “Don’t hip me.” Quist cut in with an intense coldness greater than anything Cannam had heard from& this man in years; for that second, until the money-man (monkey-man) regained his even quiet voice,& Cannam’s fear began to shrink.

  “I’m telling you—”

  And when Quist broke in again the fear expanded again, instantly. “Besides,” he went on, just as if Cannam had said nothing whatever, “why should you be& worried?”

  There was no stopping him; his mouth said “Wha—” before he could even try to assess this new position.

  “You got that new wife, right?” Quist said, casually—bloodlessly. “Rich little wifie, she’ll help her Miltie-boy out, won’t she?” And Cannam began for& the first time to see, very slowly, the real dimensions& of the box he had somehow persuaded everyone to& build around him. A fine and creative job of construction; the only difficulty was that he was inside& the thing. He felt like laughing, or screaming (there& being no difference)—and then imagined, with loving& intensity, a complete withdrawal, a disappearance& from everyone, from every obligation, every net; his& words were, when he spoke, jumbled, and slow, and& begging.

  “Quist, I—can’t—You have to—to—under—you have to understand—”

  A beggar. Quist’s tone added to the weight of contempt in that idea. “Don’t you get all stirred up, now,” he said, and a cold amusement slid to the surface. “Wifie’ll help her hubby out.”

  In the pause that followed Cannam could hear the tiny hiss of the communications network, the hiss of& imperfection that sounded to him more human than& the voice of the money-man.

  “She’d better,” the voice said.

  And then (of course) the click. Call ended.

  And then, of course, the . . .

  Of course. . . .

  There was no easy answer; God, no. No answer from a God or other, either; there was no hint from& Above to help him decide what he was going to tell& her, what he was going to select and confess. Something, surely . . . Confession. Miltiades Cannam, big& success, star, man of importance (“Marry you for& your money? Why, we both know how ridiculous that& is!” He’d said that, he himself) . . . oh, great-Lord-anybody’s-God, he had to, now. Had to. There wasn’t& anyone else.

  There wasn’t anyone else. And (as he sat breathing heavily, rapidly, a stir of rage beginning in his spirit)& true anger overpowered him and lifted him, and did& so for whole seconds.

  It was her brother, after all; right? Of course it was. Her brother.

  And (therefore) her responsibility. Obviously. Certainly. Clearly.

  He could almost become sure of it.

  And so, of course, since she was responsible, there would be no confession, no collapse; everything had& begun with her brother, and so (of course) it was all& her fault, as clear as anything could be; oh, yes, all& her fault, and if he could only convince her—convince himself—because, of course, it was. . .

  Oh, God, what was he going to say?

  Skywatch Command (Thoth), where a new shift was due for duty within minutes, was a quiet place, a& stripped .cell of a room surrounded by other rooms no& less empty; the talk within it, like the place itself, was& professional, calm, almost relaxed. Which was, at& those moments, necessary, giving no hint of the men& who breathed in the room, or of the possibilities and& the f
ears they had to know. As:

  “Nothing on the tape?”

  “Nothing on the tape; nothing by messenger; nothing at all. Hazeltine’s sleeping, most likely, and showup news would have to come from Mars Fourteen station.” The speaker paused, turned in his pacing, began that slow, constant walk again, hands& locked at the small of his back.

  “They’ve got to send us orders.”

  “Naturally. We all know that.”

  “You’ve heard the—”

  “I’ve heard.”

  The younger of the two men showed his youth in uncounted ways: a less practiced man, a man less accustomed to the old companion, death, he had to go& on talking. “They just can’t leave us here.”

  The other, older man turned once more and stopped pacing long enough to shrug. “All right, then: they& can’t.”

  That snub did its work for a few seconds, keeping the youngster quiet; irrecoverable time slid by.& “There’ll be orders coming in any minute now,” the& young voice said—barely, betrayingly tight. The& room appeared to wait unchanging for the relief& crew.

  The older man reached the end of his pacing-track rather slowly. “Sure there will,” he said, and turned& again.

  “Anyhow—we’re ready.” The young chatter went helplessly on as if the. noise would bar all danger& from the room. “Pilots, missiles, armaments . . .”& And with the list the voice trailed off and stopped, as& if the words had contained, all of themselves, the& seeds of convincing immediate death.

  “Ready as we’ll ever be.” A professional, elderly judgment; a quiet voice, in a calm professional tone.& Pacing.

  He reached the end of his track, paused, turned and began again. The youngster forced himself to sit& still. Still. Discipline, that was the command.

  For the small remainder of that shift no one said a word; no news arrived.

  Not that he was surprised, Leverett told himself with an inner, a luxurious sigh; but he certainly did& have his hands full. And a fine time for it, too—not& that there was anybody to blame.

  Evening session. The late call, which was needed if Penn’s support were to appear on time for the& newsmen and their wild wide public, meant that& members would be leaving and even arriving unpredictably, one by one or in small odd groups, sustaining& themselves on the short rations put up by the Dichtung& kitchen downstairs; and, though he could depend& as always on Council members and the more influential Dichtung figures to keep him supplied with a& vaguely accurate running-list of arrivals and departures, there were going to be too many altogether,& and, take it all in all, few enough to count on. For& perhaps the ten-thousandth time he caught himself& thinking that the Dichtung was just too big for any& one man to chair; but when you came down to it,& what else was possible? Alternatives had been& tried—a hundred and fifty years back, under old& Wyss II, when there’d been talk that the science sections were finally on the track of the pre-Comity longevity secrets (they’d lived three hundred years and& more in those days, until they’d managed, for all& practical purposes, to wipe themselves out; so what& good had it all done in the end?)—in those days& some born damned fool had suggested, and actually& pushed through, a Dichtung split into small chambers, each one chaired by a separate member and all& reporting to the Chairman-in-Chief: a sort of committee-system run wild. Geographical-representation& members, interest-group members, project-group& members and all the rest, all split up in the name of& efficiency—and the result, as anyone but a government official would instantly have known, had been& confusion piled on mania piled on chaos. No: it& might be that someone, some day, would come up& with a workably simple scheme of government, but& Leverett, when he thought about it, suspected that& complication was one of the Basic Rules. And, meanwhile . . .

  Well, it might have been different if he’d had a son (or a close friend or a relative of some sort) either in& the Valor or on Thoth, but he’d always been, and by& design, a lone and single man, and as matters stood& he had no idea what good debate was going to do.& The speeches had to be made, but that was all. Basically, he told himself, he was a man of action; and& there was nothing active about dragging out discussion, going nowhere at a great rate, piling up endless& words, and, in the end, leaving the facts of the situation precisely where, before a word had been spoken,& they had been.

  Nevertheless, it was going to go on all night at the very least; Leverett knew the signs.

  The chamber was in reasonable order, and when Fredericks got to his feet, far toward the back and& just to Leverett’s left, the big, brooding figure, like& some pre-Comity statue come to hairy life, was easily& visible. “Will the honorable member yield?” the& statue asked.

  Transcome was in mid-speech; but he knew an ally when he saw one, and barely hesitated. He waved one& fat arm graciously. “I yield to the member for manual trades,” he said, and sat down for a breathing-space. Next to him, Reisinger went on shuffling his& endless papers, making a mark now and then, his thin& mouth tightly set. The two men had no attention to& spare for each other, but Fredericks, glancing round,& gave Reisinger a glance of such hatred that Leverett,& startled, grew instantly watchful. The thing had& stirred up passions; no doubt about that, but no passion& touched Reisinger, or ever would. Apparently that& was what Fredericks had discovered on which to fix& his hate.

  He looked away then, surveying the chamber with a steady single sweep of his head, right and then left.& “I ask the honorable members,” that slow uneducated& voice boomed out, “whether it isn’t true that if the& Space Arm had been as careful in staffing and commissioning its ships as they might have been, such a& preposterous act as this ‘message’ could not have happened—simply could not have happened, gentlemen?”& Silence, and another fixed, expressionless sweep. The& plain, blunt man, Fredericks; and he’d play it as he& always had, for just a trifle more than it was worth.& “I’m no learned scholar, of course. But it does seem& to me that a little more care might have been taken.”& A pause, no more than half a breath’s length. “Doesn’t& it seem that way to you gentlemen, too?”

  He remained, statue-like, standing. Waiting. That, Leverett considered, would teach Forman Alpha to& advise Penn that the new Spacer Arm base be entirely& computer-run; Fredericks’ constituents hadn’t liked& the idea, and Fredericks was still smarting under& what he had the peculiar egotism to consider a personal insult. He was—a common type—a representative who could really act from such a motive.

  The silence contained murmurs, a few voices here and there, the basic hum of the chamber’s work;& Frank Dale, Jr., scrambled to his big feet without disturbing it much, front and center, an “independent,” as he called himself, representing North American& Universities. A hotblood and, for the most part, an& ignorable one; but he had power, no doubt of it. Leverett couldn’t remember a single constituency objection, not the smallest, for ten years. It might have& been some sort of record, he was thinking. Then& Dale’s nasal voice brought him back to the weary& present. “Will the honorable member yield for a& question?”

  Leverett, unable to resist the phrase in the confusion of debate, put in: “Whichever honorable member has the floor,” which earned him a glare from Fredericks (no surprise), and a sudden grin from Dale—& who was not as stuffy as he sometimes sounded.

  “I’m through,” Fredericks said heavily, after a second. And added, into the buzz: “I think Member Transcome for yielding to me; the floor is again his.& Obviously.” Abruptly, he sat down, leaving one more& glare to dissipate in the smoky clarity of the chamber.& Dale, calmly, remained on his feet.

  “Mr. Transcome,” Leverett said.

  Transcome flicked a glance at Dale, pursed his lips to consider, shut his small old eyes, and opened them& again to suspicious slits. “For a question?”

  “That’s what I said, sir,” Dale volunteered in his very clearest voice. “I suggest that you listen—”

  No good inflaming the chamber more than necessary; sharply, Leverett cut in: “Mr. Dale.” Really, the young fool had more
sense . . .

  He had, at least, the grace to look solemn and abashed—for somewhat less than fifteen seconds. But& his voice was not at all subdued. “My apologies to the& honorable member, to the Chair, and to this honorable body.” The formula came out just slowly enough& to make it inoffensive. “The issue at hand tries many& spirits here, and I ask that my own short temper be& referred to that cause. It is the importance of the issue, as members will agree—”

  Leverett had no need to stop Dale; Transcome, as perhaps both men knew, was prepared to do that,& weightily, in all his papery inflexible age. “Mr. Chairman.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “We have had an apology, Mr. Chairman—for which I thank the honorable member most humbly.& But are we to have a speech as well? I believe I have& the floor.”

  “You are correct, Member. You have the floor; no one else has it. The floor is yours, sir.”

  Dale, of course, broke in, sounding a good deal more impetuous than he was: “I repeat my request.”& Transcome slid a glance across the chamber,& thought for a second and then nodded. “For a question only.”

  Dale nodded, absently, and took a quiet breath. Not at all to Leverett’s surprise, he smiled—a snow-on-the-ground sunny day for ten seconds—and became solemn once more. “I should like to ask Member Transcome how he voted on the issue of staffing& and commissioning the ships which—”

  Uproar: & & & of course. Perhaps deliberately cued& (Fredericks? Demeuth?), and certainly, with six raps of the gavel, quickly stilled. When the place was reasonably quiet again Leverett said, as he had to: “Mr.& Dale?” Not much different from an ordinary session,& really; only, perhaps, the least bit more complicated.& Far behind his carefully neutral expression Leverett& laughed.

  “The question of staffing and commissioning the ships which came before this body not eight months& ago, as all here will remember—the vote, in discussion on that issue, was upon the applicability of testing apparatus, and upon a somewhat more rigid scheme& of acceptance in this area, since the testing apparatus& was to be used to pass on new commissions and new& staff assignments; I’m sure we all remember that.”& Dale’s voice was as clear and young as if he’d first& come to the Dichtung twenty-four hours earlier. “I repeat: I’d appreciate information about Member Transcome’s vote.”