down by police tracers. However, itcould perform a miracle as a diversion.
VI
Hunter slid into the car, punched out a destination blindly, andengaged the flight gear. With the customary roar of power, the carshot up from the flat. Hunter leaped free. His feet struck the cement.The lingering trace of paralysis, destroying his normal co-ordination,made the fall very painful.
Hunter flung himself flat in the shadow of the ornamental shrubs alongthe edge of the parking flat. The four police mercenaries sprinted outof the house and leaped into the police jet. With sirens screaming,it soared up in pursuit of the empty autojet.
Hunter estimated that he had perhaps thirty minutes before they sentout a general alarm. A painfully small margin of safety. Where couldhe hide that the machines of detection--the skilled, emotionless,one-track, electronic brains--would not eventually find him? And whatof Ann Saymer? What could he do as a fugitive to save her?
United had planned it all down to the smallest detail. But that wasthe way the cartels operated. It was the system Hunter was accustomedto. He felt neither anger not resentment, simply a determination toout-plan and out-play the enemy.
If he accepted defeat he would admit frustration, and for Captain MaxHunter that was impossible. Hadn't he survived a decade of frontierconflict with an adjustment index of zero-zero? Instead of hopelesslyweighing the odds stacked against him, he counted the advantage whicha single man held in maneuverability and rapid change of pace.
He walked along the museum street, the blaster in his hand. A blockaway rose the bulk of a factory building and behind it towered themonster of center-city, transformed into a fairyland by the glow oflights on the many levels. Hunter's eye followed the pattern up towardthe top, hidden above the blanket of haze.
The top! Luxury casinos and the castles of the cartels. Werner vonRausch and his empire of United Researchers. Werner von Rausch, whogave orders and Ann Saymer disappeared. Werner von Rausch, who gavenew orders and Mrs. Ames lay murdered in her living room.
But behind the facade of his spacefleet and his private army, behindhis police mercenaries, Werner von Rausch was one man--an old man,Hunter had been told--and a vulnerable target. Hunter weighed hischanges, and the margin of success seemed to be balanced in his favor.
It was not what they would expect him to do. They had framed him formurder and he should now be running for his life. The hunted turnedhunter. Hunter grinned savagely, enjoying his pun.
* * * * *
He slipped the blaster under his belt, leaving the scarlet jacket opento his navel so that the loose folds would conceal the outline of theweapon. He would have no trouble reaching the top level.
The resort casinos, like the mid-city amusement area, were open to anycitizen. Special autojets, with destinations pre-set for the casinoflat, were available in every monorail terminal. Hunter could by-passa probe inspection at a regular metro-entry. The nearest terminal,from the north-coast line, was less than a quarter of a mile away.
As Hunter entered the industrial district he heard the turmoil of anangry crowd. He came upon them suddenly, swarming at the gates of afactory close to the terminal.
Eric Young's trouble-makers, he thought with a worried frown, jumpingobediently when the big boss spoke the word. In less than five yearsEric Young had turned the union into a third cartel, more powerfulthan Consolidated or United because the commodity Youngcontrolled--human labor--was essential to the other two.
A third cartel! Suddenly Max Hunter understood why the cartels had tohave Ann's patent at any cost. The absolute control of the human mind!It was the only weapon which Consolidated or United could use to breakYoung's power.
Hunter shouldered his way through the strikers toward the terminal.Though he wore no U.F.W. disc, he felt no alarm. Eric Young's strikeriots were always well-managed. None of the violence was real and noone was ever seriously hurt.
But these trouble-makers seemed absurdly well-disciplined. They stoodin drill-team ranks, moving and shouting abuse in perfect unison. ThenHunter saw their faces, as blank as death masks--and in all theirskulls the still unhealed scalpel wound, as well as an occasionalprojecting platinum strand which sometimes caught the reflected light.
Max Hunter felt a chill of terror. He was walking in a human graveyardof living automatons, responding to the transmission from Ann'smachine. United had lost no time in putting the thing to work. Thiswas no ordinary strike, but the opening skirmish in the conflict thatwould wreck both Consolidated and the Union of Free Workers.
Hunter entered the monorail terminal. It was deserted except for awoman who stood by the window looking out at the crowd. She waswearing a demure, pink dress. Her face was plain, and she had used nocosmetic plasti-skin to make it more striking. Her brown hair,streaked with a gray which she took no trouble to hide, was pulledinto a bun at the back of her neck.
Surprisingly, Hunter thought she was pretty, perhaps because she wasso different from the eternal, baby-faced adolescent who thronged thecity in a million identical duplications.
Hunter knew he had seen her before. He couldn't remember where. Sheshifted her position slightly and the light cast a sharp, angularshadow on her face. Then he knew.
"Dawn!" he cried.
Startled, she turned to face him with a strange look in her eyes.
"I was hoping you wouldn't recognize me, Captain Hunter," she said.
"What are you doing here--dressed like some dowdy just in from a farmsector?" he asked, his gaze incredulous.
"We're all of us a mixture of different personalities," she replied."I work for an entertainment house, yes. But I also have some of thequalities of your Ann Saymer. Don't take offense, please. Ann and Iare both interested in the maladjusted. She wants a quick cure. I'mlooking for the cause."
"Here?"
"Wherever there are people who face an emotional crisis--the men whocome to Number thirty-four, or a mob of strikers. I want to know whywe react in the way we do, and what makes up the frustration patternthat crowds us across the borderline into insanity."
"You sound like a psychiatrist," he said.
"I hold a First, Captain Hunter."
"And you work in an entertainment house?"
"Tell me about yourself, Captain. Have you found Ann yet?"
He looked away quickly.
"No," he said, his face hardening.
"And you still haven't had a chance to use your blaster?"
He directed an appraising glance at her. The question might imply agreat deal. Did she somehow know what had happened at Mrs. Ames'? Didshe know he was a fugitive?
A dozen police mercenaries appeared abruptly at the end of the street.Since the police had never been used to break a strike, Hunter guessedthat this was Consolidated's answer to Werner von Rausch's new weapon.
The mercenaries drew their blasters and ordered the mob to disperse.The automatons turned to face them. And as they turned they fellsilent--the cloying, choking silence of the tomb. Like marchingpuppets, the mob moved toward the police. Clearly Hunter could hear ashrill voice ordering them to halt.
Hunter felt a sickening inner horror. How could the mob obey when theyheard nothing but the enslaving grid, and responded to neither fearnor reason? Still they moved forward, in a robot death march. Whateverhappened, it was a situation Young could turn to his advantage. If themercenaries killed unarmed workers, it could be turned into superbpropaganda. And ultimately, by sheer weight of numbers, thedefenseless mob could overwhelm the mercenaries.
White fire leaped from the blasters. The first rank fell, but the mobmarched blindly across the smoking corpses. The mercenaries firedagain. It was slaughter--brutal and pointless--of slaves unaware oftheir danger, unable to save themselves.
Without understanding his own motivation--and without caring--MaxHunter leaped into the sill of the terminal window. There he was in aposition to fire over the heads of the mob. The blast from his weaponarrowed into the line of police mercenaries.
Thre
e fell in the agony of the flames. The rest, glad for an excuse tostop the slaughter, turned and fled. Like clockwork things, the mobturned back and resumed its precision demonstration in front of thefactory.
Hunter slipped white-faced into a terminal bench. His hand trembled ashe jammed the blaster back beneath his belt.
"Why did you do it, Captain?" Dawn asked.
How could he answer her, without saying he had seen the grids in theirskulls? And he wasn't ready to trust Dawn to that extent.
"The people couldn't help themselves," he said ambiguously.
"Because they're in the U.F.W. and Eric Young cracks the whip. Is thatwhat you mean?"
"They weren't aware of their own danger."
"Miscalculating the risks then? But that's part of the system,Captain. If you can't fight your way up to the top--"
"Then the system is utterly vicious."
"You don't mean that," she said.
"Why not? We're living in a jungle society. It's nothing butconflict--conflict on the frontier and conflict here from the timethey put you in the general school."
"Only the children who have the intelligence--"
"But why?" he interrupted fiercely. "Where does it get us?"
"We have a stable society," she told him. "Peace of a sort. Lawenforcement, too, and a chance to build something better when we learnhow."
"Something better?" He laughed as he stood up. "We'll get that when wepull this hell apart, and not before."
She put her hand on his arm. "No, Captain. It's not realistic to saythat. Over and over again in the past we wrecked civilization becausegood-hearted and conscientious people thought there was no other wayto create a finer world. It didn't work, because violence is madness.This time we have to begin where we are and build rationally. We can,you know, when we understand what we have to build with."
"What else do we need to know, Dawn? You're falling back on thetypical double-talk of the psychiatrists. With all the application ofphysical science that we have--"
"I wasn't thinking of technology, Captain. Civilization isn'tmachines. It's people. Our accumulation of knowledge is tremendous,but essentially it means nothing because we know so little aboutourselves. It's absurd to talk of making something better until wereally know the individual we're making it for."
"Go ahead," he countered angrily. "Pussy-foot around with yourcautious experiments, make sure nobody gets hurt--and you'll all endup slaves. As for me, I'm going to find Ann and get out while there'sstill time."
"Always the same two alternatives," Dawn said wearily. "Pull down theworld, or run away from it. We need the courage to try somethingdifferent. We need men who will act like men. I thought, Captain, bythis time--" She looked up into his eyes. "Where are you going?"
"To the top--the casinos." Her abrupt question took him off balanceand almost surprised him into telling the whole truth.
"Top level." She paused, studying his face. "That's logical, ofcourse. You'll rescue your woman and run away--perhaps to thefrontier, or to a forgotten world too insignificant to be claimed byeither cartel. It all sounds so easy, doesn't it? You have friends inthe service. They'll smuggle you away from Sector West." She hesitatedagain. "Running away is insanity, too, Captain. But that is one thingyou still have to learn."
VII
Max Hunter rode the autojet to the casino. As the machine rose pastthe city levels, he found himself thinking less about Ann and a gooddeal more about Dawn--a Recreational companion woman who wassimultaneously a psychiatrist. Where did she really fit in the subtlebattle between the titan cartels? Which of them was her ally--or didDawn represent another element as yet unidentified?
Knowing Ann Saymer had taught Hunter a wholesome respect for thethinking of a First in Psychiatry. They operated with a deviousnessthat made cartel treacheries seem like child's play. He knew that Dawnhad manipulated their conversation in the terminal to her own ends.Behind that deftly-phrased patter of words, what else had she tried totell him? And what had she tried to find out? "Top level," she hadsaid. "That's logical." Why logical? Logical to whom? Did she knowwhere he was going and why?
The autojet thudded on the casino flat. A female attendant, robed in askin-colored sheath bright with amber jewels, held open the cab doorfor him. Hunter entered the nearest casino. At the door he showed hissaving record in the Solar First National Fund, and a casino tellerissued him a ten thousand credit limit, the smallest denominationavailable. The resorts weren't wasting effort on pikers.
Although the casinos everywhere in the system were popular withspacemen, Hunter had never been to the top level before because Annhad seen to it that his surplus credits went into their savings.
It was Hunter's opinion that he hadn't missed much. The Los Angelesresorts duplicated, on an elaborate scale, the most unsavoryestablishments of the frontier. Anything which by any stretch of aperverted imagination could be defined as entertainment wasavailable--at a price.
It was early and the crowd was still small. It consisted of spacemenon the usual furlough binge, a handful of suburbanites who hadhoarded a half-year's savings for this one-night fling in the bigresorts, and a dozen bright-faced executives from the lower levels ofthe cartel hierarchy. The big brass would turn up later on, at a morefashionable hour.
At all costs, Hunter had to keep himself inconspicuous. His uniformwas not entirely out of place, although Consolidated did issue itscommanders a formal outfit--more gold braid, a jeweled insignia, and ajacket cut to emphasize the broad shoulders.
Hunter stopped at the snack bar and wolfed a plate of cold cuts, thefirst food he had eaten since morning. Then he moved indirectly acrossthe pillared gambling pavilion, pausing at two tables to place bets.His objective was to find a vantage point in the upper floor of thecasino where he could observe the geographic layout of the top level.
He slipped quickly into the dark well of an emergency stairway,feeling reasonably sure that no one had seen him leave the game room.More than half an hour had passed since he had fled Mrs. Ames' roominghouse and he was convinced that very shortly--if they had not done soalready--the police would put out a general alarm.
As a matter of course, there would be inquiries at the top level, butat first they would be made by police mercenaries. No one in thecasino had any reason to identify Hunter as the fugitive. Later on, ofcourse, when the police used electronic trackers, he wouldn't stand achance. But before that happened he intended to make a deal withWerner von Rausch.
At the top of the stairs he found a tower window which afforded acrow's nest view of the top level. The twelve casinos, bright withlights, occupied more than half the area. Beyond the resort parklandwas the small, white government building, dignified by its simplicityamong so much ostentation. Beside it was the transparent semi-spherehousing the top landing of the center-city lifts. A third structure--agrotesque mechanical monster trapped in the heart of a spider-web ofconverging wires--was the power distribution center for the top level.
In back of the government building a high, metal-faced fence knifedacross the level. That fence guarded the forbidden home-ground of thetitans. Hunter could see the silhouette of the cartel castles risingagainst the sky, two gigantic masses of stone. The one on the west wasFarren's; the eastern one, Von Rausch's. That much and no more wascommon knowledge.
Were the two families, who had fought for so long to control theempire beyond the stars, on speaking terms here? Did they observe thesocial amenities in the same spirit that their companies enforced thesham peace on earth? In their lonely, lofty isolation, whatamusements did they enjoy? What contributed to the enrichment of thelives of those fragile beings who possessed the wealth of the galaxy?
Hunter was sure no armed guards patrolled the forbidden paradise.There was no need for them, for scanners formed a protective grid overthe area. An autojet, attempting a landing from any direction, wouldbreak a beam and instantly become the target for the autoblasterserected at intervals along the fence. A man attempting to scale thewall would meet the s
ame lethal charge.
Hunter saw one small gate with an identification screen mounted infront of it. Obviously the gate would open to the handprint of a VonRausch or a Farren. But a stranger would find himself standing in theline of fire of two blasters, conspicuous over the gate.
The scanners, the blasters, the identification screen--all thecomplex, electronic watchdogs--depended solely upon power. Countlessother people, Hunter knew, had realized that. Only mechanicallyproduced power made the area invulnerable. Anyone could break throughthe fence. It hadn't been done before, perhaps, because no other manhad ever had Hunter's motivation. None had been a fugitive on the run.
Hunter made his way out of the casino and crossed the park in thedirection of the government building. Sheltered by the trees from theblaze of light, he was able to see the stars, bright in the velvetsky. The endless universe! Somewhere he could find a haven for himselfand Ann, a pinprick of light in the high-arching firmament which thecartels had overlooked.
Dawn had said that running away was madness. But what alternative didhe have? To stay, and attempt to make the cartel rat-race over,sweetly and rationally so that no one would be hurt? Hunter laughedbitterly. Von Rausch had the Exorciser, and he could keep it. It wouldbe part of the bargain the captain thought he could make to save Ann.With that weapon, Von Rausch would sooner or later tear his own worldto shreds. No man in his right mind would want to stay around to pickup the pieces--if any. He drew his blaster and took careful aim at thepower distribution center.
The machine exploded. Burning wires sang in the air. In the casinosthe lights winked out, and