Solar Lottery (16 page)

“And … with me?”

“You knew about the bomb.”

Eleanor shuddered. “What could I do?” She hurried after him, frantic with apprehension. “Ted, I couldn’t stop it, could I?”

“You knew that night when we were together. When you talked me into it.”

“Yes!” Eleanor slid defiantly in front of him, blocking his way. “That’s right.” Her green eyes glittered wildly. “I knew. But I meant everything I said to you. I meant it all, Ted.”

“Christ,” Benteley muttered. He turned away, disgusted.

“Listen to me.” She caught imploringly at his arm. “Reese knew, too. Everybody knew. It couldn’t be helped—somebody had to be in it, didn’t they? Answer me!” She stumbled after him. “Answer me!” she screamed.

Benteley stepped back, as a grumbling white-bearded little old man pushed angrily past him toward the ante-chamber. He disappeared inside the room and dropped his heavy book on the table with a thump. He blew his nose, moved critically around examining the chairs and finally took a seat at the head of the table. Reese Verrick, standing glumly at the windows, exchanged a few words with him. A moment later Leon Cartwright followed after Judge Waring.

Benteley’s heart resumed beating, slowly and reluctantly. The session was ready to begin.

There were five people in the room.

Judge Waring sat at one end of the table, surrounded by his law books and tapes. Leon Cartwright faced the massive, ponderous figure of Reese Verrick, separated by two heaped ashtrays and an ugly pitcher of ice water. Benteley and Major Shaeffer sat across from each other at the low end of the table. The final chair was empty; Oster, the ipvic technicians, the Directorate officials, the Hill brass, had been barred. They were in the game room and the gym and basking around the pool. Through the heavy wood door of the ante-chamber filtered the faint vibrations of men and women at play.

“No smoking,” Judge Waring muttered. He glared suspiciously from Verrick to Cartwright and back to Verrick. “Is the recording business going?”

“Yes,” Shaeffer said.

The recording robot crept agilely along the table and took up a position in front of Reese Verrick. “Thanks,” Verrick said, as he collected his papers and prepared to begin.

“Is this the fellow?” Waring asked, indicating Benteley.

“He’s the one I came for,” Verrick said, with a brief glance at Benteley. “But he’s not the only one. They’re all breaking their oaths, turning disloyal and betraying me.” His voice trailed off vaguely. “Certainly not like the old days.” He roused himself and quietly delivered his statement. “Benteley was dropped by Oiseau-Lyre. He was a derelict classified without a position. He came to me at Batavia looking for an 8–8 position; that’s his class. Things were bad for me, at that time. I didn’t know what lay ahead; I was thinking I might have to lay off some of my own staff. Anyhow, I took him on, in spite of my own uncertainty. I took him into my household, gave him an apartment at Farben.”

Shaeffer shot a quick glance at Cartwright; he was ahead of Verrick’s spoken words.

“Everything was in disorder, but I gave Benteley what he wanted. I put him on my biochemist research staff. I gave him a woman to sleep with, fed him, and took care of him. I brought him into my biggest project.” Verrick raised his voice a trifle. “He was given a responsible position in the project, at his own insistence. He stated he wanted to get in on policy-level. I trusted him and gave him what he asked for. At the crucial moment he betrayed me. He killed his immediate superior, dropped his work, and fled. He was too cowardly to go on, so he broke his oath. The critical project collapsed because of him. He came here aboard a Directorate ship and tried to swear on to the Quizmaster.”

Verrick was silent. He had finished.

Benteley heard the words with a kind of dull growing surprise. Was that what had happened? Waring was looking at him curiously, waiting for him to speak. Benteley shrugged; he had nothing to say. It was out of his hands entirely.

Cartwright spoke up. “What was Benteley’s job in this project?”

Verrick hesitated. “He was doing substantially the same work as the other class 8–8 people.”

“Was there any difference?”

Verrick was silent a moment. “Not that I can recall.”

“That’s a lie,” Shaeffer said to Judge Waring. “He knows of a difference.”

Verrick nodded reluctantly. “There was one difference,” he admitted. “Benteley asked for and got the initial position. He would have taken the project to its final stage. He was trusted completely.”

“What was that stage?” Judge Waring asked.

“Benteley’s death,” Cartwright answered.

Verrick didn’t contradict him. He examined his papers moodily until finally Judge Waring asked, “Is that true?”

Verrick nodded.

“Did Benteley know?” Judge Waring demanded.

“Not at first. It wasn’t possible to make the information available to him immediately; he had just arrived on the staff. He betrayed me when he found out.” Verrick’s heavy hands gripped his papers convulsively. “He destroyed the project. They all pulled out; they all let me down.”

“Who else betrayed you?” Shaeffer asked curiously.

Verrick’s strong jaw moved. “Eleanor Stevens. Herb Moore.”

“Oh,” Shaeffer said. “I thought Moore was the man Benteley killed.”

Verrick nodded. “Moore was his immediate superior. He was in charge of the project.”

“If Benteley killed Moore, and Moore had betrayed you …” Shaeffer turned to Judge Waring. “It sounds as if Benteley was acting as a loyal serf.”

Verrick snorted. “Moore betrayed me afterwards. After Benteley—” He broke off.

“Go on,” Shaeffer said.

“After Benteley killed him,” Verrick said woodenly, and with difficulty.

“What’s that?” Judge Waring asked testily. “I don’t understand.”

“Tell him what the project was,” Shaeffer suggested mildly. “Then he’ll understand.”

Verrick studied the table in front of him. He dog-eared a paper and finally spoke. “I have nothing more to say.” He got slowly to his feet. “I withdraw the material relating to Moore’s death. That really isn’t relevant.”

“What do you stand on?” Cartwright asked.

“Benteley pulled out and dropped his work. He left the job I assigned him, the job he took on when he swore on to me.”

“Yes,” Verrick agreed. “But he should have stayed. It was his job.”

Cartwright also rose. “I have nothing else to say,” he said to Judge Waring. “I swore Benteley on because I considered him legitimately free of his prior oath to Verrick. I considered the oath broken by Verrick. Benteley was sent to his death without knowledge. A protector isn’t supposed to send a classified serf to involuntary death. If the serf has a classification, he must get that serf’s written agreement.”

Judge Waring’s beard bobbed up and down. “A classified serf must agree. A protector can only destroy his classified serf on an involuntary basis if the serf has broken his oath. In breaking his oath, the serf forfeits his rights but remains his protector’s property.” Judge Waring gathered up his law books and tapes. “The case here rests on one point. If the protector in question broke his side of the oath first, the serf in question was legally within his rights to drop his work and leave. But if the protector did not break his side of the oath prior to the serf’s departure, then the serf is a felon and liable to the death penalty.”

Cartwright moved toward the door. Verrick followed after him, his heavy face dark and brooding, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “That’s it, then,” Cartwright said. “We’ll wait for your decision.”

*   *   *

Benteley was with Rita O’Neill when the decision came. Shaeffer approached him briefly. “I’ve been scanning old Judge Waring,” he said. “He’s finally made up his mind.”

It was “evening” in the resort. Benteley and Rita were sitting in one of the small side-bars of the resort, two vague shapes in the dim color-twisting shadows that hung around their table. A single aluminum candle sputtered between them. Directorate officials were sitting here and there in the room, murmuring, gazing vacantly ahead, sipping their drinks. A MacMillan moved silently around. “Well?” Benteley said. “What is it?”

“It’s in your favor,” Shaeffer said. “He’ll announce it in a few minutes. Cartwright told me to let you know as soon as possible.”

“Then Verrick has no claim over me,” Benteley said wonderingly. “I’m safe.”

“That’s right.” Shaeffer moved away from the table. “Congratulations.” He disappeared through the entrance and was gone.

Rita put her hand on Benteley’s. “Thank heavens.”

Benteley felt no emotion, only an empty sort of daze. “I guess that settles it,” he murmured. He absently watched a flow of color move up the side of the wall, hover against the ceiling and then re-descend like a fluid spider. It dissolved back into basic swirls and dabs, then formed once more and started its slow crawl back up.

“We should celebrate,” Rita said.

“Yes, I’m where I wanted to be.” Benteley sipped the remains of his drink. “Working for the Directorate. Sworn in to the Quizmaster. This is what I set out for, that day. It seems like a long time ago. Well, I’ve finally arrived.” He gazed down at his glass and was silent.

“How do you feel?”

“Not much different.”

Rita tore apart a match folder and fed the fragments to the metallic candle. “You’re not satisfied, are you?”

“I’m as far from satisfaction as it’s humanly possible to be.”

“Why?” she asked softly.

“I haven’t really done anything. I thought it was the Hills, but Wakeman was right. It isn’t the Hills—it’s the whole society. The stench is everywhere. Getting away from the Hill system doesn’t help me or anybody else.” He pushed his drink angrily away. “I could simply hold my nose and pretend it isn’t there. But that isn’t enough. Something has to be done about it. The whole weak, bright thing has to be pulled down. It’s rotten, corrupt … it’s ready to fall on its face. But something has to go up in its place; something has to be built. Tearing down isn’t enough.
I’ve got to help build up the new.
It has to be different for other people. I’d like to do something that really alters things. I have to do something that alters things.”

“Maybe you can.”

Benteley looked ahead into the future, from where he was sitting. “How? Where’ll the chance come from? I’m still a serf. I’m still tied down and under oath.”

“You’re young. We’re both young. We’ve got a lot of years ahead of us to do things and plan things.” Rita lifted her glass. “We’ve a whole lifetime to alter the course of the universe.”

Benteley smiled. “Okay. I’ll drink to that.” He raised his own glass and touched hers with a clear clink. “But not too much.” His smile ebbed away. “Verrick is still hanging around. I’ll wait until he leaves to do my drinking.”

Rita finished feeding bits of paper to the white-hot candle flame. “What would happen if he killed you?”

“They’d shoot him.”

“What would happen if he killed my uncle?”

“They’d take away his power card. He’d never be Quizmaster.”

“He won’t be Quizmaster anyhow,” Rita said quietly.

“What’s on your mind?” Benteley roused himself. “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t believe he’ll go back empty-handed. He can’t stop at this point.” She glanced up at him, dark-eyed and serious. “It’s not over, Ted. He has to kill somebody.”

Benteley started to answer. At that moment a slim shadow fell over the table. He glanced up, one hand in his pocket, against the cold heel of his gun.

“Hello,” Eleanor Stevens said. “Mind if I join you?”

She sat down quietly facing them, hands folded calmly in front of her, a fixed, mechanical smile on her lips. Her green eyes flashed brightly at Benteley and then at Rita. In the half-shadows of the bar her hair glowed a deep rust red, soft and heavy against her bare neck and shoulders.

“Who are you?” Rita said.

Green eyes dancing, Eleanor leaned forward to light her cigarette from the candle. “Just a name. Not really a person, any more. Isn’t that right, Ted?”

“You better get out of here,” Benteley said. “I don’t think Verrick wants you with us.”

“I haven’t seen Verrick since I got here. Except at a distance. Maybe I’ll leave him. Maybe I’ll just walk off; everybody else seems to be doing it.”

“Be careful,” Benteley said.

“Careful? About what?” Eleanor blew a cloud of gray smoke around Benteley and Rita. “I couldn’t help hearing what you were saying. You’re right.” Her eyes were fixed intently on Rita; she spoke rapidly in a sharp, brittle voice. “Verrick is trying to decide. He wants you, Ted, but he’ll settle for Cartwright if he can’t get you. He’s down in his quarters trying to make up his mind. He used to have Moore around to arrange things in a neat mathematical equation. Assign an arbitrary value of plus 50 for killing Benteley. But minus 100 for being shot in retribution. Assign an arbitrary value of plus
40 for killing Cartwright. But a minus 50 for losing his power card. Both ways he loses.”

“That’s right,” Benteley said warily. “He loses both ways.”

“Here’s another,” Eleanor said brightly. “I thought this one up myself.” She nodded merrily to Rita. “I mean, you thought it up. But I made up the equation. Assign an arbitrary value of plus 40 for killing Cartwright. And then try this: assign a minus 100 by Cartwright for being killed. That takes care of that part; that’s for Reese. Then there’s my own, but that’s not much.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Rita said indifferently.

“I do,” Benteley said.
“Look out!”

Eleanor had already moved. On her feet like a silent cat, she grabbed up the aluminum candle and ground the tube of bubbling flame into Rita’s face.

Benteley slammed the candle away; with a tinny grumble it rolled from the table and clanked onto the floor. Soundlessly, Eleanor slipped around the table to Rita O’Neill. Rita sat pawing helplessly at her eyes. Her black hair and skin were smoking and charred; the acrid odor of seared flesh filled the murky air of the bar. Eleanor yanked the woman’s hand away. Something glittered between the girl’s fingers, a jagged scarf-pin that came swiftly up at Rita’s eyes. Benteley hurled the girl away; she clung to him desperately, clawing and stabbing blindly until he shook her loose. Green eyes wild and glazed, she spun away and vanished into the black shadows of the room.

Benteley turned quickly to Rita O’Neill. “I’m all right,” Rita said between clenched teeth. “Thanks. The candle went out and she didn’t get me with the pin. Better try to catch her.”

People on all sides were leaping up and hurrying over. Eleanor had already disappeared from the bar, out into the corridor. A MacMillan medical attendant wheeled efficiently
from its emergency locker, into the bar and over to the table. Rapidly, it cleared the people back, Benteley along with the others.

“Go on,” Rita said patiently, her hands over her face, elbows resting against the table. “You know where she’s going. Try to stop her. You know what he’ll do to her.”

Benteley left the bar. The corridor was deserted. He began to run toward the descent lift. A moment later he emerged on the ground level of the resort. A few people stood around here and there. At the far end of the corridor he glimpsed a flash of green and red; he raced forward. He turned a corner—and stopped dead.

Eleanor Stevens stood facing Reese Verrick. “Listen to me,” she was saying. “Don’t you understand?
It’s the only way.
” Her voice rose in shrill panic. “Reese, for God’s sake believe me. Take me back! I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I left you but I won’t do it again. I’m bringing you this, aren’t I?”