«You spoke of a man named Foyle, Captain Yeovil?» Presteign prompted. Captain Peter Y'ang-Yeovil of Central Intelligence was a lineal descendant of the learned Mencius and belonged to the Intelligence Tong of the Inner Planets Armed Forces. For two hundred years the IPAF had entrusted its intelligence work to the Chinese who, with a five thousand-year history of cultivated subtlety behind them, had achieved wonders. Captain Y'angYcovil was a member of the dreaded Society of Paper Men, an adept of the Tientsin Image Makers, a Master of Superstition, and fluent in the Secret Speech. He did not look Chinese.
Y'ang-Yeovil hesitated, fully aware of the psychological pressures operating against him. He examined Presteign's ascetic, basilisk face; Sheffield's blunt, aggressive expression; and the eager young man named Bunny whose rabbit features had an unmistakable Oriental cast. It was necessary for Yeovil to re-establish control or effect a compromise.
He opened with a flanking movement. «Are we related anywhere within fifteen degrees of consanguinity?» he asked Bunny in the Mandarin dialect. «I am of the house of the learned Meng-Tse whom the barbarians call Mencius.»
«Then we are hereditary enemies,» Bunny answered in faltering Mandarin. «For the formidable ancestor of my line was deposed as governor of Shantung in 342 B.C. by the earth pig Meng-Tse.»
«With all courtesy I shave your ill-formed eyebrows,» Y'ang-Yeovil said.
«Most respectfully I singe your snaggle teeth.» Bunny laughed.
«Come, sirs,» Presteign protested.
«We are reaffirming a three thousand-year blood feud,» Y'ang-Yeovil explained to Presteign, who looked sufficiently unsettled by the conversation and the laughter which he did not understand. He tried a direct thrust. «When will you be finished with Foyle?» he asked.
«What Foyle?» Sheffield cut in.
'What Foyle have you got?»
«There are thirteen of that name associated with the clan Presteign.»
«An interesting number. Did you know I was a Master of Superstition? Some day I must show you the Mirror-And-Listen Mystery. I refer to the Foyle involved in a reported attempt on Mr. Presteign's life this morning.»
«Presteign,» Presteign corrected. «I am not 'Mister.' I am Presteign of, Presteign.»
«Three attempts have been made on Presteign's life,» Sheffield said. «You'll have to be more specific.»
«Three this morning? Presteign must have been busy.» Y'ang-Yeovil sighed. Sheffield was proving himself a resolute opponent. The Intelligence man tried another diversion. «I do wish our Mr. Presto had been more specific.»
«Your Mr. Presto!» Presteign exclaimed.
«Oh yes. Didn't you know one of your five hundred Prestos was an agent of ours? That's odd. We took it for granted you'd find out and went ahead with a confusion operation.»
Presteign looked appalled. Y'ang-Yeovil crossed his legs and continued to chat breezily. «That's the basic weakness in routine intelligence procedure; you start finessing before finesse is required.»
«He's bluffing,» Presteign burst out. «None of our Prestos could possibly have any knowledge of Gulliver Foyle.»
«Thank you.» Y'ang-Yeovil smiled. «That's the Foyle I want. When can you let us have him?»
Sheffield scowled at Presteign and then turned on Y'ang-Yeovil. «Who's 'us'?» he demanded.
«Central Intelligence.»
«Why do you want him?»
«Do you make love to a woman before or after you take your clothes off?»
«That's a damned impertinent question to ask.»
«And so was yours. When can you let us have Foyle?»
«When you show cause.»
«To whom?»
«To me.» Sheffield hammered a heavy forefinger against his palm. «This is a civilian matter concerning civilians. Unless war material, war personnel, or the strategy and tactics of a war-in-being are involved, civilian jurisdiction shall always prevail.»
«303 Terran Appeals 191,» murmured Bunny.
«The 'Nomad' was carrying war material.»
«The 'Nomad' was transporting platinum bullion to Mars Bank,» Presteign snapped. «If money is a…”
«I am leading this discussion,» Sheffield interrupted. He swung around on Y'ang-Yeovil. «Name the war material.»
This blunt challenge knocked Y'ang-Yeovil off balance. He knew that the crux of the «Nomad» situation was the presence on board the ship of 20 pounds of PyrE, the total world supply, which was probably irreplaceable now that its discoverer had disappeared. He knew that Sheffield knew that they both knew this. He had assumed that Sheffield would prefer to keep PyrE unnamed. And yet, here was the challenge to name the unnamable.
He attempted to meet bluntness with bluntness. «All right, gentlemen, I'll name it now. The 'Nomad' was transporting twenty pounds of a substance called PyrE.»
Presteign started; Sheffield silenced him. «What's PyrE?»
«According to our reports…”
«From Presteign's Mr. Presto?»
«Oh, that was bluff,» Y'ang-Yeovil laughed, and momentarily regained control. «According to Intelligence, PyrE was developed for Presteign by a man who subsequently disappeared. PyrE is a Misch Metal, a pyrophore. That's all we know for a fact. But we've had vague reports about it .
Unbelievable reports from reputable agents. If a fraction of our inferences are correct, PyrE could make the difference between a victory and a defeat.»
«Nonsense. No war materiel has ever made that much difference.»
«No? I cite the fission bomb of ~ I cite the Null-G anti-gravity installations of 2022. Talley's All-Field Radar Trip Screen of 2194. Material can often make the difference, especially when there's the chance of the enemy getting it first?'
«There's no such chance now.»
«Thank you for admitting the importance of PyrE.»
«I admit nothing; I deny everything.»
«Central Intelligence is prepared to offer an exchange. A man for a man. The inventor of PyrE for Gully Foyle.»
«You've got him?» Sheffield demanded. «Then why badger us for Foyle?»
«Because we've got a corpse!» Y'ang-Yeovil flared. «The Outer Satellites command had him on Lassell for six months trying to carve information out of him. We pulled him out with a raid at a cost of 79 per cent casualties. We rescued a corpse. We still don't know if the Outer Satellites were having a cynical laugh at our expense letting us recapture a body. We still don't know how much they ripped out of him.»
Presteign sat bolt upright at this. His merciless fingers tapped slowly and sharply.
«Damn it,» Y'ang-Yeovil stormed. «Can't you recognize a crisis, Sheffield? We're on a tightrope. What the devil are you doing backing Presteign in this shabby deal? You're the leader of the Liberal party . . . Terra's archpatriot. You're Presteign's political archenemy. Sell him out, you fool, before he sells us all out.»
«Captain Yeovil,» Presteign broke in with icy venom. «These expressions cannot be countenanced.»
«We want and need PyrE,» Y'ang-Yeovil continued. «We'll have to investigate that twenty pounds of PyrE, rediscover the synthesis, learn to apply it to the war effort . . . and all this before the O.S. beats us to the punch, if they haven't already. But Presteign refuses to co-operate. Why? Because he's opposed to the party in power. He wants no military victories for the Liberals. He'd rather we lost the war for the sake of politics because rich men like Presteign never lose. Come to your senses, Sheffield. You've been retained by a traitor. What in God's name are you trying to do?»
Before Sheffield could answer, there was a discreet tap on the door of the Star Chamber and Saul Dagenham was ushered in. Time was when Dagenham was one of the Inner Planets' research wizards, a physicist with inspired intuition, total recall, and a sixth-order computer for a brain. But there was an accident at Tycho Sands, and the fission blast that should have killed him did not. Instead it turned him dangerously radioactive; it turned him «hot»; it transformed him into a twenty-fourth century «Typhoid Mary.» He was paid ~r 25,000 a year by the Inner planets government to take precautions which they trusted him to carry out. He avoided physical contact with any person for more than five minutes per day. He could not occupy any room other than his own for more than thirty minutes a day. Commanded and paid by the IP to isolate himself, Dagenham had abandoned research and built the colossus of Dagenham Couriers, Inc.