Oster clutched his script convulsively and read on. Sweat rolled down the gulleys of his flat, broken nose, down to his cracked lips and stubbled chin. Breathing hoarsely, he finished his speech and lay back exhausted as the indifferent engineers switched to the next programme.

He had ceased recording. A chance observation had disclosed that the ipvic technicians were speeding up the tape slightly, turning his angry words into the squeaks of a mechanical gnome and his gestures into the twitches of a puppet.

He got to his feet and snatched up the dispatches from the newsmachines that had come in during his speech. He scanned them and then headed at a shambling gait for the sound-proof ipvic booth. A few moments later he was facing Leon Cartwright on a closed-circuit connection.

"This is late to call you," he said, "but I———"

"Wait!" Cartwright cut him off. His face was pale and drawn; dark circles were round his eyes. "I don't trust these ipvic lines. I'm having Tate—President of IPVIC— investigated. He may be tied with Verrick in some way."

"Ipvic is a monopoly. If you don't use its lines you can't get your signal relayed to the ship." Oster ran his heavy hands along the so-called 'guarantee' meters; they alleged that the signal was not being tapped at any point. "And you have to keep in contact with the ship."

"I'm waiting as long as possible." Cartwright saw the wad of newstapes in Oster's fist. "What have you to tell me? I know you get first crack at the reports."

"Just one thing. It came over a few seconds ago; soon it'll be screeched from the public machines."

Cartwright's expression didn't change, but his knuckles whitened and he began rubbing his hands together as if to warm them. "They didn't waste any time."

Oster unrolled the tape. "His name is Keith Pellig."

"I've never heard of him."

"Me, neither. Strange; I've kept myself well posted on top-level material. But he must be something or Verrick wouldn't risk a million dollars on him." Savagely, Oster slammed the newstapes down. "Well, he's on his way. Get your Corps ready."

"Keith Pellig," Cartwright murmured.

"That's the assassin. The man who's going to kill you in cold blood."

The burnished wisp of grey slid silently in front of Ted Benteley. Its doors rolled back and a slim shape stepped out into darkness.

"Who is it?" Benteley demanded. Wind lashed through the moist foliage on the Davis house. Far-off sounds of activity echoed hollowly, and the Chemie Hill factories boomed dully.

"Where in God's name have you been?" a girl's clipped, anxious contralto asked. "Verrick sent for you an hour ago."

"I was here," Benteley answered.

Eleanor Stevens emerged quickly from the shadows. "You should have kept in touch when the ship landed. He's furious." She glanced nervously around. "Where's Davis? Inside?"

"Of course. What's all this about?"

"Don't get excited." The girl's voice was as taut as the frozen stars shining overhead. "Go back and get Davis and his wife. I'll wait in the car."

Al Davis gaped in amazement as he pushed open the front door and entered the room. "He wants us," Benteley said. "Tell Laura; he wants her, too."

Laura was sitting on the edge of the bed, unstrapping her sandals. She quickly smoothed her slacks down over her ankles as Al entered the bedroom. "Come on, honey," Al bade his wife.

"Is something wrong?" Laura leaped quickly up.

The three of them moved out into the chill night. Eleanor started up the car and rolled the doors shut; the car glided out on to the road and instantly gained speed. Dark houses and trees flashed past. Abruptly, with a sickening whoosh, the car rose above the pavement. It skimmed briefly, then arced high over a row of tension cables. A few minutes later it was gaining altitude over the sprawling mass of buildings and streets that made up the parasitic clusters round the Chemie Hill.

"What's this all about?" Benteley demanded. The car shuddered as magnetic grapple-beams caught it and lowered it towards the winking buildings below. "We have a right to know something."

"We're going to have a party," Eleanor said, with a smile that barely moved her lips. She allowed the car to come to rest against a magnetic disc; then she cut the power and threw open the doors. "Get out. We're here."

Their heels clattered in the deserted corridor as Eleanor led them from one level to the next. A few silent uniformed guards stood at regular intervals, their faces sleepy and impassive.

Eleanor waved open a double-sealed door and nodded them briskly inside. Fragrant air greeted them as they pushed uncertainly past her.

Reese Verrick stood with his back to them. He was fumbling angrily with something, his massive arms moving in rage.

"How the hell do you work this thing?" he bellowed. There came a protesting shriek of torn metal. "Damn, I think I've broken it."

He turned, a huge hunched bear, with shaggy brows protruding belligerently. His blazing eyes bored into the three newcomers as they stood uneasily together. Eleanor Stevens unzipped her greatcoat and tossed it over the back of a luxurious couch.

"Here they are," she said to Verrick. "They were all together, enjoying themselves." She stalked over, long legged in her velvet slacks and leather sandals, and stood before the fire. In the flickering light her flesh glowed a deep luminous red.

Verrick turned without ceremony to Benteley. "Always be where I can find you." He spat his words out con­temptuously. "I don't have any more teeps around to thought-wave people in. I have to find them the hard way." He jerked his thumb at Eleanor. "She came along, but minus ability."

Eleanor smiled bleakly and said nothing.

Verrick spun round and shouted at Herb Moore, who had emerged from a deep chair in the corner. "Is that damn thing fixed yet?"

"Almost."

Verrick grunted. "This is a sort of celebration," he said to Benteley, "although I don't know what about."

Herb Moore strolled over, confident and full of talk, a sleek little model of an interplan star rocket in his hands.

"We've got plenty to celebrate. This is the first time a Quizmaster chose an assassin. Pellig isn't somebody chosen by a bunch of senile fogies; Verrick has had him on tap and——"

"You talk too much," Verrick cut in. "You're too full of easy words."

Benteley moved uncomfortably away. Verrick was slightly drunk, but behind his clumsy movements was a mind that missed nothing.

The chamber was high-ceilinged and like a church, domed and ribbed, its roof dissolving in amber gloom.

Laura was examining tapestries that hung dead and heavy over the windows. On a mantel over the huge fire­place were battered Saxon cups. Benteley gingerly took one down. It was a ponderous lump in his hands.

"You'll meet Pellig in a few minutes," Verrick an­nounced. "Eleanor and Moore have already met him."

Moore laughed, an offensive sharp bark, like that of a thin-toothed dog.

"I've met him, all right," he said.

"He's cute," Eleanor said tonelessly.

Verrick continued: "Talk to him, stay with him. I want everybody to see him. I plan to send out only one assassin."

He strode to the closed double-doors at the end of the room and waved them open. Sound and rolling volumes of light billowed out.

"Get in there," Verrick ordered. "I'll find Pellig."

"A drink, sir or madam?"

Eleanor Stevens accepted a glass from the tray passed by a MacMillan robot. "What about you?" she said to Benteley. She brought the robot back and took a second glass. "Try it. Some kind of berry that grows on the sun­ward side of Callisto, in the cracks of a certain kind of shale. Verrick has a special work-camp to collect it."