Amusement twisted the girl's lips. "Is that so? Interest­ing... ." She shrugged her bare shoulders. "Swear him, Peter."

The small man hesitated.

"I'm Peter Wakeman," he said to Benteley. "This girl is Eleanor Stevens, Verrick's private secretary."

It wasn't exactly what Benteley had expected. There was a silence as the three of them appraised one another.

"The MacMillan passed him in," Wakeman said presently. "There's an open call for 8-8 people. But I think Verrick has no need for more biochemists."

"What do you know about it?" Eleanor Stevens demanded. "You're not running personnel."

"I'm using common sense." Very deliberately Wakeman moved between the girl and Benteley. "I'm sorry," he said to the man. "You're wasting your time here. Go to the Hill offices—they're always buying and selling bio­chemists."

"I know," Benteley said. "I've worked for the Hill system since I was sixteen."

"Then what do you want here?" Eleanor asked.

"Oiseau-Lyre dropped me."

"Go over to Soong."

"I'm not working for any more Hills!" Benteley's voice lifted harshly. "I'm through with the Hills."

"Why?" Wakeman asked.

Benteley grunted.

"The Hills are corrupt. The whole system's decaying. It's up for sale to the highest bidder... and bidding's going on."

Wakeman pondered. "I don't see what that matters to you. You have your work; that's what you're supposed to be thinking about."

"For my time, skill and loyalty I get money," Benteley agreed. "I have a lab and equipment that cost more to build than I'll earn in a lifetime. But what is the result of my work? Where does it go?" Benteley struggled to con­tinue. "I stood the smell of Oiseau-Lyre as long as pos­sible. The Hills are supposed to be separate, independent economic units; actually, they're sliding together into a homogeneous mass. It isn't merely a question of mis-shipments and expense padding and doctored tax returns. You know the Hill slogan: service is good and better service is best. That's a laugh! You think the Hills care about serving anybody? Instead of existing for the public good they're parasites on the public."

"I never imagined the Hills were philanthropic organiza­tions," Wakeman said.

Benteley moved away from them. Why did he get upset about the Hills? Nobody had complained yet. But he was complaining. Maybe it was lack of realism on his part, an anachronistic survival the child-guidance clinic hadn't been able to shake out of him. Whatever it was, he had taken as much as he could stand.

"How do you know the Directorate is any better?" Wakeman asked. "You have a lot of illusions about it, I think."

"Let him swear," Eleanor said indifferently.

Wakeman shook his head. "I won't swear him."

"I will, then," the girl answered.

From the desk drawer Wakeman got a flask and poured himself a drink. "Anybody care to join me?"

Benteley turned irritably. "Is this the way the Directorate is run?"

Wakeman smiled. "Your illusions are being shattered. Stay where you are, Benteley; you don't know when you're well off."

Eleanor slid from the desk and hurried out of the room. She returned in a moment with the customary symbol-representation of the Quizmaster. "Come over here, Benteley. I'll accept your oath." She placed the small plastic flesh-coloured bust of Reese Verrick in the centre of the desk and turned briskly to Benteley. As Benteley moved towards the desk she reached up and touched the cloth bag hanging from a string round his neck, the charm Lori had put there. "What kind of charm is that?" she asked.

Benteley showed her the bit of magnetized steel and white powder.

"Virgin's milk," he explained curtly.

"That's all you carry?" Eleanor indicated the array of charms dangling on her chest. "I don't understand how people manage with only one charm." Her green eyes danced. "Maybe you don't! Maybe that's why you have bad luck."

"I have a high positive scale," Benteley replied. "And I have two other charms. Somebody gave me this."

She leaned close and examined it intently. "It's the kind of charm a woman would buy. Expensive, but flashy."

"Is it true," Benteley asked her, "that Verrick doesn't carry any charms?"

"That's right," Wakeman spoke up. "He doesn't need them. When the bottle twitched him to One he was already class six-three. Talk about luck! He's risen all the way to the top exactly as you see on the children's edutapes. Luck leaks out of his pores."

"I've seen people touch him hoping to get some of it," Eleanor said. "I don't blame them. I've touched him myself, many times."

"What good has it done you?" Wakeman asked quietly; he indicated the girl's discoloured temples.

"I wasn't born at the same time and place as Reese," Eleanor answered shortly.

"I don't hold with astro-cosmology," Wakeman said. "Luck comes in streaks." Speaking slowly and intently to Benteley, he continued: "Verrick may have it now, but that doesn't mean he'll always have it." He gestured vaguely towards the floor above, "They like to see some kind of balance." He added hastily: "I'm not a Christian or anything like that, you understand. I know it's all chance. Everybody gets his chance. And the high and the mighty always fall."

Eleanor shot Wakeman a warning look. "Be careful!"

Without taking his eyes from Benteley, Wakeman said slowly:

"You're out of fealty; take advantage of that. Don't swear yourself on to Verrick. You'll be stuck to him, as one of his permanent serfs."

Benteley was chilled. "You mean I'm supposed to take an oath directly to Verrick? Not a positional oath to the Quizmaster?"

"That's right," Eleanor said.

"Why?"

"Ican't give you information. Later on there'll be an assignment for you in terms of your class requirements; that's guaranteed."

Benteley gripped his case and moved away. His expecta­tions had fallen apart. "I'm in?" he demanded, half-angrily. "I'm acceptable?"

"Verrick wants all eight-eight's he can get. You can't miss."

"Wait," Bentley said, confused and uncertain. "Give me time to decide." Then he withdrew.

Eleanor wandered about the room. "Any more news of that fellow?" she asked Wakeman.

"Only the initial closed-circuit warning to me," Wake­man said. "His name is Leon Cartwright. He's a member of some kind of cult. I'm curious to see what he's like."

"I'm not." Eleanor halted at the window and gazed down at the streets below. "Maybe I made a mistake. But it's over; there's nothing I can do."

"When you're older you'll realize how much of a mis­take," Wakeman agreed.

Fear came to the girl's face. "I'll never leave Verrick. He'll take care of me; he always has."

"The Corps will protect you."

"I don't want anything to do with the Corps." Her lips drew back against her even, white teeth. "My family. My willing Uncle Peter—up for sale, like his Hills." She indicated Benteley. "And he thinks he won't find it here."

"It's not a question of sale," Wakeman said. "It's a principle. The Corps is above any man."

"The Corps is a fixture, like this desk. You buy all the furniture, the lights, the ipvics, the Corps." Disgust glowed in her eyes. "A Prestonite, is that it?"

"That's it."

"No wonder you're anxious to see him. In a morbid way I suppose I'm curious, too."

At the desk, Benteley roused himself from his thoughts. "All right," he said aloud. "I'm ready."

"Fine!" Eleanor slipped behind the desk, one hand raised, the other on the bust. "You know the oath?"

Benteley knew the fealty oath by heart, but gnawing doubt slowed him almost to a halt. Wakeman stood examining his nails, looking disapproving and bored. Eleanor Stevens watched avidly, her face intense with emotions that altered each moment. With a growing con­viction that things were not right, Benteley began reciting his fealty oath to the small plastic bust.