"I'm glad you came," Cartwright admitted. "When I heard the noise I thought it was Verrick."

"It would have been, if we had notified him. If it hadn't been for the older guards we probably would have told him first and taken our time getting here. Peter Wakeman made a big thing of responsibility, and duty."

Cartwright made a mental note. He would have to look up Peter Wakeman.

"As we approached," Shaeffer continued slowly, "our first group of psychics picked up the thoughts of a number of people, apparently leaving here. Your name was in their minds, and this location. They were moving away from us, so we couldn't catch much. Something about a ship. Something to do with a long flight."

"You sound like a Government fortune-teller."

"There was an atmosphere of excitement and fear. And some anger."

"Creditors, perhaps."

"One thought was passed on to me. You might file it away. Somebody in that group was pleasantly con­templating you lying dead with a crushed-in skull."

In the courtyard outside the Society building Rita O'Neill stood watching the unit rising into the mid-morning sky. One by one the elements disappeared in the direction of Batavia.

She walked in a circle, suddenly lost. The great moment had come and gone.

Against the Society building stood the small crypt in which the remains of John Preston lay. She could see his dark, ill-formed body suspended within the yellowed, fly-specked plasti-cube, hands folded over his bird-like chest, eyes shut, glasses eternally superfluous. The crypt was dusty; trash and debris were littered about it. Nobody came to see Preston's remains. A forgotten, lonely monu­ment, housing a dismal shape of clay.

Half a mile away the fleet of archaic cars was unloading its passengers. The battered ore freighter was jammed tight on the launcher; the people were clumsily climbing the narrow metal ramp into the unfamiliar hull.

The fanatics were setting out to locate and claim the mythical tenth planet of the Sol System. The legendary Flame Disc, John Preston's fabulous world beyond the known universe.

Before Cartwright reached the Directorate buildings at Batavia the news was out. He sat fixedly watching the television screen as the high-speed intercon rocket hurtled across the South Pacific sky. Below them spread the blue ocean and endless black dots, conglomerations of metal and plastic houseboats on which Asiatic families lived. Fragile platforms stretched from Hawaii to Ceylon.

The screen was wild with excitement. Faces blinked on and off; scenes shifted with bewildering rapidity. The history of Verrick's ten years was shown: shots of the mas­sive, thick-browed ex-Quizmaster and summaries of what he had accomplished. And vague reports on Cartwright.

He laughed in a nervous aside that made the others start. Nothing was known about him, only that he was somehow connected with the Preston Society. The newsmachines had dug up as much as possible on the Society: it wasn't much. The story of John Preston himself, of the frail man creeping from the Information Libraries to the observa­tories, writing his books, collecting facts, arguing futilely. Finally, death in obscurity. The first meeting of the Society. The printing of Preston's half-crazy, half-prophetic books...

That was all they knew (he hoped). Cartwright kept his eyes on the screen.

He was now the supreme power in the nine-planet system. Quizmaster, surrounded by a telepathic Corps, with a vast army and warfleet and police force at his dis­posal. He was unopposed administrator of the whole struc­ture, of the vast apparatus of classification, Quizzes and lotteries and training schools.

On the other hand, there were the five Hills, the in­dustrial framework that supported the social and political system.

"How far did Verrick get?" he asked Major Shaeffer.

"He did fairly well. By August he would have eliminated most of the things he wanted eliminated."

"Where is Verrick now?"

"He left Batavia for the Chemie Hill, where he's strongest. He'll operate from there; we got some of his plans."

"I can see your Corps is going to be invaluable."

"Up to a point. Our job is to protect you: that's all we do. We're not spies or agents. We guard your life."

"What's been the ratio in the past?"

"The Corps came into existence a hundred and sixty years ago. Since then we've protected fifty-nine Quiz­masters. Of that number we've been able to save eleven from the Challenge."

"How long did they last?"

"Some minutes, some years. Verrick lasted longest, although there was old McRae, back in 'seventy-eight, who ran his whole thirteen years. For him the Corps inter­cepted over three hundred Challengers."

"A telepathic Corps," Cartwright mused, "to protect me, public assassins to murder me."

"Only one assassin at a time. Of course, you could be murdered by an amateur unsanctioned by the Convention. Somebody with a grudge. But that's rare."

"Give me my length ratio."

"Average, two weeks."

Two weeks! And Verrick was shrewd. The Challenge Conventions wouldn't be sporadic affairs put together by isolated individuals hungry for power. Verrick would have everything organized. Efficient, concerted machinery turning out one assassin after another, creeping to Batavia until at last Leon Cartwright was destroyed.

"In your mind," Shaeffer said, "is an interesting vortex of the usual fear and a very unusual syndrome I can't analyze. Something about a ship."

"You're permitted to scan whenever you feel like it?"

"I can't help it. If I sat here talking you couldn't help hearing me. When I'm with a group their thoughts blur, like a party of people all babbling at once. But there's just you and me here."

"The ship is on its way," Cartwright said.

"It won't get far. The first planet it tries to squat, Mars or Jupiter or Ganymede——"

"The ship is going all the way out. We're not setting up another squatters' colony."

"You're counting a lot on that old ore-carrier."

"Everything we have is there."

"You think you can hold on long enough?"

"I hope so."

"So do I," Shaeffer said dispassionately. He gestured towards the island coming into existence ahead and below. "When we land there will be an agent of Verrick's waiting for you."

"Already?"

"Not an assassin. There's been no Challenge convention yet. This man is under fief to Verrick. A personal staff member named Herb Moore. He's been searched for weapons and passed. He just wants to talk to you."

"How do you know this?"

"During the last few minutes I've been getting the Corps headquarters. You have nothing to worry about: at least two of us will be with you when you talk to him."

"Suppose I don't want to talk?"

"That's your privilege."

Cartwright snapped off the television as the ship lowered over the magnetic grapples. "What do you recommend?"

"Hear what he has to say. It'll give you an idea what you're up against."

Herbert Moore was a handsome blond man in his early thirties. He rose gracefully as Cartwright, Shaeffer and two other Corpsmen entered the main lounge of the Directorate building.

"Greetings," Moore said to Shaeffer.

Shaeffer pushed open the doors to the inner offices and stood aside as Cartwright entered. This was the first time the new Quizmaster had seen his inheritance. He stood in the doorway, completely entranced by the sight.

He wandered over to the desk and touched the polished mahogany surface. "I had all the abstract significance figured out. Power to do this, power to do that. I had it all down in symbolized form, but the sight of this big desk——"

"This isn't your desk," Major Shaeffer said "This is your secretary's desk. Eleanor Stevens."