Cartwright caught his breath.

"What are you going to do?" Moore persisted. "Print a few trillion copies of Preston's tracts? Distribute immense 3-D pictures of him? You already have one shrine—his remains in a wooden building in the Imperial slums—the remains of the saint, to be touched and prayed over. Is that what you're planning—a new religion? Are you going to organize vast armadas to search for his mystic planet? Are we all going to spend our time combing space for his Flame Disc, or whatever he called it. Remember Robin Pitt, Quizmaster number thirty-four. Nineteen years old, read ancient books, painted pictures, wrote psychiatric stream-of-consciousness material."

"Poetry."

"He was Quizmaster one week; then the Challenge got him."

"I was thirteen when he was murdered."

"Remember what he had planned for mankind? Think back. Why does the Challenge-process exist? To protect us; it bestows and deprives indiscriminately. Nobody can hold power; nobody knows what his status will be next year, next week. Nobody can scheme to be a dictator. The Challenge protects us from something else—from incom- petents, from fools and madmen. No despots, no crack­pots."

"I'm not a crackpot," Cartwright muttered hoarsely.

"You think you can adjust yourself to your new status?" Moore asked.

"Yes!"

"You have twenty-four hours. That's about how long it takes to convene a Challenge Convention and pick the first candidate. There should be a lot to choose from."

Cartwright's thin body jerked. "Why?"

"Verrick has offered a million dollars to the one who gets you. The offer stands... until you're dead."

Cartwright was vaguely aware that Wakeman had come into the lounge and was moving up to Moore. The two of them walked away.

A million gold dollars! There'd be plenty of takers. The best minds would gamble their lives for that, in a society that was a constant gamble, an unceasing lottery.

Wakeman came over to him, shaking his head. "What a distorted mind—bodies, bombs, assassins. We sent him off."

"What he said is true," Cartwright gasped. "I have no place here."

"His strategy is to make you think that."

"But it's true!"

Wakeman nodded reluctantly. "I know. That's why it's good strategy. We have a good plan, too, I think. You'll know about it later."

The battered, weary ore freighter left the regular com­mercial lanes as it moved towards the side of Mars. Jupiter was on the far side of the sun; the lanes were at a minimum density, split between the two planets. When out of the slowly-moving stream of transports the ship began to reach significant velocities. Its bulkheads rattled. Metallic dust rained down in the drumming corridors as it sped through a void of silence, darkness, emptiness.

In the gloomy hold the fifty men and women who made up the Preston Society sat in a nervous circle, waiting timidly for Konklin to begin.

Konklin studied the bookshelf that Bruno Jereti had erected.

"Here they are," he said. "The Dispossessed. Mathe­matics of Madness. The Unicorn. Flame Disc." He dragged down a bulky binder. "His books, all his unpub­lished notes, his records; drawings he made of his vision, his computations, instructions, analysis, poetry, his philosophy—everything." He turned to the expectant people, "What'll it be tonight?"

"Flame Disc," Janet Sibley said quickly. "It's so in­spiring."

Konklin slid the well-worn copy down and flipped it open, sat on a heap of bedding, and glanced around.

"Go ahead," Mary Uzich said eagerly. "We need something to buck us up."

In a throbbing baritone, Konklin read aloud from the concluding section of John Preston's last book.

"In the far reaches of space He has placed another world, an untouched Disc, a Second Earth, hidden and concealed from prying eyes. There He has put it, safe in dusky reaches, the terrifying dead regions, where the coward-folk dare not venture. He knew that gibbering vampires, their own guilt, would pluck at them, would torment them in their shoddy tin ships, until they maddened and died—and returned empty-handed..."

"That part," Groves interrupted ponderously, "refers to Herman R. Ewing, the navigator on the 'eighty-nine ex­pedition. He went insane from space fear. He claimed that the ship was being pursued by fabulous space monsters."

Konklin read on, carried away by the fervour of the dead founder of the Society.

"This Disc, this glowing orb, for all eyes yet somehow hidden, was sent to swim in the sea of meteor dust and galactic wastes throughout the ages. Until at last a brave crowd, would venture forth. Giants, with the courage of giants... ."

Ted benteley stood by the kitchen door inhaling warm smells. The Davis house was pleasant and bright. Al Davis, minus his shoes, was sitting contentedly before the television set in the living room. His pretty brown-haired wife, Laura, was preparing dinner.

"If that's protine," Benteley said to her, "it's the best job of adulteration I've smelled."

"We never have protine," Laura answered briskly. "You can taste it no matter how they disguise it. It's terrible costly to buy natural foods, of course, but it's worth it."

"Protine," Al said, overhearing her, "saved the ordinary people from starvation back in the twentieth century. Allow me to pass on a few facts."

"Please do!"

"Protine isn't a natural algae. It's a mutant that started out in culture tanks in the middle East and gradually crept on to a variety of fresh-water surfaces."

"When I go into the bathroom in the morning don't I find the darn stuff growing all over the place?"

"It also grows over the Great Lakes," Al said scientifically.

"Well, this isn't protine," Laura said to Ted. "This is real roast beef, real potatoes and green peas and white rolls."

"You two are living better than when I last saw you," Benteley commented. "What happened?"

"Al jumped a whole class. He beat the Government Quiz; we studied together every night."

"I never heard of anybody beating the Quizzes. Was it mentioned on television?"

Laura frowned resentfully.

"That awful Sam Oster talked about it the whole length of a programme. He's that rabble-rouser who has such a big following."

"Afraid I don't know him," Benteley admitted.

"The Convention," Davis said, indicating the television screen, "are advertising for applicants. Giving quite a bonus."

A vortex of foaming light and colour lapping across the screen symbolized the Challenge Convention. The billow­ing mass broke apart, then reformed in new combinations.

"What's it saying?" Benteley asked.

"I can switch to the literal-channel, if you like."

Laura hurried in with silver and china for the table. "Don't put the literal-channel on; all the dullards watch that. This for us, the literal for them."

"You're wrong, honey," Al said seriously. "The literal-channel is for news and factual information. The sym­bolic channel is for pleasure. I enjoy watching it this way, but——" He waved his hand and the circuit switched abruptly. The vivid swirls of colour and sound winked out. In their place the placid features of a news announcer appeared. "Here's the same thing."

Laura returned to the kitchen in a flurry of activity. The living-room was friendly and comfortable. One wall was transparent; below the house stretched the city of Berlin clustered round the A.G. Chemie Hill, a towering cone, black against the night sky. Bits of light drifted in the gloom—surface cars dancing like sparks in the shadows.

"How long have you been in fealty to Verrick?" Benteley asked Al Davis.

"About three or four years."

"You're satisfied?"

"Why not?" Al indicated the pleasant, well-furnished living-room. "Who wouldn't be?"