Duchane's dark eyes inspected the faces around the table. "A vote, then. A vote for the next General Manager of Eron."

"Wendre!" Ronholm said.

"Wendre," Fenelon repeated.

"Duchane," Wu said.

They all turned to look at Wendre. She hesitated and looked puzzledly at Wu. Horn couldn't see the pseudo-Matal's face. Wendre's lips tightened.

"Duchane," she whispered.

Duchane relaxed. "I should return the pretty compliment, but you all realize that I am not sentimental. Of course I vote for myself. The vote is three to two, the necessary majority-"

His voice broke off. His head swung to the right. The door slid open. A dark, little man in dirty, orange working clothes trotted into the room, sidled to Duchane's chair, and bent to whisper in his ear. Before he had time for more than one word, his restless eyes had darted around the room and stopped at Wu and widened.

The man stepped back. His hand darted toward the pocket of his ragged tunic. It came out with a pistol. Before the muzzle came up, the man was dead.

The bullet that killed him buried itself in the soft wall behind the falling body. It made a m.u.f.fled thunk. Before then, Horn's pistol was centered on Duchane's black chest.

Beside Duchane, the giant dog was on its feet, poised, its ma.s.sive head leaning forward, turning, jaws agape and drooling.

Without looking away from Duchane, Horn was conscious that the guards behind Ronholm and Fenelon had guns in their hands. Duchane faced the three muzzles without alarm.

"a.s.sa.s.sination?" Wu said incredulously. "Here?"

Duchane's eyes were narrow with speculation. "He said your name."

"Obviously," Wu said.

The tension stretched thin. At any moment, Horn knew, it might snap and men would die. Anything could start it. The dog straining forward from Duchane's hand- "Look at the walls," Duchane said quietly.

Horn didn't look away from Duchane. He didn't have to. Behind Duchane, three slits had opened in the wall. Through each one poked the muzzle of a unitron pistol. One of them was pointing at him. There would be other slits in the other walls. The exception might be the wall behind him. The path of the bullets would be toward Duchane.

"No sudden moves," Duchane said. "They might be misinterpreted."

"A wise thing for you to remember, as well," Wu said. "You can kill us, it is true. But remember that you will be the first to die. Keep your hands away from the table and the arms of your chair. Even the swiftest bullet can't stop a finger from squeezing."

Silence. In that moment the tension that Horn had thought could stretch no tighter stretched beyond endurance.

"You had this planned from the start," Fenelon said coldly. "But you underestimate us. Your residence has been surrounded ever since I entered."

Duchane smiled. "Your guards were disposed of long ago," he said easily. But he kept his hands in sight.

Only Ronholm said nothing. And his silence was difficult to understand.

Quickly, out of the corner of his mouth, Wu snapped, "Easy, there. Easy. There is no profit in that."

Ronholm sagged back.

"We seem to have a stalemate," Wu said quietly. "You can't a.s.sa.s.sinate us without being killed yourself. We are in the same predicament. I suggest that we find a solution quickly. There is a certain strain implicit in the situation. Fingers have been known to twitch involuntarily. It would be sad if the government of Eron were to destroy itself."

No one spoke. No solution was possible. Neither side could trust the other; the first one that lowered its guns would die.

Beads of sweat broke out on Duchane's broad forehead. Horn watched them trickle through the gold powder on his face. The gun in Horn's hand began to shake just a little.

THE HISTORY.

Decay....

The odor is distinctive. Any historian can identify it when the scent is strong and trace it to the first rotten spot. But it takes a wise man to spot the symptoms early.

Eron had the symptoms. Keen nostrils began to wrinkle.

The Tube was a splendid achievement, but it was also power. The saying was old before Sunport; power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. For a thousand years, the Company stood as a magnificent and stubborn barrier to the further progress of all mankind. But the waters of life piled up behind it, and the barrier wore thin.

The s.p.a.ce kings of Eron no longer fought their own battles. Mercenaries could be hired for that. The technicians, the s.p.a.cemen, the engineers-they were barbarians. The Golden Folk clung only to shadows: hereditary wealth and t.i.tles, and a secret. The secret was the Tube.

The question: could a new challenge revive the lost vigor of the race?

A thousand years. For that long the Company, drawing upon the unlimited energy of a star, was able to dam the river of life. But it strained to break through and overwhelm those who sheltered themselves from it, and flow again....

13.

THE IRON STEPPES.

"None of us wants to die." Wu's voice was shockingly loud in the silence. "There is only one way to keep the situation static until it can be altered without disadvantage to either side. Let us choose exits, all but Duchane. He, we hope, is in no danger from the gunmen behind the wall. At a signal, let us go to our chosen exits, keeping our worthy Security Director in aim, and leave simultaneously."

"There are only two exits," Ronholm objected. "And anyone leaving after the others would be at a disadvantage."

"Is that right?" Wu asked Duchane. "Are there only two?"

Duchane nodded, as if he didn't trust himself to speak.

Wu turned to Ronholm. "Then you may choose first. After you, Fenelon."

Horn took a deep breath.

"Well?" Wu asked, turning back to Duchane. "Is it agreed?"

Duchane's eyes shifted from face to face, not speculatively this time, but as if searching for an answer he couldn't find.

"The alternative," Wu reminded gently, "is death."

"All right," Duchane said hoa.r.s.ely.

Wu turned to Ronholm. "Choose."

"That one," Ronholm said quickly. He pointed at the door by which Wu and Horn had entered. Horn's jaw muscles tightened and relaxed.

"The right," Fenelon said, shrugging.

Wendre had come through that door. Horn didn't envy the aristocrat; it was little better than staying in the room. Objectively, there wasn't much chance for any of them. Even Ronholm would have to fight his way to the elevator which might or might not work when he reached it.

Perhaps it was better to stay here and take Duchane with him when the shooting started- "We," Wu said carelessly, "will take the third exit. I am taking Wendre with me."

"No!" The word was torn from Duchane's lips. The hound beside him leaned forward, snarling.

"Careful!" Wu cautioned. "Remember the alternative!"

"Take her!" Duchane groaned. "Down, boy!" he whispered. The hound relaxed a little.

"Come, Wendre," Wu said, slowly lifting himself out of his chair. "And, companions in peril, back to your chosen exits. The doors should be open and the halls empty."

Ronholm stood up and began backing. He licked his lips nervously. Fenelon turned and walked briskly toward the door he had chosen. The guns of their guards were steady as they backed away.

Wendre was beside Wu. Wu backed toward the wall behind them. Horn kept his pistol steadily in the middle of Duchane's chest. He backed a little.

Wu scuffled his feet, as if he were turning toward the wall. In a moment Horn heard a whisper of movement; a breath of air cooled the back of his neck. There had been a third exit. Somehow Wu had known it and got it open.

Duchane's eyes were hot with fury. Horn's finger itched against the trigger.

"Ready, gentlemen," Wu said. "Slowly, now."

Step by step, Horn backed, feeling walls swing in on either side of him. Into his peripheral vision came the two other doorways. They were empty. The door whispered as it began to slide shut; the rectangle in front of him narrowed swiftly. Simultaneously, Horn heard the whine and screaming ricochet of bullets in the distance.

Horn snapped a shot through the narrow opening. Blackness threw itself toward him, over the table, jaws gaping to swallow the bullet meant for Duchane. Horn threw himself toward the sheltered wall with outspread arms. He crushed Wu and Wendre behind him. Three bullets whined through the narrow slit before the door slid shut.

"What's this?" Horn asked, turning quickly.

Wu trotted up the dimly lit corridor in front of Horn. Between them was Wendre, who glanced curiously over her shoulder at Horn as she ran.

"Duchane's mind is devious," Wu puffed. "It runs to traps and secret pa.s.sages. This is one of the latter."

"I haven't had time to thank you, Matal," Wendre began.

"No time now, either," Wu said.

A long flight of narrow stairs led down into darkness. Wu didn't hesitate. He felt quickly over the wall beside the stairs. Another hidden door slid aside. Behind it, stairs led up. Wu pushed them ahead, up the stairs, and stopped to close the door behind them.

The stairs were interminable. They raced up them until Wu called a halt. He leaned against the wall, one hand pressed to his padded bosom, gasping for breath. Slowly color returned to his pale face.

"Go on," he panted.

Horn hesitated and then grabbed Wu's right arm. He draped it around his shoulders. With his left arm around Wu's thick waist, he half-lifted him, half-dragged him up the stairs.

"I'm all right," Wu protested, but Horn didn't release him until they had climbed into a small dusty room at the top of the stairs. Half a dozen s.p.a.cesuits hung from their supports against one wall, transparent helmets racked above.

"What do we do now?" Wendre asked.

"Get out of here fast," Wu said.

"Where to?." Horn asked. "Duchane's got the power. No place is safe as long as he's General Manager-"

"Why did you want me to vote for him?" Wendre asked.

"How long do you think we'd have lived if you had been elected?" Wu asked softly. "But Horn is right; we must strike back at Duchane. The only way to do that is to cut off the Tubes."

"We can't!" Wendre protested, horrified.

"Can't?" Wu raised one eyebrow.

"Oh, it can be done, of course, but it would cripple the Empire!"

"Better that it be crippled temporarily than fall into the hands of a man like Duchane," Wu said gravely.

"Maybe that's true," Wendre agreed, "but think what it will mean in terms of lives! Power will go off all over the Empire. Everything will stop on thousands of worlds: factories, cars, planes, elevators, slideways. Homes will have no heat; food can't be cooked. Panic and accident will take millions of lives; children will starve, Eron itself will start dying; a few days without food-"

Wu shrugged. "All over the Empire men are dying, children are starving. If they can't survive a few days without the power that Eron pipes from Canopus, they don't deserve to live. Consider how many will die if Duchane consolidates his power."

"No!" Wendre said decisively, shaking her head. "That's not the way to save the Empire. We'll go to my residence. We'll be safe there while we build up a force to strike back."

"As you will." Wu turned away. "But we must hurry. Get into the suits." The old man turned toward the other wall. Set into it was a miniature visiplate. There were ten numbered b.u.t.tons beneath it. Wu's fat fingers blurred as they pushed a series of eight. Wu turned to see Horn watching him. "Quick!" he said.

Wendre was fumbling her way into a suit. It gave him a curious, light-headed sensation when he accidentally touched her as he helped. He steadied himself.

"At the time of the capitulation on Quarnon Four," he said slowly, "who knew about your father's plans for the celebration?"

Her tawny eyes searched his face curiously. "I did. He mentioned it, idly, shortly after we arrived."

"Did any of the other Directors know?"

"Not unless he mentioned it before we left," Wendre said. "I was the only one to go with him to the Cl.u.s.ter. Why?"

Horn shrugged. "I don't know." He started to lower the helmet over her head.

She smiled at him. "Thank you," she whispered.

Horn felt an unreasonable warmth flood through his body. "A pleasure," he said, and clamped down the helmet. He pointed to the gauges. She nodded and brushed them away.

Horn turned back to Wu. The visiplate showed a small, empty room with dark gray walls. The few pieces of furniture in the room were overturned or smashed. Wu pressed another b.u.t.ton. The screen went blank. He turned.

"Cult headquarters," he said, shrugging. "Raided."