Philip Dick - World of Chance

"I'll stop Pellig," Wakeman said quietly, "before he gets to your uncle. It's not Verrick who's running things—he could never work anything like this. It must be Moore."

"It's too bad," Rita said, "that Moore isn't on our side."

"I'll stop him," Wakeman repeated. "Somehow."

Rita disappeared down a ramp leading to Cartwright's private quarters. She didn't look back.

Keith Pellig climbed the stairs of the Directorate building with confidence. He walked swiftly, keeping up with the fast-moving crowd of classified bureaucrats pushing into the lifts, passages and offices. In the main lobby he halted to get his bearings.

In a thunderous din alarm bells sounded throughout the building. The milling of officials and visitors abruptly ceased. Faces lost their friendly lines and in an instant the easy-going crowd was transformed into a suspicious, anxious mass. From concealed speakers harsh mechanical voices proclaimed:

"Everyone must leave the building!" The voices shrilled up deafeningly. "The assassin is in the building."

Pellig lost himself in the swirling waves of men and women. He edged, darted, pushed his way into the interior of the mass, towards the labyrinth of passages that led from the central lobby.

A scream—someone had recognized him. A blackened, burned-out patch as guns were fired in panic. Pellig escaped and continued circling warily, keeping in constant motion.

"The assassin is in the main lobby!" the mechanical voices blared. "Concentrate on the main lobby."

"There he is!" a man shouted. Others took up the roar "That's him, there!"

On the roof of the building the first wing of military transports was settling down. Soldiers poured out and began descending in lifts. Heavy weapons and equipment appeared, dragged to lifts or grappled over the side to the ground.

At his screen, Reese Verrick pulled away briefly and said to Eleanor Stevens: "They're moving in non-telepaths. Does that mean——"

"It means that the Corps has been knocked out," Eleanor answered.

"Then they'll track Pellig visually. That'll cut down the value of our telepathic machinery."

"The assassin is in the lobby!" the mechanical voices roared above the din. Soldiers threw plastic cable spun from projectors in an intricate web across corridors. The excited officials were herded towards the main exit. Out­side, more soldiers were setting up a cordon of men and guns.

But Pellig wasn't coming out. He started back once—and at that moment the red button jumped, and Pellig changed his mind.

The next operator was eager and ready. He had every­thing worked out the moment he entered the synthetic body. Down a side corridor he sprinted, easily clearing an abandoned gun wedged in the passage.

"The assassin has left the lobby!" the mechanical voices bawled.

Troops poured after Pellig as he raced down corridors, cleared of officials and workers, but Pellig thumb-burned his way through a wall and into the main reception lounge, now empty and silent. The synthetic body skimmed from office to office, a weaving darting thing that burned a path ahead. The last office fell behind and Pellig stood before the sealed tank that was the Quizmaster's inner fortress. He recoiled as his thumb-gun showered harmlessly against the thick rexeroid surface.

"The assassin is in the inner office!" mechanical voices dinned. "Surround and destroy him!"

Pellig raced in an uncertain circle—and again the red button shone.

The new operator staggered, crashed against a desk, pulled the synthetic body quickly to its feet, and then began to burn his way to the side of the rexeroid tank.

In his office, Verrick rubbed his hands with satisfaction. "Now it won't be long! Is that Moore operating?"

"No," Eleanor said, examining the indicator board. "One of his staff."

The synthetic body emitted a supersonic blast. A section of the rexeroid tank slid away, and the concealed passage lay open. The body hurried up the passage without hesitation. Under its feet gas capsules popped uselessly. The body did not breathe.

Verrick laughed like an excited child. "They can't stop him! He's in!" He leaped up and down and pounded his fists on his knees. "Now he'll kill him. Now!"

The rexeroid tank, the massive inner fortress with its armoury of guns and ipvic equipment, was empty.

Verrick squealed a high-pitched, frenzied curse. "He's not there! He's gone! They got him away!"

At his own screen Herb Moore convulsively jerked con­trols and lights, indicators, meters and dials, flashed wildly. Meanwhile, the Pellig body stood rooted in the deserted chamber. There was the heavy desk Cartwright should have been sitting at but he wasn't there.

"Keep him looking!" Verrick shouted. "Cartwright must be somewhere!"

The sound of Verrick's voice grated in Moore's aud phones. On the screen, his technician had started the body into uncertain activity. The schematic showed Pellig's location dot at the very core of the Directorate; the assassin had arrived but there was no quarry.

"It was a trap!" Verrick shouted in Moore's ear. "Now they're going to destroy him!"

On all sides of the demolished armoured chamber troops were in motion, Directorate resources responding to Shaeffer's hurried instructions.

Eleanor leaned close to Verrick's hunched shoulders. "They deliberately let him get in. Now—they're coming for him."

"Keep him moving!" Verrick shouted. "They'll burn him to ashes if he simply stands there!"

Pellig floundered in confusion. He raced along the passage and out of the chamber, then sped from door to door like a trapped animal. Once he halted to burn down a gun that had ventured too close and was taking aim. The gun dissolved and Pellig sprinted past its smoking ruin, but behind it the corridor was jammed with troops. He gave up and scurried back.

Herb Moore snapped a sentence to Verrick: "They took Cartwright out of Batavia."

"Look for him!"

"He's not there." Moore thought quickly. "Transfer to me your analysis of ship-movements from Batavia. We know he was there up to an hour ago. Hurry!"

The metalfoil rolled from its slot by Moore's hand. He snatched it up and scanned the entries. "He's on Luna," Moore decided. "They took him off in, their C-plus ship."

Moore slammed home a switch; buttons leaped excitedly. Moore's body sagged limply.

At his own screen Ted Benteley saw the Pellig body jump and stiffen. A new operator had entered it; above Benteley the red button had moved on.

The new operator wasted no time. He burned down a handful of troops and then a section of wall, fusing the steel and plastic together in a molten mass. Through the rent the synthetic body skimmed, a projectile plunging in an arcing trajectory. A moment later it emerged from the building and, still gaining velocity, hurtled straight upward at the dull disc of the moon.

Below Pellig Earth fell away. He was moving out into free space.

Benteley sat paralyzed at his screen. Suddenly every­thing made sense. As he watched the body race through darkening skies that lost their blue colour and gained pin­points of unwinking stars, he understood what had happened to him. It had been no dream. The body was a miniature ship, equipped in Moore's reactor labs. And he realized with a rush of admiration that the body needed no air, that it didn't respond to extreme temperature. It was capable of inter-planetary flight.

It was doing that now.

Peter Wakeman received the ipvic call from Shaeffer within a few seconds of the time when Pellig left Earth. "He's gone," Shaeffer muttered. "He took off like a meteor."

"Heading where?" Wakeman demanded.

"Towards Luna." Shaeffer's face suddenly collapsed.

"We gave up. We called in regular troops. The Corps couldn't do a thing."

"Then I can expect him any moment."