Philip Dick - World of Chance

"Will you be there?" Groves asked. "Will you meet us?"

There was no answer.

He got unsteadily to his feet and called Konklin. A moment later both Konklin and Mary Uzich hurried into the control bubble. Jereti loped a few paces behind. "You heard him?" Groves said thickly.

"It was Preston," Mary whispered.

"He must be as old as hell," Konklin said. "A little old man, waiting out here in space for us to come. Waiting all these years..."

"I think we'll get there," Groves said. "Even if they managed to kill Cartwright we'll still reach the Disc."

"What did Cartwright say?" Jereti asked Groves. "Did it perk him up to hear about Preston?"

Groves hesitated. "Cartwright was preoccupied."

"But surely he———"

"He's about to be murdered!" Groves savagely flicked the controls. "He hasn't time to think about anything else."

Nobody said anything for a while. Finally Konklin asked: "Has there been any news?"

"I can't get Batavia. Military black-out has completely screened out the ipvic lines. I picked up emergency troop movements from the inner planets towards Earth, and Directorate wings heading home."

"What's that mean?" Jereti asked.

"Pellig has reached Batavia. And something has gone wrong. Cartwright must have his back to the wall. The Corps must have failed."

Wakeman shouted frantically. "Benteley! Listen! Moore has it rigged; you're being tricked. It's not random. "

It was hopeless. Without atmosphere his voice died in his helmet. Benteley's thoughts radiated to him clear and distinct but there was no way in which Wakeman could communicate back. He was boxed-in, baffled. The figure of Keith Pellig and the mind of Ted Benteley were only a few yards from him—but he could make no contact.

Benteley's thoughts were mixed. It's Peter Wakeman, he was thinking. Realization of danger; an image of Cartwright; the job of killing; aversion and doubt; distrust of Verrick; dislike of Herb Moore. Benteley was undecided. For an instant the thumb-gun wavered.

Wakeman scrambled down the ridge and on to the plain. Frantically he scrawled on in the ancient dust:

MOORE TRICKED YOU. NOT RANDOM

Benteley realized that a one-sided conversation was going on with himself as transmitter and the telepath as receiver. "Go on, Wakeman," Benteley radiated harshly. "What do you mean?"

Wakeman wrote desperately.

MOORE WILL KILL BOTH YOU AND CARTWRIGHT

Benteley's mind radiated amazement, suspicion. His thumb-gun came quickly up... bomb

Wakeman, panting for breath, sought a new surface on which to write. But he had written enough. Benteley was filling in the details himself—his fight with Moore, his relations with Eleanor Stevens. Moore's jealousy. The thumb-gun was lowered.

"They're seeing this," Benteley thought. "All the opera­tors at their screens. And Moore—he's seeing it, too."

Wakeman leaped up and ran forward. Gesturing excitedly, trying to shout across the airless void, he got within two feet before Benteley halted him by an ominous wave of the thumb-gun.

"Stay away from me," was the thought Benteley radiated. "I'm still not sure of you. You're working for Cartwright."

Again Wakeman scratched frantically:

PELLIG SET TO DETONATE WHEN CLOSE TO CARTWRIGHT. MOORE WILL SWITCH YOU INTO PELLIG BODY AT THAT MOMENT.

"Does Verrick know?" Benteley demanded. yes

"Eleanor Stevens?" yes

Benteley's mind flashed anguish. "How do I know this is true? Prove it!"

EXAMINE YOUR PELLIG BODY. LOCATE POWER LEADS. TRACE CIRCUIT TO BOMB.

Benteley's fingers flew as he ripped at the synthetic chest and found the main wiring that interlaced the body beneath the layer of artificial skin. He tore loose a whole section of material and probed deep, as Wakeman crouched a few feet away, heart frozen in his chest.

Benteley was wavering. The last clinging mist of loyalty to Verrick was giving way to hatred and disgust. "All right, Wakeman, I'm taking the body back. All the way to Chemie." He leaped into activity. Realization that Moore was watching made his fingers a blur of motion as he inspected the reactor and jet controls, and then, without a sound, flashed the synthetic robot and ship up into the black sky, towards Earth.

The body had moved almost a quarter of a mile before Herb Moore sent the selector mechanism twitching.

Shatteringly, without warning, Ted Benteley found him­self sitting in his chair at A.G. Chemie.

On the miniature screen before him Benteley could see the Pellig body hurtling downwards, racing over the scampering figure of Peter Wakeman and directing its thumb-gun. Wakeman saw what was coming. He stopped running and stood, oddly calm and dignified, as the syn­thetic body dropped low, spun, and then incinerated him. Moore was in control again.

In an instant Benteley was at the door of the cubicle, reaching for the heavy steel handle.

The door was sealed.

Back at the humming banks of machinery, he tore at relays, and there was a flashing pop as the main power cables shorted, sending up acrid fumes and bringing meters to zero. The door swung open, its lock now inoperative. Benteley raced down the hall towards Moore's central lab. On the way he crashed into a lounging Hill guard. Benteley knocked him down, grabbed his gun, turned the corner and plunged into the lab.

There he ended Herb Moore's existence as a living human being.

The effect on the Pellig body was instantaneous. It gave a convulsive leap, whirled and darted grotesquely, a crazed thing swooping aimlessly. All at once, as if Moore were putting some prearranged plan into operation, random motion ceased. The body moved in a purposeful circle and in a flash shot off for deep space.

On the screen, the Luna surface receded. It dwindled and became a ball, then a dot, then it was gone.

The lab doors burst open. Verrick and Eleanor Stevens entered quickly. "What did you do?" Verrick demanded hoarsely. "He's gone crazy. He's heading away from..."

He saw the lifeless body of Herb Moore.

"So that's it," he said softly.

Benteley got out of the lab—fast. Verrick didn't try to stop him; he stood staring at Moore's corpse, numbed with shock.

Down the ramp Benteley raced and plunged into the dark street. As a group of Chemie personnel streamed hesitantly out after him he entered the taxi yard and hailed one of the parked urbtrans ships.

"To Bremen!" Benteley gasped. He snapped his seat-straps into place and braced his neck against the take-off impact.

The small high-speed ship shot swiftly into the sky, and A.G. Chemie fell behind.

"Get me to the interplanetary flight base," Benteley ordered.

He wondered how much of his conversation with Wake-man had been picked up by the balance of the Corps. Whether he liked it or not, Luna was the only place that offered a chance of safety. All nine planets were now Hill-operated death traps: Verrick would never rest until he had paid him back. But there was no telling what reception he would get from the Directorate. He might be shot on sight as one of Verrick's agents, he might be regarded as Cartwright's saviour.

Where was the synthetic body going?

The flight field was manned by Hill personnel. Benteley could see intercon liners and transports resting here and there, and great hordes of people. Among the people Hill guards moved about keeping order. Suddenly Benteley changed his mind.

"Don't land here. Isn't there a military field near?"

"The Directorate maintains a small military repair field at Narvik. You want to go there? It's forbidden for non-military ships to set down in that area. I'll have to drop you over the side."

"That sounds like exactly what I want."

Leon Cartwright was fully awake when the Corpsman came running to his quarters. "How far away is he?" Cartwright asked. Even with the injection of sodium pentathol he had slept only a few hours. "Pretty close, I suppose."