A. Smith: Royal Road

“And so,” came Melton’s voice again, “observance of the Rule of Privacy is a matter of survival for the Esper Guild.”

Master Elwyn spoke.

“But now,” he said, “you know there is another reason for the training. A reason which has little to do with ethics or society, but which concerns most nearly your ability to take the final step?”

“I studied the papers you gave me; I understand.”

“And you are ready to take that step? Prepared to accept the full responsibility of the esper skill?”

“I am.”

“I must, then, ask your consent to an invasion of your Privacy.”

“Knowing and agreeing with the reasons for this action, I so consent, fully and freely.”

Question and response had taken on, almost, the air of an antiphony. There followed a long silence, while the adept probed the new initiate’s mind.

“Excellent!” said Master Elwyn finally, in the voice of one who gives an accolade. “I shall stay in partial contact for the next half-hour, until the drug takes hold; and in full rapport after that, for as long as you need my guidance in your vigil.”

“And now—the drug?”

“Now, the drug. Bare your arm, please; here, under this sterilamp. I have the hypospray prepared. Five milliliters, intravenous—”

Now! thought Duke Harald, outside at the stairhead. He pressed a button, and a voltage surge passed swiftly down the wires of the Sonotec. Inside the adept’s sanctum, the plastic case fell open with a quiet puff; a reddish liquid boiled away, diffusing its vapors through the room. Duke Harald waited, counting seconds. One, for the gas to take effect; and ten more, for it to disappear again, drawn off through the air ducts.

Then he moved. First the cable of the Sonotec; reeling that in, that nothing might be left to stir suspicion in a passer-by. And next the glittering energy key came into play once more. The master’s door swung fully open now, and Duke Harald stepped within.

Two figures he saw there, and his hands released their grip on holstered pistolets. Master Elwyn and young Melton, slumped limply half across the surface of the adept’s desk, heads pillowed upon outflung arms—snoring gently in relaxed and dreamless slumber!

One long glance Duke Harald gave them, to be sure the gas had done its work. Then his gaze swung, single-minded, to the slender glassite rod that, dropping from the adept’s nerveless fingers, had rolled nearly all the way across the surface of the desk, trailing a thin line of moisture. The hypospray! And full-charged with the telepathic drug that was the goal of all this midnight burglary.

With cautious, trembling hands he took it. Carefully he sealed the open tip with sterile tape; carefully he wadded it about with handkerchiefs and stowed it in his pouch. He sighed then, inhaling gustily; half-conscious that he had been holding back his breathing for the past few seconds.

He looked about and something caught his eye: the sterilamp. Upset but still turned on, its flickering blue light shone full upon the white-haired adept’s sleeping face. He turned it off. Now that the game was—almost!—won, he bore the Terran no ill-will. No need to let the old man wake an hour later to a painful case of sunburn.

Almost finished now! By Master Elwyn’s silver-mounted desk clock, it was twenty minutes after midnight. Events were running well within his schedule. There was just one thing that needed doing. He had to get in touch with old Count Godfrey—what better way than by the adept’s private visiphone? Any other set he might have tried to use would have been monitored; but not, he thought, this one—not Master Elwyn’s.

Swiftly he set up the calling pattern. And, waiting, drummed a ragged little rhythm on the desk. Then the screen swirled into glowing life. An under-secretary’s face appeared—startled briefly out of well-trained stolidness by a flash of recognition.

“Get Count Godfrey!”

“Yes, your grace. At once!”

It seemed almost faster than that. Like a conjuring trick, the secretary vanished backward from the scanning field; and the ambassador’s alert old features came to view.

“Here! I’ll take it,” said the count; then, turning his head, “Get you gone, Borrow; but wait in the outer room. I may have need of you further.” Looking back again at Duke Harald, he said simply, “I’ve been waiting.”

“Thought you might be,” said Duke Harald. And a wave of affection kept him briefly silent. “You got my note?”

“Yes. I decided to give you a full day.”

“And you’ve been sleeping by the phone, no doubt?”

“I was sure you’d call,” said the old man, “before the deadline. Well?”

“Well—I’ve got it.”

“The drug?”

“ The drug,” Duke Harald said. “Now—can you get a car to me?”

“Where, and when?”

“Corner of University and Twelfth Street. At”—he glanced at the clock, calculated swiftly—“ten minutes past one. That’ll give me time for one thing more. And the rain will be falling.”

“You’ll get wet.”

“Sure. But I won’t get seen—I hope! Off, now.”

“Off—and, luck!” said Count Godfrey as his image faded from the screen.

Back, then, through the tunnels to his temporary quarters. A journey without incident, without encounter; which was, perhaps, as well for someone. For the Arkadian, having gone so far, was grimly set to use his deadly little pistolets without parley or delay.

His first thought was for the contrivance that had let him use the “locked” door of his rooms. Dismantling it, he thus removed the only concrete evidence that he had been free to roam the Institute; free to do what had been clone that night in Master Elwyn’s office. For, he was coldly certain, when those sleepers awakened he would be under automatic suspicion. Not that he intended to be here when that awakening took place. But he reasoned—and did not trust the reasoning too much—if the only clues were that he had broken out of, not into the Institute, pursuit might then be baffled for a time.

Thus, he tore down carefully his jury-rigged circuit; and in doing so restored to normal usefulness the bed lamp that had been its power source. The room was set in order; and the clock announced that it was time to go.

One last glance round before extinguishing the lights. Then back swept the heavy amber drapes before the window; out swung the casements, creaking slightly; and over the sill and down went Duke Harald, hand over hand down a thin tough grapnel line. The dark battle cloak swirled and flapped about his booted legs. The lock-box, slung from his shoulders by a twist of cord, jarred against his back with every downward foot. And ancient ivy clutched and rasped at him with leaf and branch and clinging tendril. But his feet touched ground at last. Duke Harald released his grasp upon the rope and wheeled about; stood motionless, breathing fast, peering with slitted eyes through the darkness and the thin warm rain.

No alarm—as yet! Shrugging the awkward box to a more easeful spot between his shoulder blades, he moved off. A few lighted windows stared at him with yellow eyes. The leaves of ancient trees rustled in the falling rain as he passed noiselessly underneath. And, from the distance, the thin whine of rubber on wet pavement reached his straining ears.

The rendezvous at last, and the appointed time. Shrouded in the dark length of the battle cloak, Duke Harald merged his shadowy outline with the black bulk of a lofty elm.

He had not long to wait. The tire whine drew nearer. A gayly painted three-wheeled vehicle appeared, slowing for the corner. Duke Harald hesitated, frowned. This was no embassy car; this was a public cab!

Then the cab braked smoothly to a halt. And its roof light flickered on and off—a coded signal which Duke Harald recognized. At a dead run he left the shelter of his tree and pounded across the sidewalk. As he wrenched open the door and vaulted in beside the driver, the car surged forward into speed.