Solar Lottery

THREE

BEFORE Cartwright reached the Directorate buildings at Batavia the word was out. He sat fixedly watching the tv screen, as the high-speed intercon rocket hurtled across the South Pacific sky. Below them were spread out blue ocean and endless black dots, conglomerations of metal and plastic house-boats on which Asiatic families lived, fragile platforms stretched from Hawaii to Ceylon.

The tv screen was wild with excitement. Faces blinked on and off; scenes shifted with bewildering rapidity. The history of Verrick's ten years was shown: shots of the massive, thick-browed ex-Quizmaster and resumes of what he had accomplished. There were vague reports on Cartwright.

He had to laugh, in a nervous aside that made the teeps start. Nothing was known about him, only that he was somehow connected with the Preston Society. The newsmachines had dug up as much as possible on the Society: it wasn't much. There were fragments of the story of John Preston himself, the tiny frail man creeping from the Information Libraries to the observatories, writing his books, collecting endless facts, arguing futilely with the pundits, losing his precarious classification, and finally sinking down and dying in obscurity. The meager crypt was erected. The first meeting of the Society was held. The printing of Preston's half-crazed, half-prophetic books was begun... .

Cartwright hoped that was all they knew. He kept his mental fingers crossed and his eyes on the tv screen.

He was now the supreme power of the nine-planet system. He was the Quizmaster, surrounded by a telepathic Corps, with a vast army and warfleet and police force at his disposal. He was unopposed administrator of the random bottle structure, the vast apparatus of classification, Quizzes, lotteries, and training schools.

On the other hand, there were the five Hills, the industrial framework that supported the social and political system.

"How far did Verrick get?" he asked Major Shaeffer.

Shaeffer glanced into his mind to see what he wanted. "Oh, he did fairly well. By August he would have eliminated the random twitch and the whole M-Game structure."

"Where is Verrick now?"

"He left Batavia for the Farben Hill, where he's strongest. He'll operate from there; we caught some of his plans."

"I can see your Corps is going to be valuable."

"Up to a point. Our job is to protect you: that's all we do. We're not spies or secret agents. We merely guard your life."

"What's been the ratio in the past?"

"The Corps came into existence a hundred and sixty years ago. Since then we've protected fifty-nine Quizmasters. Of that number we've been able to save eleven from the Challenge."

"How long did they last?"

"Some a few minutes, some several years. Verrick lasted about the longest, although there was old McRae, back in '78, who ran his whole thirteen years. For him the Corps intercepted over three hundred Challengers; but we couldn't have done it without McRae's help. He was a wily bastard. Sometimes I think he was a teep."

"A telepathic Corps," Cartwright mused, "which protects me. And public assassins to murder me."

"Only one assassin at a time. Of course, you could be murdered by an amateur unsanctioned by the Convention. Somebody with a personal grudge. But that's rare. He wouldn't get anything out of it except the loss of his p-card. He'd be politically neutralized; he'd be barred from becoming Quizmaster. And the bottle would have to be stepped ahead one twitch. A thoroughly unsatisfactory event."

"Give me my length ratio."

"Average, two weeks."

Two weeks, and Verrick was shrewd. The Challenge Conventions wouldn't be sporadic affairs put together by isolated individuals, hungry for power. Verrick would have everything organized. Efficient, concerted machinery would be turning out one assassin after another, creeping and crawling toward Batavia without end, until at last the goal was reached and Leon Cartwright was destroyed.

"In your mind," Shaeffer said, "is an interesting vortex of the usual fear and a very unusual syndrome I can't analyze. Something about a ship."

"You're permitted to scan whenever you feel like it?"

"I can't help it. If I sat here mumbling and talking you couldn't help hearing me. When I'm with a group their thoughts blur, like a party of people all babbling at once. But there's just you and me here."

"The ship is on its way," Cartwright said.

"It won't get far. The first planet it tries to squat, Mars or Jupiter or Ganymede—"

"The ship is going all the way out. We're not setting up another squatters' colony."

"You're counting a lot on that antiquated old ore-carrier."

"Everything we have is there."

"You think you can hold on long enough?"

"I hope so."

"So do I," Shaeffer said dispassionately. "By the way." He gestured toward the blooming island coming into existence ahead and below. "When we land, there will be an agent of Verrick's waiting for you."

Cartwright moaned sharply. "Already?"

"Not an assassin. There's been no Challenge Convention yet. This man is under fief to Verrick, a personal staff member named Herb Moore. He's been searched for weapons and passed. He just wants to talk to you."

"How do you know this?"

"Within the last few minutes I've been getting the Corps headquarters. It's all processed information going around from one to the next. We're a chain, actually. You have nothing to worry about: at least two of us will be with you when you talk to him."

"Suppose I don't want to talk to him?"

"That's your privilege."

Cartwright snapped off the tv set as the ship lowered over the magnetic grapples. "What do you recommend?"

"Talk to him. Hear what he has to say. It'll give you more of an idea what you're up against."

Herbert Moore was a handsome blond-haired man in his early thirties. He arose gracefully as Cartwright, Shaeffer, and two other Corpsmen entered the main lounge of the Directorate building.

"Greetings," Moore said to Shaeffer in a bright voice.

Shaeffer pushed open the doors to the inner offices and stood aside as Cartwright entered. This was the first time the new Quizmaster had seen his inheritance. He stood in the doorway, his coat over his arm, completely entranced by the sight.

"This is a long jump from the Society building," he said finally. Wandering slowly over, he touched the polished mahogany surface of the desk. "It's a strange thing ... I had all the abstract significance figured out in terms of power to do this, power to do that. I had it all down in symbolized form, but the sight of these carpets and this big desk—"

"This isn't your desk," Major Shaeffer told him. "This is your secretary's desk. Eleanor Stevens, an ex-teep."

"Oh." Cartwright reddened. "Well, then where is she?"

"She left with Verrick. An interesting situation." Major Shaeffer slammed the door after them, leaving Herb Moore in the plush lounge outside. "She was new in the Corps; she came after Verrick was Quizmaster. She was just seventeen and Verrick was the only person she ever served. After a couple of years she changed her oath from what we call a positional oath to a personal oath. When Verrick left, she packed up her stuff and trailed along."

"Then Verrick has use of a teep."

"She loses her supralobe, according to law. Interesting, that such personal loyalty could be built up. As far as I know, there's no sexual relationship. In fact she's been the mistress of Moore, the young man waiting outside there."

Cartwright roamed around the luxurious office examining file cabinets, the massive ipvic sets, the chairs, the desk, the shifting random-paintings on the walls. "Where's my office?"

Shaeffer kicked open a heavy door. He and the two other Corpsmen followed Cartwright past a series of check-points and thick protective stages into a bleak solid-rexeroid chamber. "Big, but not as lush," Shaeffer said. "Verrick was a realist. When he came this was a sort of Arabian erotic house: bed girls lying around on all sides, plenty of liquor to drink, couches, music and colors going constantly. Verrick ripped all the bric-a-brac out, sent the girls to the Martian work-camps, tore down the fixtures and gingerbread, and built this." Shaeffer rapped on the wall; it echoed dully. "A good twenty feet of rexeroid. It's bomb-proof, bore-proof, shielded from radiation, has its own air-pumping system, its own temperature and humidity controls, its own food supply." He opened a closet. "Look."

The closet was a small arsenal.

"Verrick could handle every kind of gun known. Once a week we all went out in the jungle and shot up everything in sight. Nobody can get into this room except through the regular door. Or—" He ran his hands over one of the walls. "Verrick never missed a trick. He designed this and supervised every inch of it. When it was finished, all the workmen were off to the camps, like Pharaoh and his tombs. During the final hours the Corps was excluded."

"Why?"

"Verrick had equipment installed he didn't plan to use while Quizmaster. However, we teeped some of the workmen as they were being loaded aboard transports. Teeps are always curious when someone tries to exclude them." He slid a section of wall aside. "This is Verrick's special passage. Ostensibly, it leads out. Realistically, it leads in."

Cartwright tried to ignore the chill perspiration coming out on his palms and armpits. The passage opened up behind the big steel desk; it wasn't hard to picture the rexeroid wall sliding back and the assassin emerging directly behind the new Quizmaster. "What do you suggest? Should I have it sealed?"

"The strategy we've worked out doesn't involve this apparatus. We'll sow gas capsules under the flooring, the length of the passage, and forget about it. The assassin will be dead before he reaches this inner lock." Shaeffer shrugged. "But this is minor."

"I'll take your advice," Cartwright managed to say. "Is there anything else I ought to know at this point?"

"You ought to hear Moore. He's a top-flight biochemist, a genius in his own way. He controls the Farben research labs; this is the first time he's been around here in years. We've been trying to scan something on his work, but frankly, the information is too technical for us."

One of the other teeps, a small dapper man with mustache and thinning hair, a shot glass in one hand, spoke up. "It would be interesting to know how much of that stuff Moore deliberately formulates in technical jargon to throw us off."

"This is Peter Wakeman," Shaeffer said.

Cartwright and Wakeman shook hands. The teep's fingers were dainty and fragile; diffident fingers with none of the strength Cartwright was used to finding in his unclassifieds. It was hard to believe this was the man who headed the Corps, who had swung it away from Verrick at the critical moment. "Thanks," Cartwright said.

"You're welcome. But it had nothing to do with you."

The teep showed equal interest in the tall old man. "How does one get to be a Prestonite? I haven't read any of the books; are there three?"

"Four."

"Preston was the odd-ball astronomer who got the observatories to watch for his planet—right? They trained their telescopes and found nothing. Preston went out after it and finally died in his ship. Yes, I once thumbed through _Flame Disc_. The man who owned it was a real crackpot; I tried to teep him. All I got was a chaotic jumble of passion."

"How do I teep?" Cartwright asked tightly.

There was a time of absolute silence. The three teeps were all at work on him; he forced his attention on the elaborate tv set in the corner and tried to ignore them.

"About the same," Wakeman said presently. "You're oddly phased for this society. The M-game places a great emphasis on the Aristotelian Golden Mean. You've got everything tied up in your ship. Outhouse or palace, if your ship goes down that's the end of you."

"It won't go down," Cartwright told him harshly. The three teeps were amused. "In a universe of chance, nobody can predict," said Shaeffer dryly. "It probably will be destroyed. Yet, it might get through."

"After you've talked to Moore," Wakeman said, "it'll be interesting to see if you still predict success."

Herb Moore slid lithely to his feet as Cartwright and Wakeman entered the lounge.

"Sit down," Cartwright said. "I'll talk to you here."

Moore remained standing. "I won't take up much of your time, Mr. Cartwright. I know you've got plenty to do."

Wakeman grunted sourly.

"What do you want?" Cartwright demanded.

"Let's put it this way. You're in, Verrick is out. You hold the supreme position in the system. Right?"

"His strategy," Wakeman said thoughtfully, "is to convince you you're an amateur. That much we can get. He wants you to think you're a sort of janitor sitting in the boss' chair while he's out closing some big deal."

Moore began pacing around, cheeks flushed with excitement, gesturing vividly, highly animated by the flow of words beginning to pour out of his mouth. "Reese Verrick was Quizmaster ten years. He was Challenged daily and he met every Challenge. Essentially, Verrick is a skilled leader. He operated this job with more knowledge and ability than all the Quizmasters before him put together."

"Except McRae," Shaeffer pointed out, as he entered the lounge. "Don't forget him." He warmed up quickly. "Good old McRae."

Cartwright felt sick at his stomach. He threw himself down in one of the soft chairs and lay wearily back as it adjusted to his weight and posture. The argument continued without him; the rapid words that flowed between the two teeps and Verrick's bright young man were remote and dreamlike. He tried to concentrate on the reasonings, but they didn't appear to concern him.

In many ways Herb Moore was right. He had blundered into somebody else's office, position, and problems. He wondered vaguely where the ship was. Unless something had gone wrong it would soon be heading out toward Mars and the asteroid belt. Hadn't customs fallen behind already? He examined his watch. The ship was gaining velocity at this very moment.

Moore's sharp voice brought him back. He sat up straight and opened his eyes. "All right!" Moore was saying excitedly. "The word's gone out on the ipvic. The Convention will probably be held at the Westinghouse Hill; there's more hotel space there."

"Yes," Wakeman was saying tightly. "That's the usual place for the murderers to collect. There's plenty of rooms at low rates."

Wakeman and Moore were discussing the Challenge Convention.

Cartwright got unsteadily to his feet. "I want to talk to Moore. You two clear out of here. Go someplace else."

The teeps conferred silently, then moved toward the door. "Be careful," Wakeman warned him. "You've had a lot of emotional shocks today. Your thalamic index is too high."

Cartwright closed the door after them and turned to face Moore. "Now we can get this settled once and for all."

Moore smiled confidently. "Anything you say, Mr. Cartwright. You're the boss."

"I'm not your boss."

"No, that's so. A few of us stayed loyal to Reese. A few of us didn't let him down."

"You must think a lot of him."

Moore's expression showed that he did. "Reese Verrick is a big man, Mr. Cartwright. He's done a lot of big things. He works on a vast scale." He glowed happily. "He's fully rational."

"What do you want me to do? Give him back his position?" Cartwright heard his own voice waver with emotion. "I'm not giving this up. I don't care how irrational this is. I'm here and I'm staying here. You can't intimidate mel You can't laugh me out!"

His voice echoed; he was shouting. He forced himself to calm down. Herb Moore smiled brightly and basked in his own warmth.

He's young enough to be my son, Cartwright found himself thinking. He can't be over thirty, and I'm sixty-three. He's just a boy, a child prodigy. Cartwright tried to keep his hands from shaking, but he couldn't. He was excited, too excited. He could hardly speak. He was all wrought up. And he was afraid.

"You can't operate this," Moore said quietly. "This isn't your line. What are you? I examined the records. You were born October 5, 2140, outside the Imperial Hill. You've lived there all your life; this is the first time you've been on this side of Earth, let alone on another planet. You had ten years of nominal schooling in the charity department of the Imperial Hill. You never excelled in anything. From high school on you dropped courses that dealt with symbolization and took manual shop courses. You took welding and electronic repair, that sort of thing. You tried printing, for awhile. After you got out of school you worked in a turret factory as a mechanic. You designed a few circuit improvements in plimp board design, but the Directorate rejected your patents as trivial."

"The improvements," Cartwright said with difficulty, "were incorporated in the bottle itself, a year later."

"From then on you were bitter. You serviced the bottle at Geneva and saw your own designs in operation. You tried over five thousand times to win a classification, but you never had enough theoretical knowledge. When you were forty-nine you gave up. When you were fifty you joined this crackpot outfit, this Preston Society."

"I had been attending meetings six years."

"There weren't many members at the time, and you finally were elected president of the Society. You put all your money and time into the crazy thing. It's become your driving conviction, your mania." Moore beamed happily, as if cracking an intricate equation. "And now you hold this position, quizmaster, over a whole race, billions of people, endless quantities of men and material, maybe the sole civilization in the universe. And you see all this only as a means of expanding your Society."

Cartwright choked futilely.

"What are you going to do?" Moore persisted. "Print a few trillion copies of Preston's tracts? Distribute immense 3-D pictures of him and spread them all over the system? Supply statues, vast museums full of his clothing, false teeth, shoes, fingernail parings, buttons, shrines for the faithful to visit? You already have one monument to go to: his worldly remains, in a broken-down wooden building in the Imperial slums, his bones on exhibit, the remains of the saint, to be touched and prayed over.

"Is that what you're planning: a new religion, a new god to worship? Are you going to organize vast fleets of ships, send out endless armadas to search for his mystic planet?" Moore saw Cartwright flinch white; he plowed on, "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. He was nineteen years old, a homosexual, a psychotic. He lived with his mother and sister all his life. He read ancient books, painted pictures, wrote psychiatric stream-of-consciousness material."

"Poetry."

"He was Quizmaster one week; then the Challenge got him—thank God. He was wandering around the jungle back of these buildings, gathering wild flowers and writing sonnets. You've read about that. Maybe you were alive; you're certainly old enough."

"I was thirteen when he was murdered."

"Remember what he had planned for mankind? Think back. Why does the Challenge-process exist? The whole bottle system is to protect us; it elevates and deprives at random, chooses random individuals at random intervals. Nobody can gain power and hold it; nobody knows what his status will be next year, next week. Nobody can plan to be a dictator: it comes and goes according to subatomic random particles. The Challenge protects us from something else. It protects us from incompetents, from fools and madmen. We're completely safe: no despots and no crackpots."

"I'm not a crackpot," Cartwright muttered hoarsely. The sound of his own voice amazed him. It was weak and forlorn, without conviction. Moore's broad smile increased; there was no doubt in his mind. "It'll take me awhile to adjust," he finished lamely. "I need time."

"You think you can adjust?" Moore asked.

"Yes!"

"I don't. You have approximately 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 put up a million gold dollars to the one who gets you. The offer is good until won, until you're dead."

Cartwright heard the words, but they didn't register. He was vaguely aware that Wakeman had come into the lounge and was moving up to Moore. The two of them walked away talking in low tones. He hardly heard them.

Like a frigid nightmare, the phrase a million gold dollars dripped and leaked into his brain. There'd be plenty of takers. With that much money an unk could buy a variety of classifications on the black market. The best minds in the system 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 hopped-up mind. There was a lot of wild stuff we couldn't catch. Something about bodies and bombs and assassins and randomness. He's gone, now. We sent him off."

"What he said is true," Cartwright gasped. "He's right; I have no place here. I don't belong here."

"His strategy is to make you think that."

"But it's true!"

Wakeman nodded reluctantly. "I know. That's why it's such a good strategy. We have a good strategy, too, I think. When the time comes, you'll know about it." He suddenly grabbed Cartwright by the shoulder. "Better sit down. Ill pour you a drink; Verrick left some genuine Scotch around here, a couple of full cases."

Cartwright shook his head mutely.

"Suit yourself." Wakeman got out his pocket handkerchief and mopped his forehead. His hands were shaking. "I think I'll have one, if you don't mind. After teeping that high-powered blur of pathological drive, I can use a drink, myself."