The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! )

CHAPTER THREE

«BRAVO, MR. HARRIS! Well done! L-E-S, gentlemen. Never forget. Location. Elevation. Situation. That's the only way to remember your jaunte co-ordinates. Etre entre le marteau et l'enclume. French. Don't jaunte yet, Mr. Peters. Wait your turn. Be patient, you'll all be C class by and by. Has anyone seen Mr. Foyle? He's missing. Oh, look at that heavenly brown thrasher. Listen to him. Oh dear, I'm thinking all over the place . . . or have I been speaking, gentlemen?»

«Half and half, m'am.»

«It does seem unfair. One-way telepathy is a nuisance. I do apologize for shrapneling you with my thoughts.»

«We like it, m'am. You think pretty.»

«How sweet of you, Mr. Gorgas. All right, class; all back to school and we start again. Has Mr. Foyle jaunted already? I never can keep track of him.»

Robin Wednesbury was conducting her re-education class in jaunting on its tour through New York City, and it was as exciting a business for the cerebral cases as it was for the children in her primer class. She treated the adults like children and they rather enjoyed it. For the past month they had been memorizing jaunte stages at street intersections, chanting: «L-E-S, m'am. Location. Elevation. Situation.»

She was a tall, lovely Negro girl, brilliant and cultivated, but handicapped by the fact that she was a telesend, a one-way telepath. She could broadcast her thoughts to the world, but could receive nothing. This was a disadvantage that barred her from more glamorous careers, yet suited her for teaching. Despite her volatile temperament, Robin Wednesbury was a thorough and methodical jaunte instructor.

The men were brought down from General War Hospital to the jaunte school, which occupied an entire building in the Hudson Bridge at 42nd Street. They started from the school and marched in a sedate crocodile to the vast Times Square jaunte stage, which they earnestly memorized. Then they all jaunted to the school and back to Times Square. The crocodile re-formed and they marched up to Columbus Circle and memorized its coordinates. Then all jaunted back to school via Times Square and returned by the same route to Columbus Circle. Once more the crocodile formed and off they went to Grand Army Plaza to repeat the memorizing and the jaunting.

Robin was re-educating the patients (all head injuries who had lost the power to jaunte) to the express stops, so to speak, of the public jaunte stages. Later they would memorize the local stops at street intersections. As their horizons expanded (and their powers returned) they would memorize jaunte stages in widening circles, limited as much by income as ability; for one thing was certain: you had to actually see a place to memorize it, which meant you first had to pay for the transportation to get you there. Even 3-D photographs would not do the trick. The Grand Tour had taken on a new significance for the rich.

«Location. Elevation. Situation,» Robin Wednesbury lectured, and the class jaunted by express stages from Washington Heights to the Hudson Bridge and back again in primer jumps of a quarter mile each; following their lovely Negro teacher earnestly.

The little technical sergeant with the platinum skull suddenly spoke in the gutter tongue: «But there ain't no elevation, m'ain. We're on the ground, us.,'

«Isn't, Sgt. Logan. 'Isn't any' would be better. I beg your pardon. Teaching becomes a habit and I'm having trouble controlling my thinking today. The war news is so bad. We'll get to Elevation when we start memorizing the stages on top of skyscrapers, Sgt. Logan.»

The man with the rebuilt skull digested that, then asked: «We hear you when you think, is a matter you?»

«Exactly.»

«But you don't hear us?»

«Never. I'm a one-way telepath.»

«We all hear you, or just I, is all?»

«That depends, Sgt. Logan. When I'm concentrating, just the one I'm thinking at, when I'm at loose ends, anybody and everybody. . . poor souls. Excuse me.» Robin turned and called: «Don't hesitate before jaunting, Chief Harris. That starts doubting, and doubting ends jaunting. Just step up and bang off.»

«I worry sometimes, m'am,» a chief petty officer with a tightly bandaged head answered. He was obviously stalling at the edge of the jaunte stage.

«Worry? About what?»

«Maybe there's gonna be somebody standing where I arrive. Then there'll be a hell of a real bang, m'am. Excuse me.»

«Now I've explained that a hundred times. Experts have gauged every jaunte stage in the world to accommodate peak traffic. That's why private jaunte stages are small, and the Times Square stage is two hundred yards wide. It's all been worked out mathematically and there isn't one chance in ten million of a simultaneous arrival. That's less than your chance of being killed in a jet accident.»

The bandaged C.P.O. nodded dubiously and stepped up on the raised stage. It was of white concrete, round, and decorated on its face with vivid black and white patterns as an aid to memory. In the center was an illuminated plaque which gave its name and jaunte co-ordinates of latitude, longitude, and elevation.

At the moment when the bandaged man was gathering courage for his primer jaunte, the stage began to flicker with a sudden flurry of arrivals and departures. Figures appeared momentarily as they jaunted in, hesitated while they checked their surroundings and set new co-ordinates, and then disappeared as they jaunted off. At each disappearance there was a faint «Pop» as displaced air rushed into the space formerly occupied by a body.

«Wait, class,» Robin called. «There's a rush on. Everybody off the stage, please.»

Laborers in heavy work clothes, still spattered with snow, were on their way south to their homes after a shift in the north woods. Fifty white clad dairy clerks were headed west toward St. Louis. They followed the morning from the Eastern Time Zone to the Pacific Zone. And from eastern Greenland, where it was already noon, a horde of white-collar office workers was Pouring into New York for their lunch hour.

The rush was over in a few moments. «All right, class,» Robin called. «We'll continue. Oh dear, where is Mr. Foyle? He always seems to be missing.»

«With a face like he's got, him, you can't blame him for hiding it, m'am. Up in the cerebral ward we call him Boogey.»

«He does look dreadful, doesn't he, Sgt. Logan. Can't they get those marks off?»

«They're trying, Miss Robin, but they don't know how yet. It's called 'tattooing' and it's sort of forgotten, is all.»

«Then how did Mr. Foyle acquire his face?»

«Nobody knows, Miss Robin. He's up in cerebral because he's lost his mind, him. Can't remember nothing. Me personal, if I had a face like that I wouldn't want to remember nothing too.»

«It's a pity. He looks frightful. Sgt. Logan, d'you suppose I've let a thought about Mr. Foyle slip and hurt his feelings?»

The little man with the platinum skull considered. «No, m'am. You wouldn't hurt nobody's feelings, you. And Foyle ain't got none to hurt, him. He's just a big, dumb ox, is all.»

«I have to be so careful, Sgt. Logan. You see, no one likes to know what another person really thinks about him. We imagine that we do, but we don't. This telesending of mine makes me loathed. And lonesome. I…Please don't listen to me. I'm having trouble controlling my thinking. Ah! There you are, Mr. Foyle. Where in the world have you been wandering?»

Foyle had jaunted in on the stage and stepped off quietly, his hideous face averted. «Been practicing, me,» he mumbled.

Robin repressed the shudder of revulsion in her and went to him sympathetically. She took his ann. «You really should be with us more. We're all friends and having a lovely time. Join in.»

Foyle refused to meet her glance. As he pulled his arm away from her sullenly, Robin suddenly realized that his sleeve was soaking wet. His entire hospital uniform was drenched.

«Wet? He's been in the rain somewhere. But I've seen the morning weather Teports. No rain east of St. Louis. Then he must have jaunted further than that. But he's not supposed to be able. He's supposed to have lost all memory and ability to jaunte. He's malingering.»

Foyle leapt at her. «Shut up, you!» The savagery of his face was terrifying.

«Then you are malingering.»

«How much do you know?»

«That you're a fool. Stop making a scene.»

«Did they hear you?»

«I don't know. Let go of me.» Robin turned away from Foyle. «All right, class. We're finished for the day. All back to school for the hospital bus. You jaunte first, Sgt. Logan. Remember: L-E-S. Location. Elevation. Situation . . .»

«What do you want?» Foyle growled, «A pay-off, you?»

«Be quiet. Stop making a scene. Now don't hesitate, Chief Harris. Step up and jaunte off.»

«I want to talk to you,»

«Certainly not. Wait your turn, Mr. Peters. Don't be in such a hurry.» «You going to report me in the hospital?»

«Naturally.»

«I want to talk to you.»

«They gone now, all. We got time. I'll meet you in your apartment.» «My apartment?» Robin was genuinely frightened.

«In Green Bay, Wisconsin.»

«This is absurd. I've got nothing to discuss with this…”

«You got plenty, Miss Robin. You got a family to discuss.»

Foyle grinned at the terror she radiated. «Meet you in your apartment,» he repeated.

«You can't possibly know where it is,» she faltered.

«Just told you, didn't I?»

«Y…You couldn't possibly jaunte that far. You…»

«No?» The mask grinned. «You just told me I was mal-that word. You told the truth, you. We got half an hour. Meet you there.»

Robin Wednesbury's apartment was in a massive building set alone on the shore of Green Bay. The apartment house looked as though a magician had removed it from a city residential area and abandoned it amidst the Wisconsin pines. Buildings like this were a commonplace in the jaunting world. With self-contained heat and light plants, and jaunting to solve the transportation problem, single and multiple dwellings were built in desert, forest, and wilderness.

The apartment itself was a four-room flat, heavily insulated to protect neighbors from Robin's telesending. It was crammed with books, music, paintings, and prints . . . all evidence of the cultured and lonely life of this unfortunate wrong-way telepath.

Robin jaunted into the living room of the apartment a few seconds after Foyle who was waiting for her with ferocious impatience.

«So now you know for sure,» he began without preamble. He seized her arm in a painful grip. «But you ain't gonna tell nobody in the hospital about me, Miss Robin. Nobody.»

«Let go of me!» Robin lashed him across his face. «Beast! Savage! Don't you dare touch me!»

Foyle released her and stepped back. The impact of her revulsion made him turn away angrily to conceal his face.

«So you've been malingering. You knew how to jaunte. You've been jauntlug all the while you've been pretending to learn in the primer class .

taking big jumps around the country; around the world, for all I know.»

«Yeah. I go from Times Square to Columbus Circle by way of. . most anywhere, Miss Robin.»

«And that's why you're always missing. But why? 'Why? What are you up to?»

An expression of possessed cunning appeared on the hideous face. «I'm holed up in General Hospital, me. It's my base of operations, see? I'm settling something, Miss Robin. I got a debt to pay off, me. I had to find out where a certain ship is. Now I got to pay her back. Not I rot you, 'Vorga.' I kill you, 'Vorga.' I kill you filthy!»

He stopped shouting and glared at her in wild triumph. Robin backed away in alarm.

«For God's sake, what are you talking about?»

«'Vorga.' 'Vorga-T:1339.' Ever hear of her, Miss Robin? I found out where she is from Bo'ness amp; Uig's ship registry. Bo'ness amp; Uig are out in SanFran. I went there, me, the time when you was learning us the crosstown jaunte stages. Went out to SanFran, me. Found 'Vorga,' me. She's in Vancouver shipyards. She's owned by Presteign of Presteign. Heard of him, Miss Robin? Presteign's the biggest man on Terra, is all. But he won't stop me. I'll kill 'Vorga' filthy. And you won't stop me neither, Miss Robin.»

Foyle thrust his face close to hers. «Because I cover myself, Miss Robin. I cover every weak spot down the line. I got something on everybody who could stop me before I kill 'Vorga' . . .including you, Miss Robin.»

«Yeah. I found out where you live. They know up at the hospital. I come here and looked around. I read your diary, Miss Robin. You got a family on Callisto, mother and two sisters.»

«For God's sake!»

«So that makes you alien-belligerent. When the war started you and all the rest was given one month to get out of the Inner Planets and go home. Any which didn't became spies by law.» Foyle opened his hand. «I got you right here, girl.» He clenched his hand.

«My mother and sisters have been trying to leave Callisto for a year and a half. We belong here. We…»

«Got you right here,» Foyle repeated. «You know what they do to spies? They cut information out of them. They cut you apart, Miss Robin. They take you apart, piece by piece…”

The Negro girl screamed. Foyle nodded happily and took her shaking shoulders in his hands. «I got you, is all, girl. You can't even run from me because all I got to do is tip Intelligence and where are you? There ain't nothing nobody can do to stop me; not the hospital or even Mr. Holy Mighty Presteign of Presteign.»

«Get out, you filthy, hideous. . . thing. Get out!»

«You don't like my face, Miss Robin? There ain't nothing you can do about that either.»

Suddenly he picked her up and carried her to a deep couch. He threw her down on the couch.

«Nothing,» he repeated.

Devoted to the principle of conspicuous waste, on which all society is based, Presteign of Presteign had fitted his Victorian mansion in Central Park with elevators, house phones, dumb-waiters and all the other laborsaving devices which jaunting had made obsolete. The servants in that giant gingerbread castle walked dutifully from room to room, opening and closing doors, and climbing stairs.

Presteign of Presteign arose, dressed with the aid of his valet and barber, descended to the morning room with the aid of an elevator, and breakfasted, assisted by a butler, footman, and waitresses. He left the morning room and entered his study. In an age when communication systems were virtually extinct-when it was far easier to jaunte directly to a man's office for a discussion than to telephone or telegraph-Presteign still maintained an antique telephone switchboard with an operator in his study.

«Get me Dagenham,» he said.

The operator struggled and at last put a call through to Dagenham Couriers, Inc. This was a hundred million credit organization of bonded jaunters guaranteed to perform any public or confidential service for any principal. Their fee was ~r i per mile. Dagenham guaranteed to get a courier around the world in eighty minutes.

Eighty seconds after Presteign's call was put through, a Dagenham courier appeared on the private jaunte stage outside Presteign's home, was identified and admitted through the jaunte-proof labyrinth behind the entrance. Like every member of the Dagenham staff, he was an M class jaunter, capable of teleporting a thousand miles a jump indefinitely, and familiar with thousands of jaunte co-ordinates. He was a senior specialist in chicanery and cajolery, trained to the incisive efficiency and boldness that characterized Dagenham Couriers and reflected the ruthlessness of its founder.

«Presteign?» he said, wasting no time on protocol.

«I want to hire Dagenham.»

«Ready, Presteign.»

«Not you. I want Saul Dagenham himself.»

«Mr. Dagenham no longer gives personal service for less than ~r 100,000.»

«The amount will be five times that.»

«Fee or percentage?»

«Both. Quarter of a million fee, and a quarter of a million guaranteed against 10 per cent of the total amount at risk.»

«Agreed. The matter?»

«PyrE.»

«Spell it, please.»

«The name means nothing to you?»

«Good. It will to Dagenham. PyrE. Capital P-y-r Capital E. Pronounced «pyre» as in funeral pyre. Tell Dagenham we've located the PyrE. He's engaged to get it. . . at all costs. . .through a man named Foyle. Gulliver Foyle.»

The courier produced a tiny silver pearl, a memo-bead, repeated Presteign's instructions into it, and left without another word. Presteign turned to his telephone operator. «Get me Regis Sheffield,» he directed.

Ten minutes after the call went through to Regis Sheffield's law office, a young law clerk appeared on Presteign's private jaunte stage, was vetted and admitted through the maze. He was a bright young man, with a scrubbed face and the expression of a delighted rabbit.

«Excuse the delay, Presteign,» he said. «We got your call in Chicago and I'm still only a D class five hundred miler. Took me a while getting here.»

«Is your chief trying a case in Chicago?»

«Chicago, New York and Washington. He's been on the jaunte from court to court all morning. We fill in for him when he's in another court.»

«I want to retain him.»

«Honored, Presteign, but Mr. Sheffield's pretty busy.»

«Not too busy for PyrE.»

«Sorry, sir; I don't quite…”

«No, you don't, but Sheffield will. Just tell him: PyrE as in funeral pyre, and the amount of his fee.»

«Which is?»

«Quarter of a million retainer and a quarter of a million guaranteed against 10 per cent of the total amount at risk.»

«And what performance is required of Mr. Sheffield?»

«To prepare every known legal device for kidnaping a man and holding him against the army, the navy and the police.»

«Quite. And the man?»

«Gulliver Foyle.»

The law clerk muttered quick notes into a memo-bead, thrust the bead into his ear, listened, nodded and departed. Presteign left the study and ascended the plush stairs to his daughter's suite to pay his morning respects.

In the homes of the wealthy, the rooms of the female members were blind, without windows or doors, open only to the jaunting of intimate members of the family. Thus was morality maintained and chastity defended. But since Olivia Presteign was herself blind to normal sight, she could not jaunte. Consequently her suite was entered through doors closely guarded by ancient retainers in the Presteign clan livery.

Olivia Presteign was a glorious albino. Her hair was white silk, her skin was white satin, her nails, her lips, and her eyes were coral. She was beautiful and blind in a wonderful way, for she could see in the infrared only, from 7,500 angstroms to one millimeter wavelengths. She saw heat waves, magnetic fields, radio waves, radar, sonar, and electromagnetic fields.

She was holding her Grand Levee in the drawing room of the suite. She sat in a brocaded wing chair, sipping tea, guarded by her duenna, holding court, chatting with a dozen men and women standing about the room. She looked like an exquisite statue of marble and coral, her blind eyes flashing as she saw and yet did not see.

She saw the drawing room as a pulsating flow of heat emanations ranging from hot highlights to cool shadows. She saw the dazzling magnetic patterns of clocks, phones, lights, and locks. She saw and recognized people by the characteristic heat patterns radiated by their faces and bodies. She saw, around each head, an aura of the faint electromagnetic brain pattern, and sparkling through the heat radiation of each body, the everchanging tone of muscle and nerve.

Presteign did not care for the artists, musicians, and fops Olivia kept about her, but he was pleased to see a scattering of society notables this morning. There was a Sears-Roebuck, a Gillet, young Sidney Kodak who would one day be Kodak of Kodak, a Houbigant, Buick of Buick, and R. H. Macy XVI, head of the powerful Saks-Gimbel clan.

Presteign paid his respects to his daughter and left the house. He set off for his clan headquarters at 99 Wall Street in a coach and four driven by a coachman assisted by a groom, both wearing the Presteign trademark of red, black, and blue. That black «P» on a field of scarlet and cobalt was one of the most ancient and distinguished trademarks in the social register, rivaling the «57» of the Heinz clan and the «RR» of the Rolls-Royce dynasty in antiquity.

The head of the Presteign clan was a familiar sight to New York jaunters. Iron gray, handsome, powerful, impeccably dressed and mannered in the old-fashioned style, Presteign of Presteign was the epitome of the socially elect, for he was so exalted in station that he employed coachmen, grooms, hostlers, stableboys, and horses to perform a function for him which ordinary mortals performed by jaunting.

As men climbed the social ladder, they displayed their position by their refusal to jaunte. The newly adopted into a great commercial clan rode an expensive bicycle. A rising clansman drove a small sports car. The captain of a sept was transported in a chauffeur-driven antique from the old days, a vintage Bentley or Cadillac or a towering Lagonda. An heir presumptive in direct line of succession to the clan chieftainship staffed a yacht or a plane. Presteign of Presteign, head of the clan Presteign, owned carriages, cars, yachts, planes, and trains. His position in society was so lofty that he had not jaunted in forty years. Secretly he scorned the bustling new-rich like the Dagenhams and Sheffields who still jaunted and were unshamed.

Presteign entered the crenelated keep at 99 Wall Street that was Castle Presteign. It was staffed and guarded by his famous Jaunte-Watch, all in clan livery. Presteign walked with the stately gait of a chieftain as they piped him to his office. Indeed he was grander than a chieftain, as an importunate government official awaiting audience discovered to his dismay. That unfortunate man leaped forward from the waiting crowd of petitioners as Presteign passed.

«Mr. Presteign,» he began. «I'm from the Internal Revenue Department, I must see you this morn…” Presteign cut him short with an icy stare.

«There are thousands of Presteigns,» he pronounced. «All are addressed as Mister. But I am Presteign of Presteign, head of house and sept, first of the family, chieftain of the clan. I am addressed as Presteign. Not 'Mister' Presteign. Presteign.»

He turned and entered his office where his staff greeted him with a muted chorus: «Good morning, Presteign.»

Presteign nodded, smiled his basilisk smile and seated himself behind the enthroned desk while the Jaunte-Watch skirled their pipes and ruffled their drums. Presteign signaled for the audience to begin. The Household Equerry stepped forward with a scroll, Presteign disdained memo-beads and all mechanical business devices.

«Report on Clan Presteign enterprises,» the Equeny began. «Common Stock: High-2o1 1/2, Low-2o1 1/4. Average quotations New York, Paris, Ceylon, Tokyo…”

Presteign waved his hand irritably. The Equeny retired to be replaced by Black Rod.

«Another Mr. Presto to be invested, Presteign.»

Presteign restrained his impatience and went through the tedious ceremony of swearing in the 497th Mr. Presto in the hierarchy of Presteign Prestos who managed the shops in the Presteign retail division. Until recently the man had had a face and body of his own. Now, after years of cautious testing and careful indoctrination, he had been elected to join the prestos.

After six months of surgery and psycho-conditioning, he was identical with the other 496 Mr. Prestos and to the idealized portrait of Mr. Presto which hung behind Presteign's dais . . . a kindly, honest man resembling Abraham Lincoln, a man who instantly inspired affection and trust. Around the world purchasers entered an identical Presteign store and were greeted by an identical manager, Mr. Presto. He was rivaled, but not surpassed, by the Kodak clan's Mr. Kwik and Montgomery Ward's Uncle Monty.

When the ceremony was completed, Presteign arose abruptly to indicate that the public investiture was ended. The office was cleared of all but the high officials. Presteign paced, obviously repressing his seething impatience. He never swore, but his restraint was more terrifying than profanity.

«Foyle,» he said in a suffocated voice. «A common sailor. Dirt. Dregs. Gutter scum. But that man stands between me and…”

«If you please, Presteign,» Black Rod interrupted timidly. «It's eleven o'clock Eastern time; eight o'clock Pacific time.»

«What?»

«If you please, Presteign, may I remind you that there is a launching ceremony at nine, Pacific time? You are to preside at the Vancouver shipyards.»

«Launching?»

«Our new freighter, the Presteign 'Princess.' It will take some time to establish three dimensional broadcast contact with the shipyard so we had better…”

«I will attend in person.»

«In person!» Black Rod faltered. «But we cannot possibly fly to Vancouver in an hour, Presteign. We…”

«I will jaunte,» Presteign of Presteign snapped. Such was his agitation. His appalled staff made hasty preparations. Messengers jaunted ahead to warn the Presteign offices across the country, and the private jaunte stages were cleared. Presteign was ushered to the stage within his New York office. It was a circular platform in a black-hung room without windows-a masking and concealment necessary to prevent unauthorized persons from discovering and memorizing co-ordinates. For the same reason, all homes and offices had one-way windows and confusion labyrinths behind their doors.

To jaunte it was necessary (among other things) for a man to know exactly where he was and where he was going, or there was little hope of arriving anywhere alive. It was as impossible to jaunte from an undetermined starting point as it was to arrive at an unknown destination. Like shooting a pistol, one had to know where to aim and which end of the gun to hold. But a glance through a window or door might be enough to enable a man to memorize the L-E-S co-ordinates of a place.

Presteign stepped on the stage, visualized the co-ordinates of his destination in the Philadelphia office, seeing the picture clearly and the position accurately. He relaxed and energized one concentrated thrust of will and belief toward the target. He jaunted. There was a dizzy moment in which his eyes blurred. The New York stage faded out of focus; the Philadelphia stage blurred into focus. There was a sensation of falling down, and then up. He arrived. Black Rod and others of his staff arrived a respectful moment later.

So, in jauntes of one and two hundred miles each, Presteign crossed the continent, and arrived outside the Vancouver shipping yards at exactly nine o'clock in the morning, Pacific time. He had left New York at ii A.M. He had gained two hours of daylight. This, too, was a commonplace in a jaunting world.

The square mile of unfenced concrete (what fence could bar a jaunter7') comprising the shipyard, looked like a white table covered with black pennies neatly arranged in concentric circles. But on closer approach, the pennies enlarged into the hundred-foot mouths of black pits dug deep into the bowels of the earth. Each circular mouth was rimmed with concrete buildings, offices, check rooms, canteens, changing rooms.

These were the take-off and landing pits, the drydock and construction pits of the shipyards. Spaceships, like sailing vessels, were never designed to support their own weight unaided against the drag of gravity. Normal terran gravity would crack the spine of a spaceship like an eggshell. The ships were built in deep pits, standing vertically in a network of catwalks and construction grids, braced and supported by anti-gravity screens. They took off from similar pits, riding the anti-gray beams upward like motes mounting the vertical shaft of a searchlight until at last they reached the Roche Limit and could thrust with their own jets. Landing spacecraft cut drive jets and rode the same beams downward into the pits.

As the Presteign entourage entered the Vancouver yards they could see which of the pits were in use. From some the noses and hulls of spaceships extruded, raised a quarterway or halfway above ground by the anti-gray screen as workmen in the pits below brought their aft sections to particular operational levels. Three Presteign V-class transports, «Vega,» «Vestal,» and «Vorga,» stood partially raised near the center of the yards, undergoing flaking and replating, as the heat-lightning flicker of torches around «Vorga» indicated.

At the concrete building marked: ENTRY, the Presteign entourage stopped before a sign that read:

YOU ARE ENDANGERING YOUR LIFE IF YOU ENTER THESE PREMISES UNLAWFULLY. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

Visitor badges were distributed to the party, and even Presteign of Presteign received a badge. He dutifully pinned it on for he well knew what the result of entry without such a protective badge would be. The entourage continued, winding its way through pits until it arrived at 0-3, where the pit mouth was decorated with bunting in the Presteign colors and a small grandstand had been erected.

Presteign was welcomed and, in turn, greeted his various officials. The Presteign band struck up the clan song, bright and brassy, but one of the instruments appeared to have gone insane. It struck a brazen note that blared louder and louder until it engulfed the entire band and the surprised exclamations. Only then did Presteign realize that it was not an instrument sounding, but the shipyard alarm.

An intruder was in the yard, someone not wearing an identification or visitor's badge. The radar field of the protection system was tripped and the alarm sounded. Through the raucous bellow of the alarm, Presteign could hear a multitude of «pops» as the yard guards jaunted from the grandstand and took positions around the square mile of concrete field. His own JaunteWatch closed in around him, looking wary and alert.

A voice began blaring on the P.A., coordinating defense. «UNKNOWN IN YARD. UNKNOWN IN YARD AT E FOR EDWARD NINE. E FOR EDWARD NINE MOVING WEST ON FOOT.»

«Someone must have broken in,» Black Rod shouted~

«I'm aware of that,» Presteign answered calmly.

«He must be a stranger if he's not jaunting in here.»

«I'm aware of that also.»

«UNKNOWN APPROACHING D FOR DAVID FIVE. D FOR DAVID FIVE. STILL ON FOOT. D FOR DAVID FIVE ALERT.»

«What in God's name is he up to?» Black Rod exclaimed.

«You are aware of my rule, sir,» Presteign said coldly. «No associate of the Presteign clan may take the name of the Divinity in vain. You forget yourself.»

«UNKNOWN NOW APPROACHING C FOR CHARLEY FIVE. NOW APPROACHING C FOR CHARLEY FIVE.»

Black Rod touched Presteign's arm. «He's coming this way, Presteign. Will you take cover, please?»

«I will not.»

«Presteign, there have been assassination attempts before. Three of them. If…”

«How do I get to the top of this stand?»

«Presteign!»

«Help me up.»

Aided by Black Rod, still protesting hysterically, Presteign climbed to the top of the grandstand to watch the power of the Presteign clan in action against danger. Below he could see workmen in white jumpers swarming out of the pits to watch the excitement. Guards were appearing as they jaunted from distant sectors toward the focal point of the action.

«UNKNOWN MOVING SOUTH TOWARD B FOR BAKER THREE.

B FOR BAKER THREE.»

Presteign watched the B-3 pit. A figure appeared, dashing swiftly toward the pit, veering, dodging, bulling forward. It was a giant man in hospital blues with a wild thatch of black hair and a distorted face that appeared, in the distance, to be painted in livid colors. His clothes were flickering like heat lightning as the protective induction field of the defense system seared him.

«B FOR BAKER THREE ALERT. B FOR BAKER THREE CLOSE IN.»

There were shouts and a distant rattle of shots, the pneumatic whine of scope guns. Half a dozen workmen in white leaped for the intruder. He scattered them like ninepins and drove on and on toward B-3 where the nose of «Vorga» showed. He was a lightning bolt driving through workmen and guards, pivoting, bludgeoning, boring forward implacably.

Suddenly he stopped, reached inside his flaming jacket and withdrew a black cannister. With the convulsive gesture of an animal writhing in death throes, he bit the end of the cannister and hurled it, straight and true on a high arc toward «Vorga.» The next instant he was struck down.

«EXPLOSIVE. TAKE COVER. EXPLOSIVE. TAKE COVER. COVER.»

«Presteign!» Black Rod squawked.

Presteign shook him off and watched the cannister curve up and then down toward the nose of «Vorga,» spinning and glinting in the cold sunlight. At the edge of the pit it was caught by the anti-gray beam and flicked upward as by a giant invisible thumbnail. Up and up and up it whirled, one hundred, five hundred, a thousand feet. Then there was a blinding flash, and an instant later a titanic clap of thunder that smote ears and jarred teeth and bone.

Presteign picked himself up and descended the grandstand to the launching podium. He placed his finger on the launching button of the Presteign «Princess?'

«Bring me that man, if he's still alive,» he said to Black Rod. He pressed the button. «I christen thee . . . the Presteign 'Power,'» he called in triumph.