“Nobody gets into the project but me!” Hatred, fear, and professional jealousy blazed on Moore’s face. If he can’t hang on at a third-rate Hill like Oiseau-Lyre, he isn’t good enough to—”
“We’ll see,” Benteley said coolly. “I’m itching to get my hands on your notes and papers. I’ll enjoy going over your work. It sounds like just what I want.”
“I want a drink,” Verrick muttered. “I’ve got too much to do, to stand here talking.”
Moore shot Benteley a last glance of resentment and then hurried off after Verrick. Their voices trailed off as a door was slammed. The crowd of people shifted and began to
murmur wearily and break apart.
With a shade of bitterness Eleanor said, “Well, there goes our host. Quite a party, wasn’t it?”
SIX
BENTELEY’S head had begun to ache. The constant din of voices mixed with the flash of bright clothing and the movement of bodies. The floor was littered with squashed cigarette butts and debris; the whole chamber had a disheveled cast, as if it were slowly settling on its side. His eyes hurt from the glare of the overhead lights that wavered and altered shape and value each moment. A man pushing by jabbed him hard in the ribs. Leaning against the wall, a cigarette dangling between her lips, a young woman was removing her sandals and gratefully rubbing her red-nailed toes.
“What do you want?” Eleanor asked him.
“I want to leave.”
Eleanor led him expertly through the drifting groups of people toward one of the exits. Sipping her drink as she walked she said, “All this may seem pointless, but actually it serves a function. Verrick is able to—”
Herb Moore blocked their way. His face was flushed dark and unhealthy red. With him was the pale, silent Keith Pellig. “Here you are,” Moore muttered thickly, teetering unsteadily, his glass sloshing over. He focused on Benteley and harshly announced, “You wanted to get in on it.” He slammed Pellig on the back. “This is the greatest event in the world. This is the most important person alive. Feast your eyes, Benteley.”
Pellig said nothing. He gazed impassively at Benteley and Eleanor, his thin body relaxed and supple. There was almost no color to him. His eyes, his hair, his skin, even his nails, were bleached and translucent. He had a washed, hygienic appearance. He was odorless, colorless, tasteless, an empty cipher.
Benteley put out his hand. “Hello, Pellig. Shake.”
Pellig shook. His hand was cool and faintly moist with no life or strength.
“What do you think of him?” Moore demanded aggressively. “Isn’t he something? Isn’t he the greatest discovery since the wheel?”
“Where’s Verrick?” Eleanor said. “Pellig isn’t supposed to be out of his sight.”
Moore flushed darker. “That’s a laugh! Who—”
“You’ve had too much to drink.” Eleanor peered sharply around. “Damn Reese; he’s probably still arguing with somebody.”
Benteley gazed at Pellig with dulled fascination. There was something repellent about the listless, slender shape, a sexless juiceless hermaphrodite quality. Pellig didn’t even have a glass in his hand. He had nothing.
“You’re not drinking,” Benteley’s voice rolled out.
Pellig shook his head.
“Why not? Have some _methane gale_.” Benteley fumbled a glass from the tray of a passing MacMillan robot; three crashed to the floor, spiffing and splintering under the robot’s gliding treads. It instantly halted and began an intricate cleaning and sweeping operation.
“Here.” Benteley thrust the glass at Pellig. “Eat, drink, and be merry. Tomorrow somebody, certainly not you, will die.”
“Cut it,” Eleanor grated in his ear.
“Pellig,” Benteley said, “how does it feel to be a professional killer? You don’t look like a professional killer. You don’t look like anything at all. Not even a man. Certainly not a human being.”
The remaining people had begun to collect around. Eleanor tugged furiously at his arm. “Ted, for Christ’s sake! Verrick’s coming!”
“Let go.” Benteley yanked loose. “That’s my sleeve.” He brushed his sleeve with numb fingers. “That’s about all I have left; leave me that much.” He focused on the vacant face of Keith Pellig. There was a constant roaring in his brain; his nose and throat stung. “Pellig, how’s it feel to murder a man you never saw? A man who never did anything’ to you? A harmless crackpot, accidentally in the way of a lot of big people. A temporary bottle-neck—”
“What do you mean?” Moore interrupted in a dangerous mumble of confused resentment. “You mean to imply there’s something wrong with Pellig?” He snickered grotesquely. “My pal Pellig.”
Verrick appeared from the side room, pushing people out of his way. “Moore, take him out of here. I told you to go upstairs.” He waved the group of people brusquely toward the double doors. “The party’s over. Get going. You’ll be contacted when you’re needed.”
The people began separating and moving reluctantly toward the exits. Robots found coats and wraps for them. In small groups they lingered here and there, talking together, watching Verrick and Pellig curiously.
Verrick took hold of Pellig. “Get out of here. Go on upstairs. Christ, it’s late.” He started for the wide staircase, hunched over, his shaggy head turned to one side. “Well, in spite of everything, we’ve accomplished a lot today. I’m going to bed.”
Balancing himself carefully, Benteley said clearly after him, “Look here, Verrick. I have an idea. Why don’t you murder Cartwright yourself? Eliminate the middle-man. It’s more scientific.”
Verrick snorted with unexpected laughter and kept on going, without slowing or looking back. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder. “Go home and get some sleep.”
“I’m not going home,” Benteley said stubbornly. “I came here to learn what the strategy is, and I’m staying until I learn it.”
At the first step Verrick halted and turned. There was a queer look on his massive hard-ridged features. “What’s that?”
“You heard me,” Benteley said. He closed his eyes and stood with his feet apart, balancing himself as the room tilted and shifted. When he looked again, Verrick had gone up the stairs and Eleanor Stevens was pulling frantically at his arm.
“You damn fool!” she shrilled. “What’s the matter?”
“He’s a creep,” Moore said unsteadily. He moved Pellig toward the stairs. “Better get him out of here, Eleanor. Hell start chewing up the carpet pretty soon.”
Benteley was baffled. He opened his mouth numbly but no sound came. “He’s gone,” he managed to say finally. “They’re all gone. Verrick and Moore and that thing of wax.” Eleanor led him out into a side room and closed the door after them. The room was small and in half-shadow, its edges merged in hazy darkness. She shakily lit a cigarette and stood puffing furiously, smoke streaming from her dilated nostrils. “Benteley, you’re a lunatic.”
“I’m drunk. This Callistan beetle-juice. Is it true a thousand slaves are sweating and dying in a methane atmosphere so Verrick can have his whiskey?”
“Sit down.” She pushed him down in a chair and paced in a jerky little circle directly in front of him, taut as a marionette on a wire. “Everything’s going to pieces. Moore is so damn proud of Pellig he can’t stop showing him off. Verrick can’t adjust to being quacked; he thinks he still has his teeps to hold him together. Oh, God.” She spun on her heel and buried her face bitterly in her hands.
Benteley gazed up at her without comprehension until she had hold of herself again and was dabbing miserably at her swollen eyes. “Can I do something?” he asked hopefully.
Eleanor found a decanter of cold water on a low table in the shadows. She emptied a shallow glazed-china dish of petite hard candies over one of the chairs and filled the dish with water. Very rapidly she doused her face, hands and arms, then yanked down an embroidered cloth from the window case and dried herself.
“Come on, Benteley,” she muttered. “Let’s get out of here.” She started blindly from the room, and Benteley struggled to his feet and after her. Her small bare-breasted shape glided like a phantom between the gloomy objects that made up Verrick’s possessions, huge ponderous statues and glass cases, up short dark-carpeted stairs and around corners where immobile robot servants stood waiting silently for instructions.
They came out on a deserted floor, draped in shadows and dust-thick darkness. Eleanor waited for him to catch up with her. “I’m going to bed,” she said bluntly. “You can come if you want, or you can go home.”
“My home’s gone. I have no home.” He followed after her, down a corridor past a series of half-closed doors. Lights showed here and there. He heard voices. He thought he recognized some of them. Men’s voices mixed with sleepy, half-swallowed women’s murmur. Abruptly Eleanor vanished and he was alone.
He felt his way through a haze of remote movement and wavering shapes. Once he crashed violently against something. A hail of shattered objects cascaded down around him. Stunned, he blundered off away again and stood foolishly.