“But he knows everything about the Challenge,” Laura said. “He’s kept it all on a high moral plane. I remember when I was a little girl still in school; that Quizmaster was quacked, that funny one who stuttered. And that good-looking young man got in, that black-haired assassin who made such a wonderful Quizmaster. And old Judge Waring set up the Board and ruled over the Convention like Jehovah in the old Christian myths.”
“He has a beard,” Benteley said.
“A long white beard.”
The tv set had changed announcers. A view of the massive auditorium in which the Convention was being formed swam into focus. Seats were already set up, and the huge platform at which the Board sat in judgment. People milled back and forth; the auditorium boomed and echoed with sounds of furious activity and shouted instructions.
“Just think,” Laura said. “All that momentous business going on while we sit here quietly eating our dinner.”
“It’s a long way off,” Al said indifferently.
. . . Reese Verrick’s offer of a million gold dollars has galvanized the Convention proceedings. Statisticians estimate a record number of applications—and they’re still pouring in. Everybody is eager to try his hand at the most daring role in the system, the greatest risk and the highest stakes. The eyes of six billion people on nine planets are turned on the Westinghouse Hill tonight. Who will the first assassin be? Out of these many brilliant applicants, representing all classes and Hills, who will be the first to try his hand for the million gold dollars and the applause and acclamation of a whole civilization?
“How about you?” Laura said suddenly to Benteley. “Why don’t you put in your application? You don’t have an assignment, right now.”
“It’s out of my line.”
Laura laughed. “Make it your line! Al, don’t we have that big tape they put out, all the successful assassins of the past, their lives and everything about them? Show it to Ted.”
“I’ve seen it,” Benteley said curtly.
“When you were a boy, didn’t you dream of growing up to be a successful assassin?”
Laura’s brown eyes were dim with nostalgia. “I remember how I hated being a girl because then I couldn’t be an assassin when I grew up. I bought a lot of charms, but they didn’t turn me into a boy.”
Al Davis pushed his empty plate away with a gratified belch. “Can I let out my belt?”
“Sure,” Laura said.
Al let out his belt. “That was a good meal, honey. I wouldn’t mind eating like that every day.”
“You do, practically.” Laura finished her coffee and daintily touched her napkin to her lips. “More coffee, Ted?”
. . . Experts predict the first assassin will have a seventy-thirty chance of destroying Quizmaster Cartwright and winning the million dollar prize put up by Reese Verrick, the previous Quizmaster, quacked less than twenty-four hours ago by an unexpected twitch of the bottle. If the first assassin fails, the dopesters have their money sixty-forty on the second assassin. According to their scratch sheets Cartwright will have better control over his army and telepathic Corps after the initial two days. For the assassin, speed rather than form will count high, especially in the opening phase. During the last lap the situation will be tight because of . . .
“There’s already a lot of private betting,” Laura said. She leaned contentedly back, a cigarette between her fingers, and smiled at Benteley. “It’s good to have you come by again. You think you’ll move your things here to Farben? You could stay with us for awhile, until you find a decent place.”
“A lot of places that used to be good are being taken over by unks,” Al observed.
“They’re moving everywhere,” Laura agreed. “Ted, remember that wonderful area near the synthetics research lab? All those new housing units, those green and pink buildings? Unks are living there, and naturally it’s all run down and dirty and bad-smelling. It’s a disgrace; why don’t they sign up for work-camps? That’s where they belong, not loafing around here.”
Al yawned. “I’m sleepy.” He picked a date from the bowl in the center of the table. “A date. What the hell’s a date?” He ate it slowly. “Too sweet. What planet’s it from? Venus? It tastes like one of those pulpy Venusian fruits.”
“It’s from Asia Minor,” Laura said.
“Here on Earth? Who muted it?”
“Nobody. It’s a natural fruit. From a palm tree.”
Al shook his head wonderingly. “The infinite diversity of God’s creations.”
Laura was shocked. “Suppose somebody at work heard you talk like thatl”
“Let them hear me.” Al stretched and yawned again. “I don’t care.”
“They might think you were a Christian.”
Benteley got slowly to his feet. “Laura, I have to get going.”
Al rose in amazement. “Why?”
“I have to collect my things and get them over here from Oiseau-Lyre.”
Al thumped him on the shoulder. “Farben’ll transport them. You’re one of Verrick’s serfs now—remember? Give the Hill traffic office a call and they’ll arrange it. No charge.”
“I’d rather do it myself,” Benteley said.
“Why?” Laura asked, surprised.
“Less things get broken,” Benteley answered obliquely. “I’ll hire a taxi and load up over the weekend. I don’t think he’ll want me before Monday.”
“I don’t know,” Al said doubtfully. “You better get your stuff over here as soon as possible. Sometimes Verrick wants a person right now, and when he wants you right now—”
‘The hell with Verrick,” Benteley said. “I’m taking my time.”
Their dazed, shocked faces danced around him as he moved away from the table. His stomach was full of warm well-cooked food, but his mind was thin and empty, a sharp acid rind over—what? He didn’t know.
“That’s no way to talk,” Al said.
“That’s the way I feel.”
“You know,” Al said, “I don’t think you’re being realistic.”
“Maybe not.” Benteley found his coat. “Thanks for the meal, Laura. It was terriffic.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m not,” Benteley answered. “You have a fine little place here. All the comforts and conveniences. I hope you’ll both be very happy. I hope your cooking keeps on convincing you, in spite of me.”
“It will,” Laura said.
The announcer was saying: “… more than ten thousand already, from all parts of Earth. Judge Waring’s announcement that the first assassin will be chosen at this session . . .”
“Tonight!” Al exclaimed. He whistled appreciatively. “Verrick doesn’t waste any time.” He shook his head, impressed. “That man really moves, Ted. You have to hand it to him.”
Benteley crouched down and snapped the tv set off. The rapid procession of sounds and images faded out of existence and he rose to his feet. “You mind?” he said.
“What happened?” Laura faltered. “It went off!”
“I turned it off. I’m tired of hearing that goddamn racket. I’m tired of the Convention and everything about it.”
There was an uneasy, unnatural silence.
After a moment Al grinned uncertainly. “How about a shot of booze before you go? It’ll relax you.”
“I’m relaxed,” Benteley said. He crossed over to the transparent wall and stood with his back to Laura and Al, gazing gloomily out at the night and the endless winking procession of lights that moved around Farben Hill. In his mind a similar phantasmagoria of shapes and images swirled; he could turn off the tv and opaque the wall, but he couldn’t halt the rapid activity in his mind.
“Well,” Laura said finally, to no one in particular, “I guess we don’t get to watch the Challenge Convention.”
“You’ll see review tapes the rest of your life,” Al said genially.
“I want to see it now!”
“It’ll be awhile, anyhow,” Al said, automatically seeking to smooth things out. “They’re still testing their equipment”
Laura made a short breathing sound and whirled the dinner table back into the kitchen.
Roaring water leaped in the sink; dishes banged and scraped furiously.
“She’s mad,” Al observed.
“It’s my fault,” Benteley said, without conviction.
“She’ll get over it. You probably remember. Say, if you want to tell me what’s wrong I’m all ears.”
What am I supposed to say? Benteley thought futilely. “I went to Batavia expecting to get in on something big,” he said. “Something beyond people grabbing for power, struggling to get to the top of the heap over each other’s dead bodies. Instead I find myself back here—with that shrill thing yelling at the top of its lungs.” He gestured at the tv. “Those ads are like bright shiny sewer-bugs.”
Al Davis solemnly extended a chubby finger. “Reese Verrick will be back in the number One spot inside a week. His money picks the assassin. The assassin is under fealty to him. When he kills this Cartwright person the spot returns to Verrick. You’re just too damn impatient, that’s all. Wait a week, man. It’ll be back the way it was—maybe better.”
Laura appeared at the doorway. Her rage was gone; now her face was flooded with peevish anxiety. “Al, couldn’t we please get the Convention? I can hear the neighbors’ set and they’re choosing the assassin _right now!_”