The Chalice of Death (27 page)

The technician named Bryson gave Mantell an uneasy moment one day. Bryson was a small man with rounded shoulders and fingers stained permanent ochre by nicotine; he walked with a kind of shuffle. He was in Mantell's laboratory one morning observing and helping out, and it occurred to Mantell to ask, by way of conversation, where Bryson had acquired his impressive skill in electronics.

Bryson smiled and said, “Why, I used to work at Klingsan Defense Screens, on Earth. Before my trouble, that is, I mean.”

Mantell was holding a packet of junction transistors.

He started violently, dropping them. They scattered everywhere. “
Klingsan
, you said?”

Bryson nodded. “You've heard of them?”

“I worked there once, too,” Mantell said. “From '89 to '93. Then they sacked me.”

“That's odd,” Bryson said in a curious voice. “I was there from '91 to '96, and I thought I knew everyone in the armaments department. I should have known you, then. But I don't. I don't remember any Mantell there, not at all. And you don't look familiar, either. Did you go under the name of Mantell while you were there?”

“Yes.” Puzzled, Mantell shrugged and said, “Hell, that was more than seven years ago. Nobody's memory is perfect. Anyway, maybe we worked in different departments.”

“Maybe,” Bryson agreed vaguely.

But Mantell felt troubled. He tried to remember a Bryson at Klingsan, and couldn't. Neither anyone of that name, nor anyone who resembled the little man with the stained fingers. That was odd, because if they
had
been there at overlapping times they would most certainly have worked in the same department, since they had the same skills.

Something, Mantell thought, is very wrong.

But he pushed it to the back of his mind, storing it back with his life on Mulciber and his brief few days with Myra and all the other things he wasn't particularly anxious to think about, and returned to his waiting workbench.

He lost himself once again in his work. Another problem had to be settled. He wrestled with it for a while, and by late afternoon his decision was made. He had to find out.…

That night he went to the Casino of Masks.

There were eight separate gambling casinos on the tenth level of the Pleasure Dome, each with its own individual name and its own circle of regular clientele. The casino Myra had taken him to was known as the Crystal Casino, largest and most popular of the group, the casino of widest appeal. Others, farther along the gleaming onyx hallway, were smaller; in some, the stakes ran dangerously high, highly dangerous.

The Casino of Masks was farthest from the liftshaft. Mantell identified it solely by the hooded statue mounted before its entrance.

The time was exactly nine. His throat felt dry; tension gripped him like a constricting fist. He stretched out a hand, poked it as far as the wrist through the barrier beam that operated the door. The door slid back and he entered.

He found himself in darkness so complete that he was unable to see his hand held before his face, or even the watch on his arm. In all probability, he thought, he was getting a black light scanning from above, just to make sure he was not on the Casino's proscribed list.

After a moment a gentle robot voice murmured, “Step to the left, into the booth, sir.”

Obediently he stepped to the left.

“Welcome to the Casino of Masks, good sir,” another robot voice said.

He wished he had had the chance to find out from Myra or someone else exactly what this Casino of Masks was like, but it was too late for that now.

His unseen mentor said, “You may now receive the mask. Please turn.”

Turning, Mantell saw a dim red light begin to glow, and by its light he perceived a triangular slotted mask lying in a lucite case; above it, in a mirror, he saw his image.

“Lift the mask from its case and slip it over your head,” he was instructed. “It will afford complete protection of privacy from any recognition.”

With tense fingers he lifted the mask and donned it. The next instruction followed: “Activate the stud near your right ear.”

He touched the stud. And suddenly the image in the mirror gave way to a blurred figure of the same height. Just a blur, a wavering blotch in the air, concealing him completely.

Mantell remembered now: he had heard of these masks. They scattered light in a field surrounding the wearer, allowing one-way vision only. They were ideal for those who desired anonymity, as in this casino.

“You are now ready to enter the Casino,” the robot said blandly.

He extended his hand, or rather the blur that was his hand. Within the field, of course, he saw no blur, but looking over his shoulder he caught the mirror's view of himself and smiled.

The booth opened, and he stepped out into the Casino of Masks.

Mantell stood at the entrance, adjusting to the situation. It seemed to him that he wore nothing, and indeed he felt a faint chill. But as he looked across the long hall, seeing no people but only gray blurs here and there he knew he was utterly anonymous.

He wondered how the conspirators were going to achieve contact with him, cloaked as he was. Or whether there were any conspirators at all.

From the first he had considered the possibility that this was all some elaborate hoax of Thurdan's making. Well, for that eventuality he was prepared; he would simply tell Thurdan that he was conducting an unofficial investigation, answering the summons in the book because he hoped to unmask the conspirators.

He looked around.

The Casino was equipped with all the usual standard games of chance, but there were also a great many card tables in the back. It seemed logical, Mantell thought. He imagined that bluffing games, such as poker, would be the order of things here. No involuntary facial manifestations could give away strategy here.

But he did not want to get involved in a card game. Instead he drifted across to the rotowheel table. It was as good a place to begin as any.

The table was crowded. It was almost completely surrounded by gesticulating blurred figures, busily placing their bets for the next turn.

In the center of the huge round table was a metal wheel whose enameled surface was covered with numbers. The wheel would swing free and halt at random, and when it halted a beam of light from above would focus sharply on it, singling out a number.

The man who played the winning number was entitled to collect the numerical value of that number from every other player: if he won on number Twelve, everyone present at the table handed in twelve chips to go to him, and paid the house the amount of his own losing number as well, as a forfeit. It was possible to win or lose heavily on the rotowheel in a matter of minutes.

Mantell edged into the crowd. There were some sixty people at the wheel. When he was close enough to bet, he put his money on Twenty-Two.

“You don't want to do that, mister,” advised a tall blur at his side. The stranger's voice was as metallic and anonymous as his face; the vocal distortion was a side-effect of the scattering-field, and was a further concealment of the mask.

“Why not?” Mantell asked.

“Because Twenty-Two just came up last time around.”

“The wheel doesn't remember what number won last time,” Mantell snapped.

“Go ahead, then. Throw your dough away.”

Mantell left his chips where they were. A few minutes later the croupier called time and the wheel started to swing. Around.… around.…

… And came to rest on Forty-Nine. Shrugging, Mantell added forty-nine chips to the twenty-two out there already, and watched while the croupier swept them away. The lucky winner, face an impassive blur behind which was probably an unashamed grin of pleasure, moved forward to collect. His take, Mantell computed, would be nearly three thousand chips. Not bad at all.

Mantell stayed at the board about fifteen minutes, and in that time managed to lose two hundred and eighty chips without much difficulty. Then he cashed in on eleven—he was playing cautiously by then—and came away with winnings amounting to about five hundred chips.

There was, surprisingly, no clock in the Casino, and he had carelessly left his wristwatch back in his room. He had no way of knowing what time it was, but he estimated that it was still short of ten o'clock by some minutes.

While he stood to one side considering which game he should attempt next, a gong sounded suddenly, and the place became quiet. He saw a robot ascend a platform in the center of the hall.

“Attention, please! If the gentleman who recently lost a copy of the book entitled
A Study of Hydrogen—Breathing Life in the Spica System
will step forward, we will be able to return his book to him at this platform. Thank you.”

The crowd buzzed in puzzled amusement, sensing some sort of joke, but not being sure just what it was. This, Mantell realized, was his message, and it had probably been read off every night during the past week, just in case he had decided to attend.

He paused for a moment, decided that since he had come this far he might as well go through with the rest of it, and made his way forward through the crowd of gaily laughing blurred figures to the dais.

He confronted the robot. “I own the missing book,” he said. “I'm very anxious to have it returned.”

“Of course. Will you come this way, sir?”

Mantell followed the robot back through the crowd to an alcove: near the entrance. They paused there.

“To your left, sir,” the robot said.

A door opened to his left and he stepped through. He entered a booth similar to the one in which he had donned his mask. Only there was a pink blur waiting for him in this one, holding out a copy of a yellow-bound book which looked very familiar.

The blur held the book up so he could see it and said in a mechanical distorted voice, “Is this the book you lost, sir?”

Mantell nodded stiffly. “It is. Thanks very much for returning it. I was very worried about it.”

He stared at the blur, trying vainly to peer behind it and perceive the identity of the other. It was impossible. The waves of light danced mockingly before him, obscuring the face behind them.

He reached out to take the book, but it was gently drawn back out of his reach.

“Not yet, sir,” the other said. “One question first. Have you read this book?”

“No—uh—I mean, yes, I have,” he said, realizing the other was referring to the message between the pages, rather than to the text of the work itself. “Yes, I've read it.”

“And are you interested in the subject with which it deals?”

He was silent for a moment, knowing that the “subject” she was talking about could only be the death of Ben Thurdan.

“Yes,” he said finally, “I am. But—who are you?”

“You'll see. But I must have absolute assurance of secrecy in this matter.”

He looked down at himself and felt sweat running down inside his shirt. “All right. I'll vow secrecy, if that's what you want.”

The blur opposite moved slightly, lifting one hand to nudge the activating stud on the right side of the mask. Mantell heard a click—and then the unmasked face of a girl appeared before him. He gasped.

Almost immediately she clicked the studs again, and Mantell saw the delicate features, the star-blue eyes he knew so well, fade into a blurred veil of gray light—and Myra Butler became once more as distantly anonymous as any of the other Casino pleasure-seekers.

It took him a moment to recover from the double shock of seeing Myra revealed for that brief instant and of finding that she was part of the conspiracy against Ben Thurdan. Then pieces of a puzzle began slowly to form into a pattern. He stared steadily at the blur before him.

“Is this a joke?” he asked hoarsely.

“Hardly. It's been in the planning stage for a long time. Too long, maybe. But we have to gain strength first, before we can take over.”

“Aren't you afraid to speak so openly in this booth?” Mantell asked, looking around nervously. “Ben seems to have spies everywhere. There might be a pipeline to—”

“No,” she said. “This booth's all right. The manager of the Casino here is one of us. There isn't any danger.”

He sat down limply on the bench in the booth. “Okay. Tell me about this thing, then, as long as I'm here. When do you plan to do it?”

Blurred pink lines that might have been soft shoulders lifted in a gentle shrug. “We haven't set the exact time yet. But we're certain of one thing: We must get rid of Thurdan.”

Mantell didn't ask why. He said, “But you're taking a big chance, aren't you? How do you know I won't go running to Ben and tell him all about it? I'm sure he'd be highly interested.”

“You won't do it,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“Your psychprobe patterns. You won't betray us, Johnny. I saw your charts and I know the sort of a person you are, even if you don't know yourself. I picked you as one of us from the minute you were probed.”

He sat looking at his fingers and thought about it. He realized that in this the probe had told the truth: it was almost as impossible for him to betray to Thurdan what Myra was telling him as it would be for him to grow wings. She was taking no risk with him.

“How about Marchin?” he asked. “Was he part of this thing, too?”

“No. Marchin knew about us, but he had his own plans. He stayed aloof. That was because he planned to rule the way Ben rules. Alone.”

“And what does your group plan to do?”

“To set up a civilized form of government on Starhaven,” was the steady reply. “To set up a democracy, instead of a tyranny.”

“But tyranny sometimes works out. Ben is doing a good job of running his planet,” Mantell said. “You can't deny that.”

The blur that was Myra Butler moved from side to side, as if shaking her head in disagreement.

She said, “I won't try to argue with your statement. Certainly, Ben has Starhaven running on an even keel. But what would happen if he should die today?” She didn't wait for an answer. “I—we know very well what would happen. There would be a fierce scramble for power that would turn this planet into a raging mad-house of civil strife and death. And that's why we have to kill him and take over the planet ourselves. And nothing less than killing would work; he's too strong a man to be willing to take part in any other form of government than dictatorship. Ben can't just be deposed, he has to be put away permanently.”