I

Rex Bader took down two bottles from the medicine cabinet in his efficiency bath and shook out one pill and one capsule. He looked at the capsule in distaste. Theoretically, there was no aftereffect but that was theory. Speed up the pace at which you could assimilate learning and when the effect of the medication wore off you had a somewhat drugged feeling, a hangover if you will. The pill seemed to be of another nature, perception was broader, insight quicker and he was darned if he could find any payoff otherwise. Rex Bader was no pharmacologist but he understood the second drug was distantly related to mescaline.

He washed them both down with water, went over to his desk in that corner of the mini-apartment's living cum bedroom which he called his library, sat down before the TV library booster screen and put his student's headphones over his ears. He ran a finger over the typer keyboard, sighed and dialed for his lesson in Spanish for that day.

He flicked the activating button and tuned in on the school's central computer-teacher.

He progressed fairly slowly at the beginning, memorizing when memorizing was called for, recited when drawn upon for pronouncing practice. He was called up abruptly several times on this. At the age of thirty-odd without any other language background beyond English, Rex Bader had his troubles with such matters as rolling his "r's" and mastering the Castilian lisp.

As the pill and capsule he had swallowed took effect he sped up the lessons and then sped them up again.

And was irritated when the door buzzed.

He looked over at the identity screen and saw an unknown there. A very natty, impressive and prosperous looking unknown, but an unknown.

Rex Bader sighed, removed his headset, left the lesson he was currently at on the screen and got up to answer the door.

Outside, ultra-expensive appearing briefcase in hand, the other emanated still more prosperity. In fact, Rex Bader decided inwardly, this was possibly the most affluent looking character he had ever run into. Not that the other was ostentatious in dress, he was just rich in dress and Rex wondered vaguely where one acquired the gentle gray material of the other's suit; England, probably. Wherever you acquired it, citizens on Rex Bader's economic level didn't.

The newcomer said, "Mr. Rex Bader? My name is Temple Norman."

"O.K. Come in. What can I do for you?" Rex led the way to the living-room couch which converted into a bed during the hight hours, motioned the other to be seated and took his. own place in his comfort chair.

Temple Norman put his briefcase on his knees, activated the opening mechanism and dipped in for a handful of facsimiles. He flicked quickly through the sheaf, nodded several times and said, "Of course."

It was too early in the day to offer the other a drink from the autobar. Rex cleared his throat and said, making a slight gesture at the papers, "What's that, if you don't mind my asking?"

The other looked up. "Your dossier, from the National Data Banks, Mr. Bader."

"My dossier! What are you doing with my dossier? Are you an official of the computer-data banks?"

Temple Norman shook his beautifully barbered head. "No. However, Mr. Bader, it is possible, though somewhat expensive, to secure any person's dossier if one has the proper connections."

"And you have the proper connections to pry into my personal life, eh?"

"The enterprises for which I work do, Mr. Bader."

Rex took a breath. "All right. Let's get.to the point. What can I do for you?"

"Perhaps you will be offered employment, but a few questions first, if you will." He looked about the mini-apartment, his nostrils held slightly high. Rex Bader waited him out. The other had impressive nostrils, very aristocratic.

"First of all, Mr. Bader, under Meritocracy, pragmatism is the word. Your I.Q. and your education would indicate a man of potential abilities. However, your establishment would indicate that you exist on a level little different from that of an unemployed living on NIT, his Negative Income Tax."

Rex said patiently, "Mr. Norman, three things are needed to make your place under Meritocracy. One, a reasonably high I.Q.; two, a reasonably good education

"And three?" the other said, frowning slightly, as though he hadn't known there was a third.

Rex said, "The term I.Q. as we usually use it these days is a misnomer. Our psychologists do not really assess all-around intelligence, there is no such thing. What they assess are the qualities needed to benefit from a higher education. And the early I.Q. tests have been augmented with others that check out your verbal ability and fluency, your spatial ability, numerical ability, perceptual ability, memory ability, driving ability, accident proneness, digital dexterity, analogizing power, mechanical aptitude, clerical aptitude, emotional maturity, tone discrimination, sexual attraction even, taste sensitivity, color blindness, accuracy, persistence, neurosis, and powers of observation. But there is just one thing they don't and can't test, and that's the third thing needed to succeed under Meritocracy."

The other was still frowning his puzzlement.

Rex said, "Luck."

"Ah. And you feel that fortune has passed you by?"

"Let's say, so far. I'm still trying. When I got out of the university, Mr. Norman, I studied aviation with the intent of becoming a pilot."

"A most unfortunate choice."

"Wasn't it though? By the time I graduated from the air school, practically all aircraft were automated. Those jobs that still were left went to old-timers, highly experienced veteran pros. So I went back to school and took some more courses which I figured would wind me up doing chores for the petroleum industries."

"I see. Undoubtedly just in time for the introduction of cheap power from nuclear sources."

"Right. So that was the second field that technology-did me out of. Next time, I decided, I'd be too smart for them and get into something technology wouldn't touch. I'd always been an inveterate reader of suspense, detective and international intrigue novels since I was a boy reading Ian Fleming and John D. MacDonald. So I took courses that led to my being able to apply for a private investigator's license. And that's where I am now."

"Collecting Negative Income Tax?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why? Because there's practically no demand for private investigators. With the coming of the universal credit card and the cashless-checkless use of the pseudo dollar, ninety-five cases out of a hundred that a private detective used to deal with have been eliminated. Crime, as we knew it in the old days, has practically been erased. We don't even have many divorce cases any more. How can you have divorce if so few bother to marry these days?"

"I see. And you have given up, then?"

"No. My detective shingle is still out but on the side I'm studying various other subjects."

The other looked down at the dossier in his lap. "So I see. Spanish among others. Why?"

Rex shrugged impatiently. "Because although aviation in the States is almost universally automated there are still some of the more backward countries, especially in South America, where our corporations still utilize human pilots."

"Then you don't object to work abroad?"

"I don't object to work anywhere."

"Not even in the Soviet Complex, Mr. Bader?"

Rex looked at him.

The immaculate Mr. Norman coughed gently and said, "But that can come later. Now then, I note that you have no political affiliations."

"I stopped having interest in politics when I decided there was no difference between the major parties and they had so sewed up election laws that an emerging third party was all but impossible."

"Um-m-m, um-m-m. Unmarried. No close relatives. Moderate user of alcoholic beverages."

"Tell me what's all this about?"

Mr. Norman ignored the question and looked up and said; "Mr. Bader, what do you think of Meritocracy as a socio-economic system?"

"I don't know. What is there to think about it? I can't come up with any alternative. I only wish I was a little higher on the totem pole, is all."

The newcomer suddenly stuffed his sheaf of papers back into his briefcase and flicked the button that closed the automatic zipper. He came to his feet.

"Very well, let us be on our way."

Rex said, "Do you mind if I ask you where and why?"

"Yes."

Rex Bader made a gesture of resignation with his two hands. "O.K. I suppose it's all in a day's work and Lord knows I can use work. Wait'll I get my jacket. You realize, of course, that I charge by the hour and under these circumstances my time starts as of right now."

"If you are found suitable for the assignment, Mr. Bader, you will be recompensed beyond your dreams of avarice. If you are not found suitable, your time will be paid for at your customary fee—at least."

"Them's mighty pretty words, Stranger," Rex Bader muttered under his breath as he sought out his jacket.

At the elevator banks, Rex Bader turned to the other. "What level?" he said.

"StreeJ level," Norman told him. "My vehicle is parked there."

His vehicle yet, Rex thought, shrugging inwardly. He said into the elevator's phone screen, "Street level."

"Street level," the robot voice answered and the compartment began to rise.

At the street level Temple Norman led the way. When they emerged from the entrance he selected, he looked up at the one-hundred-and-ten-story, aluminum-sheathed twin towers of the high-rise apartment building.

"Tell me, Mr. Bader. Why have you chosen to reside on the eighth level below ground when it would seem to me the apartments above—the higher the better—would be the more desirable? I would estimate that a building of this magnitude would afford at least two thousand apartments of various sizes; surely yours must be one of the least attractive so far as location is concerned."

"It is," Rex said wryly. "It is also one of the cheapest. I'm down on the service levels along with the ultra-market and the garages and theaters. But the rent on my mini-apartment is less than half what it would be on any of the top ten levels. When you're on NIT, you watch your pseudo-dollars."

"I see," the other said, nostrils slightly high again. "Here we are."

Rex Bader did a double take. The electro-steamer limousine was obviously not only privately owned, but was chauffeur-driven. As a city dweller, Rex Bader seldom saw a privately owned car; he had never before seen a chauffeur-driven one that he could recall.

The uniformed flunky had popped from his position behind the controls upon their approach, now he held the back door open for them. When they were seated, he scurried around to his place again.

"Return to the offices, Martin," Temple Norman told him.

"Very good, sir." The electro-steamer smoothed into motion, under manual control.

Rex said to the driver, "The nearest entry is straight ahead about a half kilometer."

"Yes, sir," the chauffeur said, "I know." There was a slightly supercilious element in his tone.

What is it about the servants of the very rich, Rex asked himself, that some of the superiority complex of their employers rubs off on them?

Rex said to Temple Norman, in the way of make-conversation, "I thought it was against the rules to bring a privately owned vehicle into a pseudo-city."

They were proceeding through the acres of parks and playgrounds which surrounded his house.

"Against the rules, Mr. Bader, but one is able to surmount rules if one has the proper connections, though it is somewhat expensive."

"I'm beginning to suspect that you have proper connections," Rex said wryly.

The driver pulled up to the entry of the ultra-expressway and skillfully came to a halt on a dispatcher. He reached to the dashboard and dialed what was obviously their destination, then relaxed back into the seat—if relaxed you could call it. His hands were folded in his lap, in an almost military posture. One hell of a way to make a living, Rex decided sourly.

The auto-controls of the underground ultra-expressway took over and within minutes they were up to a three-hundred-kilometer clip.

They rode in silence for possibly half an hour and then the speed of the electro-steamer began to fall off.

"Why me?" Rex said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Obviously, you could afford to hire anyone in the country for whatever this mysterious assignment of yours is. So why me?"

"We put our requirements on the computers, Mr. Bader. You were selected. Several others, as well, so that we have a choice, but thus far you seem to fill our needs. We shall see."

Their speed dropped still farther and shortly they branched off the main road, went on three or four kilometers, and took a still smaller branch. Another half a kilometer and they came to an entry and the vehicle came to a halt on a dispatcher.

Martin took over the controls again and they proceeded, remaining underground.

The road was evidently a private one and shortly they entered a building and came up before an entrance. The building was obviously sizable, very recent, and damnably expensive. A doorman, uniformed like nothing so much as a Bulgarian admiral, opened up for them and said, "Good afternoon, Mr. Norman."

Temple Norman nodded to him distantly and moved toward the entry, very brisk. No one else seemed to be around. Rex Bader got the impression that this was a private entrance, in spite of its magnitude and swank. All over again, he was impressed.

Inside, there were only two elevators. Rex followed his guide inside one of them.

"Penthouse," Norman said.

"The penthouse. Yes, sir," the robot voice said.

The compartment accelerated, accelerated again, accelerated again, then after what seemed a fantastically long time, slowed, slowed, came to a halt.

Rex cleared his throat. "This must be a high one."

"Yes."

They emerged into what would seem a private establishment, rather than offices. Once again, no one seemed to be around.

"This way," Temple Norman murmured.

As they went along an ornate hallway, Temple Norman looked at Rex from the side of his eyes. "You are a detective. Have you detected anything as yet, Mr. Bader?"

"Yes. You aren't the boss. You're a secretary, or something. We're on the way to see the boss. We're going by a route so as to avoid anyone seeing me."

"Ah, I'm impressed. And who is the boss?"

"Evidently, one of the richest men in the United States."

"No," Temple Norman smiled. "You are wrong there, Mr. Bader."

They approached a heavy door and Rex Bader's guide stood before its identity screen and murmured something. The door opened.

And Rex Bader stepped into the most attractive room in which he had ever been in his life.

Without ostentation whatsoever, it yielded every comfort of which a man in his middle years could have conceived. Large, without being overly so, its windows overlooked a breathtaking distance of forests and streams and with mountains in the far beyond. The furniture was solely for comfort, not for decoration as was so often the case these days. The paintings ignored the current realistic-abstraction school and half a dozen schools that had gone before; in fact, the most recent was evidently a Degas and Rex Bader had the feeling that it was an original. There were bookshelves with real books, an anachronism in these days of computer library banks.

It came as a mild surprise that there seemingly was no TV screen, phone or otherwise, in the room. Nor, for that matter, any sort of a delivery-box compartment, leading up from the ultra-market which Rex assumed was in the cellar of the building. This was a room out of yesteryear and obviously an escape sanctum.

The sole occupant looked up from the heavy leather chair in which he sat and put his book to one side. He came to his feet, a man of possibly fifty-five and obviously in the best trim one can be in at that age. He was about Rex Bader's height and build, pushing two meters, pushing eighty kilos and only a touch of gray at temples prevented his hair from being as full and dark as Rex's own. He had a piercing, quizzical quality about his open face and a no-nonsense air. However, his personality projected itself across the room and seized you. He had a likableness even before he had opened his mouth.

He was dressed informally in what would seem well used sports clothes, even to golf shoes upon his feet. He came forward easily, stretched out a hand to be shaken.

"Mr. Rex Bader, of course."

Rex shook hands.

"My name is Westley, Mr. Bader. That will suffice for the time. My dear Temple, drinks if you will. Be seated, Mr. Bader."

Temple Norman said to Rex, "What would you prefer?"

Rex found a chair, across from the one that Westley had been occupying and said, "Whiskey's fine for me. On rocks."

Norman said, "Pseudo-whiskey, or real Scotch?"

"Pseudo-whiskey's all right with me. If anything, I prefer its taste."

There was a slight curl to Temple Norman's lips as he made his way toward the old-fashioned bar which occupied a goodly portion of one corner of the room. He said to Westley, "Sir?"

Westley said gently, "Pseudo-whiskey is fine. I agree with Mr. Bader. We turn out better potables as products of our laboratories today than the Scots ever dreamed possible. Drinking the old stuff is a status symbol. I don't need status symbols."

Norman coughed, even as he reached for bottle and glasses. "Yes, sir. I feel the same way, of course."

Westley took his chair again and looked at Rex Bader. "Mr. Bader," he said, "what do you think of world government?"

That curve had come a bit fast. Rex said cautiously, "I think it's a great idea but I doubt if I'll live to see it."

"To the contrary, my dear Bader, it exists today, at least in embryo."

"Well, O.K., if you mean the Reunited Nations."

But Westley was waggling a finger negatively at him. "No, of course not. The League of Nations, the United Nations and its development, the Reunited Nations, were not capable of being steps toward a real world government. An organization of sovereign national states is not a satisfactory base for world government."

Rex looked at him blankly.

Temple Norman brought the drinks and handed them around, and sank into a chair to one side.

Westley said, very earnestly, "Each of the members of the Reunited Nations in any real crisis behaves as a sovereign national state, in accord with its conception of its own interests. Every debate, every speech, every vote, reflects this fact. Anyone who listened to the debates over the Asian War will testify that not a single state put the international order before its own national interests, nor was it capable of so doing. The state by its very nature of acting in its own national interests cannot perform otherwise. Unfortunate as it might be, there is no evidence that an enduring effective international order can be built on the political unit we know as the national state."

Rex took a sip of his drink, found it superlative. He put his glass down on the small table to his right and said, "Forgive me, I seem to be missing something here. You spoke of world government."

Westley nodded, sipped his own drink and likewise put it aside.

He said, "The modern national state isn't as old an institution as many believe. Some authorities put its origin at the time of the Reformation, others as late as the French Revolution which was the final blow to European feudalism. The primary definition of the national state is that it can protect its citizens from external attack and maintain internal order. The emphasis upon protection from external aggression has most clearly set the tone and defined the character of the modern national state, Mr. Bader. Nationalism, and all that goes with it, requires the ability to keep the state absolutely sovereign. Fear of conquest governs the political attitude of all national states toward the rest of the world.

"The many treaties, alliances, mutual defense pacts, disarmament conferences, peace congresses, understandings and international courts undertaken for security considerations have all come a cropper in time. The history of the sovereign national state is a bloody one and will continue to be if allowed to go on. A state absolutely sovereign as Thomas Hobbes saw it—accepted no infringe-ments on its rights, confined in a geographic boundary, beset by enemies equally sovereign, equally ambitious and presumably equally well or better armed could only be at war or preparing for war. The national state system is intrinsically unstable and the prospect of war is ever present. The present balance of terror, between those states which possess nuclear weapons and the means by which to deliver them, does not change this basic fact."

Rex said carefully, "I am not completely unacquainted with the works of Frank Tannenbaum^ Mr. Westley."

The other's eyebrows rose and he looked over at Temple Norman. "I think possibly we have found our man, my dear Temple."

The younger man nodded. "You'll recall sir, that this dossier revealed him to be the son of Professor Bader, the political economist. We could have assumed that some of his father's learning would, ah, rub off on him."

Westley looked back at the private investigator. "Very well, you recognize the source of much of the background material I am giving you. It will speed things up. Suffice to say that in the present situation in a world of nationalism where the national state, great or small, can no longer protect its own from annihilation, where all of the myths, boasts and cheering that go with the idea of political nationalism have lose their meaning, that we can no longer look to prevailing institutions to stave off eventual catastrophe. Even the great powers are hopeless in this regard though they believe they have the ability to inflict such retaliatory damage as to make an attack too expensive; a belief based upon a balance of terror and upon the assumption that men of reason are in control of the instruments that could speed the deadly bombs into space. As a basis for permanent international peace both of these assumptions reflect a naive optimism. The peace of the world must, in the end, rest on an institutional base that is indifferent to the idea of national security."

Rex Bader took up his glass again and took an unhappy pull at it. He said, "Such a base as what? Frankly, you seem to be talking in circles."

"Extra-national institutions, Mr. Bader."

Rex Bader thought about it. "You mean such as the International Red Cross, religious bodies such as the Roman Catholic, Greek Catholic, the Jewish and Mohammedan Churches, the various scientific bodies?"

But the older man was shaking his head. "Those are examples of extra-national institutions; I had in mind the cosmocorps."

Rex Bader frowned puzzlement.

"The extra-national corporate body, the multinational corporation. They are supra-national in their very existence, plan and purpose. Their governors, managers, authorities think in extra-national terms and their personnel is indifferent to the national state except as an impediment. Its ownership is irrelevant for the owners do not either manage or control it except in legal fiction and it can be owned by people all over the earth. Its management is drawn from wherever competence is found, its technical personnel and its labor force can be completely international. Its total commitment is extra-national. It has no concern with national interest, boundaries, local culture, or regional idiosyncrasies, except as to how they might interfere with the performance of its functions.

"Take either an international communications company or an international airline. They are indifferent to national boundaries and unconcerned about national security. Their servants are only involved in fulfilling a function wherever it needs to be satisfied, be it Argentina, Australia, Alaska, or Andorra. The personnel come from all lands. The questions that bother the national state—security, national interest, tariffs, customs, fear of invasion, border violations—are to the communications company and the airlines matters of irritation or indifference. The same applies to the international bank, to many of the large commercial and distributing com-panies such as Shell, Standard Oil, Unilever, Philip's Lamp and many others."

Temple Norman put in quietly, "Every year that goes by sees more of the large corporations becoming cosmo-corps. IBM, Ford, General Motors, Woolworth, the list goes on and on. They are no longer simply American corporations, they are truly international, in ownership as well as operation."

"Correct," Westley nodded, without looking in the direction of his underling.

"All right, O.K.," Rex Bader said quietly. "I'm with you, so far. Go on."

Westley took a sip from his drink.

"The cosmocorps is autonomous within the bounds of the states in which it operates, drawing its materials, capital, personnel, skills from wherever it can find them. It is at the service of the states in which it operates but is not of them. Its life will go on whatever the local governments might have happen to them, when the state has changed its nature through revolution, merger, annexation, defeat or whatever.

"The International Communications Corporation for instance will continue no matter what the political map might look like twenty years from now, since its functional service is more durable. The cosmocorps, in its own way, is sovereign. And especially it can be seen among the smaller nations that the national states are becoming dependent upon it. Dependent upon international banking for industrial development, on international airlines for transport, on communications corporations, on profits from oil leases, mineral rights and so forth.

"The world is shrinking with the present speed of communications, the increased mobility and proliferation of the sciences, with all but immediate transportation. We have today an industrialized world held together by the cosmocorps. We are rapidly coming to the point where the majority of persons employed work for one cosmocorps or the other and owe their functional loyalties to these supra-national corporate bodies, unrelated to the national states of which they are citizens."

Rex Bader said, "O.K. But what has this got to do with world government?" although he could more or less feel what was coming.

"What seems obvious is that we are building to a new supra-national order based not on the state with its obsession with national security but upon the extra-national bodies that are enveloping men and states over most of the world. In this new world, security can be bypassed and the national state can be left the police powers for internal civil needs, and to handle its other internal problems. The many cosmocorps are daily growing in strength, Mr. Bader, and they can no longer put up with war and the threat of war; they interfere with efficient functioning."

Rex Bader finished his drink and put the glass down. He looked from one to the other of the two cosmocorps men. "O.K.," he said. "I suppose the time has come to ask the big question. Where do I come in?"

Westley nodded. "Of course. The thing is, my dear Bader, that there are elements in the world today that wish to thwart this trend for whatever personal or selfish reasons. If the movement toward a world government based on the cosmocorps, a supra-national organization, is to continue and eventually triumph we must bring all international bodies together. All."

Rex Bader looked at Temple Norman. "You asked me whether or not I could object to working in the Soviet Complex."

Westley looked at his underling quizzically. Temple Norman flushed.

Westley said, "Temple seems to have jumped the gun a bit. However, briefly, Mr. Bader, we want you to act as our liaison man with our equal numbers behind what was once called the Iron Curtain."

II

Rex Bader looked at him. "I assume the Soviet Complex government is one of the elements that is not particularly interested in seeing the development of this supra-national organization based on the international corporation."

Westley said, "Undoubtedly there are elements in the government of the Soviet Complex who would be opposed to this trend. Would you like another drink, Mr. Bader?"

"I'll bet there are," Rex said grimly. "No thanks. Tell me, are there elements in the American government against this trend?"

"I'm sure there are."

Rex said, "Look. Offhand, can you name any government of any national state that is in favor of this trend you claim?"

"The knowledgeable citizens of national states of smaller size, those who would be pawns in the game if nuclear holocaust was precipitated are desperately in search of some means of getting out of the current international rat race."

"I don't doubt it, but you didn't answer my question," Rex said. He came to his feet and took a deep breath. "No thanks. As a private operative, I'm willing to take reasonable risks. But bucking the Soviet government, plus the American government, plus every other government in the world, doesn't come under the head of making much sense to me."

Westley said softly, "You didn't ask what the remuneration would be. I understand you subsist now on NIT, your Negative Income Tax."

"I don't want to know what the remuneration might be," Rex said grimly. "It might make me silly enough to change my mind. Thanks for the drink. Could somebody tell me how to get out of here?"

"Are you a coward?" Temple Norman blurted.

Rex looked at him and snorted. "Why don't you take the job?" he asked.

The impeccable Temple Norman was flustered. "I… I don't have the qualifications."

"Neither do I," Rex snapped. "I don't know what qualifications you thought you found when you bribed somebody to release my National Data Banks dossier to you but participating in what amounts to overthrowing the governments of every nation in the world isn't among themr"

Westley sighed in resignation and stood also. He said, still projecting an aura of friendliness, "Mr. Bader, please think it over. In view of your present feelings I will not disclose further details. However, we did not expect to send you in without proper cover and safeguard measures. Meanwhile, you will find what I am sure you will feel adequate remuneration for your time here this afternoon transferred to your credit account."

"There is no bill," Rex said. "I haven't done anything. And I doubt that I'll be changing my mind."

Temple Norman said, "I'll see that a vehicle is summoned so that you can return to your… quarters, Mr. Bader."

Rex looked at him. "I'd sooner stick to my mini-apartment quarters than wind up in a ditch somewhere in the Ukraine," he growled.

He mulled it over for a couple of days, unhappily. In truth, it was the first really sizable assignment he had been offered as a private investigator. And it was, undoubtedly, his big chance, his introduction into the ranks of the Meritcrats. Whatever the assignment amounted to, it would, undoubtedly, have led to still others equally remunerative. What had Temple Norman said? Pay beyond his dreams of avarice. Rex Bader had some far-reaching dreams of avarice.

He was mildly surprised that the others hadn't contacted him again. However, he would still have rejected the offer. He could just see himself playing cat and mouse with the Soviet espionage-counter-espionage organization. Hell, he didn't even speak Russian. Why had they pulled his name out of the box?

He wasn't able to concentrate on his Spanish or other lessons, pills or no pills.

In disgust, on the second day he went on up to the street level and out into the extensive parks, which surrounded the high-rise apartment building in which he lived, for a walk. Why couldn't he get some nice simple job such as finding a wayward teen-age girl who had run away from the home of doting parents?

Why? he growled inwardly. Because in this day of the universal identity and credit card built into your pocket TV phone, there was no such thing as a runaway teenager. The police, through the computers, could get an immediate fix on any pocket phone and locate the person with that identity number to within a few square yards. And it wasn't a matter of throwing away your pocketpone, either. You couldn't exist in the modern world without your combination pocket TV phone, credit card, identity number. You couldn't so much as buy a bar of candy or ride an underground, not to speak of purchasing a meal in an auto-cafeteria or renting a hotel room.

He strode through the park, which was comparatively empty this time of day, though in the playground areas there were quite a few yelling children. He avoided the playgrounds, wondering grumpily why the kids weren't in their homes, going to school, or at their TV screens.

Two strangers fell into step with him, one on each side. He hadn't noticed from whence they had materialized.

They were as expensively dressed as had been Temple Norman the other day, but not quite so impeccably, perhaps. They were an efficient looking pair but not of the same type of efficiency as the cosmocorpsman. In fact, there was a certain heavy air about them, as though they lacked that elusive something once called breeding. They were, possibly, in their late twenties and built al-most identically, both being about ten kilos more than Rex Bader.

The one on the right said conversationally, "Hello, Rex."

Rex Bader looked from one of the two to the other and back. He said, "O.K.Now we've established that you know my name. Let's go on."

The one on the left said, his voice flat, "You can call me Harry, and that's Luis."

"O.K. What's up Harry and Luis?"

Luis said, "Let's sit down on this bench."

There was a metal park bench set back from the road.

Rex Bader said, "Why?"

Luis said, "Do we look like a couple of clowns? Because it seems like a good idea, that's why."

Rex Bader said, "O.K." He sat down on the bench and crossed his legs. "It's your rubber band, start stretching it."

The one called Harry brought his TV phone from an inner jacket pocket, flicked the cover back and said something into the screen that Rex didn't get. He closed the phone, which resembled a leather covered cigarette case and returned it to his pocket.

Rex said, "What's it all about, gentlemen?"

"Search me," Luis said, pleasantly enough. "We have a little wait."

"Wait for what?"

"You'll see."

Rex began to come to his feet.

Harry said, his voice even. "No."

Rex began to say dangerously, "Look here…"

But at that moment an electro-steamer limousine smoothed up to a stop before them. For the second time that week, Rex Bader witnessed a privately' owned, chauffeur-driven vehicle, illegally being driven in a pseudo-city.

Luis came to his feet, went over and opened the rear door. Rex and Harry also stood, Rex blinking.

The girl—well, woman—who emerged was possibly the most handsome he had ever seen save the current sex-symbols on Tri-Di television. And he wouldn't have laid any bets that she might not have won hands down over most of them, given a beauty contest.

He stood there rooted and she came forward, a slightly wry expression on her face. She held out a gloved hand, man fashion, to be shaken and said, "Please excuse this cavalier manner of contacting you, Mr. Bader."

She was slightly tall as his tastes in women went, slightly dark of complexion as though, possibly, of French or Spanish descent. Her hair was so jet black as to be suspect but she used cosmetics, if at all, in unfashionable minimum. Her simple dress was obviously an original and undoubtedly from one of the ultra-swank shops of Rome, Copenhagen or perhaps Budapest. Her jewelry consisted solely of a somewhat elaborate Egyptian necklace such as once graced the neck of Nefertiti of the Eighteenth Dynasty. It came to Rex Bader that it was probably an original, too.

Rex took a breath and said, "You mean Luis and Harry? They've been most charming." The limousine flowed off.

The newcomer looked at Harry and Luis and Harry said, "Yes, Miss Anastasis," and the two moved away, down to the next bench where they were out of earshot but still very much in evidence.

Rex Bader had taken the expensively gloved hand for the proffered shake and still had it. She said, "My name is Sophia Anastasis."

"You evidently know mine," he said, releasing the hand reluctantly.

"Please sit down, Mr. Bader."

They sat and she spent a full minute looking him over. "You don't look exactly like the cloak-and-dagger type," she said. "Not sinister enough."

"One of my strong points as an investigator," he said. "I suck them in with my air of boyish charm." It had already come to him that this was a job. A rather queer approach to one, but a job. He could use a job. Particu-larly from someone who was as obviously loaded as Miss Anastasis.

She evidently came to a decision and said, "I represent International Diversified Industries, Incorporated, Mr. Bader."

"At your service." Rex Bader had vaguely heard of. the corporation as one of the top twenty or so. If he had it right, they were especially strong in international resorts, in hotel chains, restaurant chains, nightclub chains. Some of the ultra-resorts, such as Nuevo Las Vegas, practically belonged to them.

"Your dossier, Mr. Bader, suggests that you might have some background in economics. Your celebrated father, Professor…"

"My dossier . . .?" Rex protested. "Don't tell me that you're another who has the connections proper enough to pry into my dossier."

She didn't even bother to answer, but took a new track. She said, "Mr. Bader, are you acquainted with the history of the growth of the Meritocracy?"

"At least vaguely. I took a few courses in socioeco-nomics while I was at the university and, of course, I've read all my father's books. It wasn't a subject that really appealed to me, though. I'm not the bookworm type."

She took in his build, appreciatively, and there was a glint of humor in her eyes. "I can see you're not. However, let's sum it up for the record.

"We call our present socioeconomic system Meritocracy but in actuality it's merely a continuation of capitalism once known also as free enterprise." She added dryly, "It lost the freedom, some time ago, longer ago than most realize. At any rate, capitalism is a social system in which the means of production, distribution, transportation, communication and so forth are largely privately owned. The profits realized go to the owners. Or at least they once did. In order to keep the society going, even in the early days, it was necessary to kick back a considerable amount of the profits in the form of taxes to support the state, maintain police and courts, fight wars and so forth. As the years went by the taxes grew, especially after NIT was established."

."Miss Anastasis, we don't have to be this basic."

She ignored him. "In the old days, the entrepreneur capitalists controlled the country. They largely owned it and hence were in a position to pull the strings. They played lip service to democracy and the two-party system but in actuality since it was they who controlled both political parties it made little difference whom the electorate chose. In fact, often these old families of the highest levels would take office themselves. Examples go as far back as Taft, but more recently such millionaires and multimillionaires as the Roosevelts, the Kennedys, Lehman, Mellon, Harrison, Rockefeller took high political office.

"However, that was in the old days. With the coming of the Industrial State, as Galbraith called it, the Postin-dustrial Society as Kahn called it, there came a change. The corporation grew to a point where the individual capitalist could no longer either afford to own it all, nor to operate it. Such corporations as Ford, for instance, grew too large to leave arbitrary decisions in the hands of single men such as old Henry. The managerial revolution was taking over, the Meritocracy was manifesting itself. No single man, no matter how much the genius, could possibly assimilate all the factors necessary to make decisions. Decision making was turned over to highly competent teams of Meritcrats."

"O.K.," Rex said, just to be saying something.

"Nor was ownership in the hands of individuals anymore. Take the Rockefeller family, for instance, with an income by the middle of the Twentieth Century of three times that of the Gross National Product of Mexico. As far back as 1929, however, the Rockefellers owned less than fifteen percent of Standard Oil of Indiana, which was discovered when they tried to oust Colonel Robert W. Stewart, the Chairman of the Board, at the time of the Teapot Dome scandal.

"No, even by then, ownership of Standard Oil was an international thing and thousands, tens of thousands, sometimes hundreds of thousands of persons owned stock in the major corporations. So far as running the corporation was concerned, this had fallen into the hands of the Meritocracy."

Rex Bader looked over at where Luis and Harry were sitting, seemingly idly, seemingly watching the antics of a squirrel. He looked back at her.

"Look, Miss Anastasis, all this is pretty basic, even for me."

She nodded agreement to that. "All right," she said. "It's true that the cosmocorps is taking over in this world of ours and is administered by the Meritocracy. Supposedly, they operate the corporations for the benefit of the stockholders but in actuality they have their own irons in the fire, their own motivations. It is not the wealthy who hold the greatest prestige in the largest nations today, it is the high-ranking members of the Meritocracy. Elections? Once a multimillionaire could dominate the politics of his state, and a group, the politics of the nation. No longer. A dollar a vote, that is, an earned dollar a vote, is the present system. A man who earns fifty thousand pseudo-dollars a year has fifty thousand votes, but one who realizes a hundred million a year in dividends, rents, or whatever, hasn't even a single vote under the Meritocracy."

"I understand there are a few ways of getting around that," Rex said.

"Not as easy as some think," she said. "At any rate, prestige and control are no longer in the hands of the supposed owner of the means of production. They're in the hands of the Meritocracy."

"I get the feeling that we're building up to a point."

"Yes. And the point is this. Not all of us of the old families have stood still for these developments. Howard Hughes was an early example. One of the largest entrepreneurs of all, he held on to control of his interests to the bitter end. He had his teams, his experts, his scientists and technicians, but he made the decisions. The

Fords are another example. The son and grandsons of old Henry became members of the Meritocracy themselves and took over high managerial posts."

"Us?" Rex said politely.

"Yes, Mr. Bader. International Diversified Industries is still completely in the hands of some of the old families and we have no interest in seeing the Meritocracy take over."

"O.K.," Rex said, intrigued. "Now I can see we're really getting to the point. The point being, what do you want with me?"

She nodded. "The cosmocorps, largely headed by the Meritocracy, are interested in spreading their strength still further. They dream of a world-wide control, even encompassing the Soviet Complex."

He looked at her warily.

She said, "We are still considering the ramifications, but our first inclination is to believe that this would not be to the interests of we of the… old families."

"I see. And…?"

She took a deep breath. "You have been given an assignment to act as a liaison man between Meritcrats here in the United States and what amounts to their equivalent in the Soviet Complex. Mr. Bader, we are willing to pay handsomely if you will report to us, as well as to your present employers."

He looked at her for a long moment and said finally, "There's just one wheel that's off the vehicle, Miss Anas-tasis. You see, I turned down the job."

She glared at him. "I don't believe you."

He stood up. "Sorry, but that's the way the Yo-Yo spins;"

Obviously irritated, her mouth tightened. She was carrying a small purse. She opened it abruptly, brought forth an expensive looking TV phone, activated it and snapped, simply, "Peter!"

She stood and stalked over to the curb. Rex Bader stared after her. Her figure was as trim as trim.

The limousine flowed up to the curb, only seconds after she had summoned it. She didn't wait for the driver to open the door for her. She wrenched it open and scooted inside. She stared straight ahead. So far as she was concerned, Rex Bader was dead.

He stood looking after her as the electro-steamer took off.

A voice behind him said, "Rex, you made some kind of mistake."

He turned and a brutal blow caught him in the stomach.

Someone had him by an arm and was helping him to his feet. He felt nauseated and ached in a score of places.

A voice said, "We seem to have come along just in time."

A different voice said, "They were beginning to give you the boot. Nasty boys."

Rex groaned, "Look, could you help me over to my apartment?"

"Sure. Here, Tag, take his other arm."

He staggered along between them, feeling slightly better minute by minute. They got him out of the park, across the street and into the apartment house. Still supporting him on both sides, they took him down to the eighth level and eventually to his apartment.

They let him slump into his comfort chair and one stood staring down at him, while the other went over to the autobar.

"You want a doctor?" the one standing above him asked.

"I… I don't think so. Wait'll I get my breath."

The one who had gone to the bar came back with a heavy shot glass and handed it to him. Straight rum," he said.

Rex bolted it.

He looked up at them. They were a fairly average looking pair, about Rex Bader's own age; however, both projected an alert quality and somehow or other you didn't get the impression that they were office workers.

The one who had handed him the rum said, "I'm Tag Dermott and this is John Mickoff."

Rex sucked in air deeply, which made his lungs ache, and said, "Rex Bader. I want to thank you men." He sucked in more air, then said, "How did you know I lived down here on the eighth level? You made a bee-line for my apartment before I told you where it was."

They looked down at him questioningly but for the moment said nothing.

Rex said, "It comes to me that your showing up there in the park wasn't exactly by chance."

"No, it wasn't," Dermott said. "Those are tough customers, Bader. Why did they work you over?"

"Damned if I know. Evidently, because their boss didn't get what she wanted from me." ¹ "What did she want?"

"Who are you?"

The one named John Mickoff said impatiently, "Obviously, we'll get to that. What did she want?"

"She thought I had taken a job and wanted to make it a double job. When I told her I had refused the assignment, she didn't believe me."

"I don't blame her," Mickoff said, sitting down on the couch across from Rex. Dermott joined him. Of the two, Mickoff seemed the easier going, there was a vague surly quality about Dermott.

Mickoff added, "Sophia Anastasis usually gets what she wants."

"You know her?" Rex said, surprised.

"I know of her."

"What do you mean, you don't blame her?"

"I think you took the job, too."

Rex could only stare at him. "What do you mean by that?"

John Mickoff held out his hand. "Could I see your pocket phone?"

Scowling puzzlement, Rex fumbled in his jacket, came forth with his pocket-phone-credit-card, and, not knowing why he should, handed it over.

Mickoff put it onto the TV phone screen at the side of

Rex's chair and said, "Credit account balance check, please."

Within moments a robot voice said, "Five thousand, two hundred and sixteen pseudo-dollars and fourteen cents."

John Mickoff said dryly, even as he handed the pocket phone back, "Quite a neat little balance for someone who usually collects NIT."

Rex Bader, feeling better now, was dumbfounded. "But… I… my account is only a little over two hundred dollars!"

Tag Dermott said, "It was until someone switched five thousand to it. Frankly, it looks like a retainer to us, Bader, and I suppose it did to Sophia Anastasis."

"Well, it wasn't." Rex rubbed a sore spot on one hip and groaned. "Some girl," he said.

"Girl isn't exactly the term," John Mickoff said. "According to her dossier in the National Data Banks, Sophia Anastasis will never see forty again. In this day of permanent cosmetological arts, anyone as well situated as Sophia Anastasis can remain looking like a twenty-five year old until she keels over."

"Some woman, then," Rex said bitterly. "And she said she came from one of the old families."

"Old families!" Dermott blurted. He began to laugh sourly.

Rex looked at him. "What's so funny?"

John Mickoff chuckled, too. "Did you think she meant such as the Astors, the Carnegies, the Rothschilds?"

Rex frowned at him.'

"Old families, old families," Mickoff said. "You're a private eye…"

Rex winced at the term.

"… Aren't you acquainted with International Diversified Industries?"

"I've heard of them. Big outfit."

"Big outfit is right. However, they don't spend money on publicizing themselves. They spend millions each year in keeping the nature of their corporation under wraps."

Tag Dermott took over. "Bader, the Mafia, the Cosa Nostra families, or the Syndicate, if you will, had its beginnings in the United States back before the First World War. However, they didn't really get going until Prohibition. By the time that experiment proved a fizzle, they were pretty well in the saddle in not only beer and booze but a dozen other rackets as well, including gambling, women, dope, labor racketeering. The boys at that time were heavies, such as AI Capone, and had a very poor public image indeed. The smarter ones realized it and began to shape up a bit. Lucky Luciano managed to look downright gentlemanly there toward the end. But times were changing. The second generation of our slobbish hoods were sent to college and got themselves educations. Meanwhile, the Cosa Nostra families were branching out into more legitimate fields where they weren't so vulnerable to law forces. They folded their prostitution projects, except in areas where it was legal, or at least winked at by the authorities. They established their gambling interests in states such as Nevada, where no laws were broken. Their breweries became licensed and their distilleries became stock concerns, listed on the New York Exchange. They also took a deep interest in resorts, in night clubs, in fancy restaurants, in sports and entertainment.

"All right. That was the second generation. By the time the third came along, they were well entrenched, and never, never resorted to anything illegal. Of course, they hired the best legal brains of the country to advise them on just how near the edge of the law it was possible to skate. By this time, they had eliminated the remnants of the crude elements of the old Mafia, and the Cosa Nostra families became eminently respectable. They also had at hand, for syndicate operations, an unbelievable fund of capital."

John Mickoff said, "For example, Bader, do you know who owns the Bahama Islands?"

"Bahama Islands?"

"Hm-m-m. In the old days there used to be so-called sin cities; places like Tangier, Panama City, Singapore. But in the past they never had a sin country. The Bahamas were a sitting duck. International Diversified Industries, Incorporated moved in and literally bought the Bahamas. They purchased at least ninety percent of all property, all land, all industry, including hotels, resorts, restaurants—everything. And in so doing, of course, bought the government as well. Offhand, I can't think of anything that is illegal in the Bahamas today, if you have the price. Prostitution is legal, most narcotics are legal including marihuana, homosexuality is legal and Bahama law doesn't even include that proviso in British law about consulting adults. Every known form of gambling is legal. Where night clubs leave off and ultra-bordellos begin is moot. A pervert, given money, can find any sin he can dream up. Oh, the Bahamas are the thing these days."

Dermott came in again. "And they aren't alone. For the sake of those who don't want to travel quite that far, or don't like the climate, or whatever, there is always the island of Malta in the Mediterranean. It also was purchased, lock, stock and hogshead, by our International Diversified Industries and duplicates the openness of the Bahamas. I heard the other day that our friends are about to expand the same operation to the island of Macao, right across from Hong Kong."

Rex Bader hissed a whistle through his teeth. "Can't anything be done about them?"

"What?" Mickoff demanded. "They're legal. In this country, they wouldn't dream of breaking laws. All their operations are legitimate. In whatever countries they operate, they abide by the rules. In the Bahamas and Malta, they still abide by the laws but in those cases they make them themselves. What you've got to realize, Bader, is that when crime becomes big enough, it's no longer crime. The former criminals are in a position to buy legality."

"No wonder Miss Anastasis isn't interested in seeing an international world government," Rex said bitterly.

The eyebrows of the two across from him went up.

Rex said, "I shouldn't have said that. I didn't take the job, but it comes under the head of betraying a trust."

"Not exactly, Bader," Mickoff said.

"I didn't mean Miss Anastasis's trust."

"We know what you meant, Bader."

Rex looked at the two of them. "O.K. Let's get to our business. You seem to know an awful lot of mine."

As though rehearsed, the two stood simultaneously.

John Mickoff said, "We came to request that you appear tomorrow at ten o'clock in the Octagon offices of John Coolidge."

"John Coolidge!"

Dermitt nodded. "That's right. Director of the Inter-American Bureau of Investigation."

III

Rex Bader slept fitfully that night.

Dermott and Mickoff had told him no more. He was requested to turn up at the offices of the legendary John Coolidge in the Octagon labyrinth on the morrow. O.K. But why? He had been assaulted by the descendants of the Mafia, an organization he had read about but in which he had never been quite able to believe; it was a bit far out to be believable. He had been offered a fantastic job by one who was obviously high, high in the ranks of America's Meritcrats. Why him? Somebody, probably Westley, had deposited five thousand pseudo-dollars to his account. Once again, why? Five thousand pseudo-dollars could be a year's income for such as Rex Bader.

Toward six o'clock and dawn, he was in a half sleep, half awakening state. He had taken on two or three drinks too many the night before, following the leaving of Dermott and Mickoff, in the hope that they would help blank out the punches and kicks he had taken from Harry and Luis.

And in the half sleep an idea had come to him. Popular understanding to the contrary, it was not Rex Ba-der's belief that you ever had original, creative ideas in sleep. In dream, you might think that new conceptions were coming through but in the snowy awakening at dawn they invariably turned out to be poor shakes. However, in the half sleep, the drowsy, sluggish, in-between when you're trying to decide whether to come fully awake and enter into the new day's challenges, or retreat back into the ultimate escape from reality, sleep, it was possible to get an intuitive something to come through.

He sat up abruptly and glared down at the foot of the couch-bed.

He got up, attired in only the pajama tops that were his invariable nightwear and running his tongue over his teeth in an unhappy attempt to clear away the muck residue of the drinks of the night before, made his way over to his TV library booster.

He scratched himself and yawned as he dialed statistics. He thought about it and dialed again, narrowing it down. He got the one hundred largest corporations in the world, narrowed it down to ranking officials in these corporations, narrowed it down to photographs and summary biographies of such ranking officials.

And found Westley.

His name wasn't just Westley.

His name was Francis Westley Roget and he was Chairman of the Board of International Communications, Inc. Incorporated in Switzerland, basically. Incorporated everywhere else that made any difference, as well, including here in the United states.

Rex Bader allowed himself to close his eyes in a brief spasm of pain at having turned down a job proffered by the chairman of the board of the largest single corporation the world had ever seen, or was apt to see. Five thousand pseudo-dollars for a few hours of the time of a poverty level so-called private investigator? It probably didn't even come under the head of petty cash.

But Temple Norman had been right. Francis W. Ro-get wasn't one of the richest men in the world. He might be one of the most powerful and influential men in the world, but he was a hired hand working for a salary.

With the coming of the communications satellites and the developments of microelectronics to the point where a pocket TV phone for every citizen became a practicality, ICI, International Communications, passed even Amalgamated Autos, in gross annual income. For these days, for all practical purposes, everybody could be in instant communication with everybody in the world. At least, such was true in the advanced post industrial societies of the West and the Soviet Complex. In the more backward areas of Africa, Asia and South America only the more educated classes carried pocket phones. For that matter, it was a misdemeanor in the United States not to have your pocket phone on your person; through it, the Federal government was in instant touch with every citizen either individually or collectively.

Just for the dutch of it, Rex Bader went back to his screen and checked out the other ranking Meriterat of ICI. And, yes, there he was, down the list considerably but ranking as a vice president and special assistant to the chairman of the board. Temple Norman.

Norman. Norman. Rex Bader thought about it. He dialed the library banks, dialed Gustavus Myers, dialed "The History of the Great American Fortunes" in its latest revised edition. The Norman family went way back, it turned out. Back to the days of the so-called robber barons of American business development. They had been strong in both railroads and telegraphic communications. Well, railroads were out now with the coming of the laser cut underground ultra-highways, now automated. However, the Norman family was evidently still strong in communications. And, yes. here was mention of Temple Norman, a grandson several times removed of the original Jules Norman who had started the fortune back in the Civil War period.

Well, so much for Francis W. Roget and so much for Temple Norman. And so much for idle curiosity.

Rex Bader went into his bath, applied depilatory shaving cream and wiped his beard away with a face towel which he then tossed into the disposal chute. As he did so, he considered all over again the advisability of having his facial hair permanently removed. But no, there was something psychological about having a beard. A man had a beard. So it was a pain in the neck to remove it each morning, but who could tell? Perhaps full beards would come in again some day. If so, you'd be sunk. A laughingstock. A weird.

He activated the pre-set shower and went through his standard warmish to hot spray, and then slowly back to cold and then bitter cold. The drier automatically came on and in moments he returned to his living cum bedroom to dress.

He looked at his suit glumly. He had only worn it one week but what the hell, he had five thousand pseudo-dollars that he hadn't figured upon. He took the suit along with shirt and underwear into the bathroom and threw all into the disposal and then returned to his order box and dialed another outfit from the ultra-market down in the bowels of the building.

He finished dressing, went into his dining nook, sat down at the table and dialed his standard breakfast, grapefruit juice, soft boiled egg, coffee and toast from the auto-restaurant, also located several floors beneath him.

As he ate, he wondered what it was about breakfast that you could eat the identical thing every morning in the year and never tire of it. If you'd had to eat, say, whale stew every lunch for even three or four days running, you would have been up in arms. He wasn't hungry enough to eat the plate and utensils, nor the napkin, so he threw them into the disposal.

He dialed the time and decided he had better be on his way. Greater Washington was some five hundred kilometers in distance. It would take him the better part of an hour to get to the Octagon and to his appointment with John Coolidge. He had been aware of the bureaucrat as far back as he could remember. Even when Rex

Bader was a lad, Coolidge had been director of the IABI, the Inter-American Bureau of Investigation, that amalgamation of all the police and intelligence organizations in the United States.

The transport station of his building was two floors beneath the one on which he maintained his mini-apartment. He took the elevator down and strolled along the corridors to the metro entry. He took the first mini-bus to the city's central terminal and switched there to a twenty seater express to the terminal in Greater Washington. The automated bus took them at a good five or six hundred kilometer clip to their destination. The things were getting faster every year that went by. They were going to have to upgrade the acceleration chairs, Rex decided, either that or smooth off the attaining of full speed and of deceleration.

At the Greater Washington Terminal, he found it was possible to get a mini-bus to the Octagon.

He had hardly got seated on it when his pocket phone buzzed. He brought it out and activated it and a robot voice said, "Your destination, please?"

Rex said, "I have an appointment with John Coolidge, Director of the IABI."

"One moment, please." And then, "Confirmed."

Rex Bader shrugged and relaxed. So much for Octagon security. They hadn't even had to ask his name or identity number. When he'd put his pocket phone in the mini-bus's payment slot they had automatically checked it.

The mini-bus stopped at the Octagon's terminal and he got out and looked about. There was a row of reception desks immediately before him.

He went over to one and said into the screen. "Rex Bader. Appointment with John Coolidge of the IABI at ten o'clock."

The screen said, "One moment, please."

Rex Bader stood there. In a couple of minutes a small, two-place floater came up and its screen said, "Mr. Bader, please."

He sat on the seat and let it take him where it would. He had never been in the Octagon before but had seen it portrayed so many times on Tri-Di shows that he felt at home.

The IABI offices were only a few kilometers away from the transport terminal at which he had arrived. The floater took him right on through the acres of outer offices into an elevator and up several stories. It eventually came to a halt at a door which almost immediately slid open. The office beyond contained a single desk.

Tag Dermott looked up, grunted welcome and said, "Hi, Bader. You're exactly on time." He stood and came over to shake hands.

The floater, turned and took off.

Rex Bader said, "O.K. What's it all about?"

Tag Dermott said, "The Chief's expecting you. Come on." He turned and led the way to another door at the far end of the reception room and stood before the identity screen.

He said, "Bader and Dermott," and the door opened immediately.

The large office beyond had a Spartan quality; however, Rex Bader was quite at home. He had seen it at least a score of times. John Coolidge took many an occasion to speak to the citizens of the United States on his own equivalent of a fireside chat. Usually, Rex thought sourly, on the threat of subversion emanating from the Soviet Complex or China. For the better part of a century they had been beating that drum. It was Rex Bader's personal belief that the Soviet Complex was just about as interested in subverting the West as the West was in subverting the Soviet Complex, and except for a few crackpots that was about nil.

In spite of the fact that Rex Bader had been aware of the famous IABI head for almost thirty years, it came as a mild surprise to him that the police director was so elderly. Evidently, make-up projected him, on Tri-Di, a full fifteen or twenty years younger than he truly was. He must be, Rex realized, pushing seventy-five.

He sat behind a huge desk, which was barren of ought save a battery of TV phone screens. He was heavyset and square of face with a wide, stiff mouth, reminiscent, in a way, of George Washington. And he so obviously expected to dominate any gathering at which he was present.

There were three others seated about the room. Two were probably in their sixties, the other a younger man who at first gave an impression of being ever at ease but then an uncomfortable feeling of wolfishness.

Tag Dermott said, "Mr. Rex Bader, sir."

Coolidge nodded. He said, "Mr. Bader, Senator Hooker, Admiral Westover." He made no effort to introduce the younger man.

Bader said, "Gentlemen," and nodded to each in turn. It was their top, they could start spinning it whenever they wanted.

Senator Hooker was vaguely familiar to Rex, as an old pro politician. Bluff, outspoken, with a reputation for being able to stick his foot in his mouth but also retain the ability to extricate it in time to avoid disaster. The senator was an ultra-conservative, the first to protest loudly and long given some such measure as increasing the amount of Negative Income Tax, or on the other hand increase corporation or income taxes to pay for such charity. He and John Coolidge also played footsie in their endless warnings of subversion from abroad.

The admiral, Rex had never heard of but though he was now attired in mufti, seadog he obviously remained. There was a sun squint in his eyes as he stared Rex up and down. Long years on a bridge? He might have been in his early sixties, but his physical trim was as good as Rex's own.

Coolidge said, "That will be all for the moment, Dermott. Mr. Bader, please be seated. Many years ago, I once spent an evening with your father, the professor."

"Oh?" Rex said. He took the indicated chair. Tag Dermott left the room.

Coolidge nodded, his face still expressionless. "It was a banquet given by a think tank, as they called them in those days. They had just finished an assignment under the then president. The dinner was in way of celebration. I was the speaker of the evening."

Rex wondered what he was getting at.

John Coolidge said, "I remember during our cigars and port, your father making the following remark. He said, 'When it comes to politics, I list to larboard, especially after a bit of port.'"

Rex looked at the IABI chief. Good grief, imagine remembering a thing like that all these years.

Coolidge said, "Are you a Leftist, Mr. Bader?"

Rex gave a snort. "No, and neither was my father really. I'm afraid he couldn't resist coming up with a bon mot."

The four of them continued to look at him apprais-ingly.

Rex cleared his throat and said, "I've always thought the term a bit on the meaningless side. If memory serves me, it comes from the fact that during the French Revolution in the National Assembly the radicals sat to the left of the presiding officer, the more conservative to the right. When Lenin's Bolsheviks came along, they inherited the label and supposedly were as far to the left, so-called, as you could get. Mild liberals were supposedly a bit left, socialists of the watered-down Debs and Norman Thomas type were a bit further left, radical socialists of the DeLeonist type were further left, and so on and so forth. Later on when the Soviets began to play it cool it was decided that Mao's communists were further left than the Russians and that Castro's Cubans were still further left. Here in the States, supposedly the Democrats are more leftist than the Republicans and that got sillier still since the Southern Democrats were, if anything, more conservative than the Republicans. And you supposedly had liberal Republicans who were considered the left wing of the party. And who was prominent among them? Nelson Rockefeller, the pride of possibly the single wealthiest family in the country."

Rex wound it up. "The term doesn't make much sense."

The younger man, the dangerously tough looking one Coolidge hadn't introduced gave a gruff chuckle, but Senator Hooker puffed out his cheeks.

"What are your politics, Bader?" he demanded.

Rex looked at him. "I don't have any."

The senator, a slight edge of impatience manifest, said, "Surely you vote?"

"No, I don't. I'm not at all political. I came to the conclusion years ago that there hadn't been an unrigged election for more than half a century."

"Rigged election!" Coolidge snapped. "Are you insane? In the United States?"

Rex shook his head. He hadn't the vaguest idea of what they wanted of him or why the conversation had taken this bent, but, once again, it was their top and they were spinning it as they wished.

He made a negative gesture with his right hand. "I don't mean that a vote is miscounted, or that the vote is rigged in any of the other various methods used in the old days." He took his pocket phone, identity card from his pocket and looked down at it. "That, possibly, was one of the plus factors in issuing these things. This is not only a TV phone, but my credit card. It's my identity number, it's my access to the National Data Banks. It's also my voting booth. I didn't even have to register when I came of age. The computers automatically registered me. When an election comes along, I can vote through it and my vote is computed along with everyone else's. And nobody plays hanky-panky. The vote is honest. One vote per one earned dollar."

"Then what in the devil are you talking about, young man," the admiral said.

Rex looked at him. "The rigging takes place before it ever comes to the vote. The powers that be, in both the Meritocracy and the Bureaucracy, decide who the candidates are to be, and those candidates come from their own ranks. Precious little difference it makes which one I vote for, they all stand for the same thing. Suppose, for instance, I wanted to vote myself as President of the United States. How would I go about it?"

Coolidge said, "You'd take measures to have yourself nominated by one or the other of the parties."

"Hm-m-m. And what chance would I have of that, given our present one earned dollar, one vote setup? I'm usually on NIT. Even when I earn enough so that I'm not, I have precious few votes, compared to, say, yourself."

Coolidge grunted. He said, "All this is not very germane, at any rate." He looked down into one of his TV phone screens. "In spite of your present financial position, it would seem that you are both ambitious and aggressive in your attempts to better your position."

So, Rex thought, someone else delving into his National Data Bank dossier. Well, at least Coolidge, in his position, was legally entitled to do so. However, he said nothing, just continued to look at the other.

Coolidge said, "Bader, on the surface perhaps the government and the politico-economic system of the United States would seem to be most stable. However, there are movements taking place that, shall we say, threaten all that has been accomplished in the way of progress in the last few decades. I assume that, as the son of your father, you are familiar with the term class struggle?"

"You mean in the Marx and Engels sense?"

"If you will. In past socioeconomic systems the conflict was between slave and slaveowner, later, serf and feudalistic lord, later feudalistic lord against the newly emerging middle class. Under classic capitalism, the so-called class struggle was between capitalist and proletarian. But, Bader, under the Meritocracy something new has been added."

Rex Bader waited for him to go on. He simply wasn't getting this. He still hadn't the vaguest idea of why he was here, what they wanted of him.

Coolidge said, "In the post-industrial world, Bader, the so-called proletariat, in the old sense of the word, has largely disappeared. Automation—ultra-motion, as some are now calling it—has almost eliminated the blue-collar worker of yesteryear. As far back as shortly after the

Hitler War, the white-collar worker overtook and passed the blue-collar worker in numbers. The primary occupations, agriculture, mining, fishing, hunting,. forestry, and even the secondary occupations, those concerned with processing the products of the primary ones, were all but automated out of existence. Such jobs as remain in these fields are no longer held by grimy handed proletarians but by scientists, engineers, technicians, by members, in short, of the Meritocracy; well paid, secure, intelligent, dependable.

"The class struggle between working class and owning class? Bader, there hasn't been a strike in one of the first hundred largesf corporations in this country in twenty years, nor is there apt to be one in the next twenty.

"The tertiary and more recently the quaternary occupations now predominate, the first encompassing those occupations that render services to the primary and secondary occupations, and the second occupations that render services to tertiary occupations or to one another. This last occupational group now dominates, Bader; occupations largely concentrated in government, the professions, education, the nonprofit private groups."

"O.K.," Rex said agreeably. "So the class struggle is no longer with us."

"I didn't say that," Coolidge said evenly.

Rex looked at him.

Coolidge said, "It is just that we have a new line up of classes. New issues. With the majority of what was once the proletariat technologically displaced by progress in this computer world of ours and receiving Negative Income Tax, the conflict is no longer for shorter working hours, higher pay, fringe benefits and such. In fact, about all that the average citizen struggles for today—and it's not really a struggle, it's more of a whine—is a higher NIT." The police head allowed himself a curl of lip.

Rex looked at the admiral, the senator, and the competent looking stranger who had not been introduced. However, they were allowing John Coolidge to carry the ball and held their peace. Rex looked back to the IABI director.

Coolidge said, "In actuality, there are three elements—call them classes if you will—in basic conflict today. Possibly its nature is largely hidden, is below the surface, but it is there, Bader, it is there. And is a threat to our way of life."

They seemed to be getting nearer and nearer to the point, but Rex Bader still didn't know what it might be.

Coolidge enumerated on his fingers. "We have the Meritcrats, what was once called the Managerial Class, which is admittedly indispensable to our socioeconomic system. We also have the owning class which, although it largely possesses the stock of our mature corporations, our cosmocorps, no longer directly controls them. Third, we have the government employee, such as myself, such as these other gentlemen here. Bader, who would you say was the single largest employer in the world?"

Rex shrugged. "Why, I suppose Intercontinental Communications. If not, one of the other of the largest cosmocorps."

Coolidge was shaking his head. "No. The largest single employer in the world is either the government of the United States, or the government of the Soviet Complex. I actually don't know which. The big trend in government employment probably began in the administration of Roosevelt. It boomed during the Second War, failed to fall off following it. Within twenty years after the Hitler War, Federal, State and City employment, not even counting military or teachers, was at the ten million mark. With the amalgamation of practically all charity, pensions, Social Security, Unemployment Insurance and all the rest into Federal hands and the coming of the Guaranteed Annual Wage, the Negative Income Tax, the number has increased."

Well, Rex Bader knew that.

Coolidge said, "Our system works, Bader. Never have so many had so much. Never has there been the degree of security we enjoy today. To an extent, perhaps, the

Meritocracy and the Federal government blend, personnel overlaps. For that matter, to a certain degree so does our other important class, the stockholders of our mature corporations. Many of these, as individuals, work either with the Meritocracy or the government. But, beneath it all, Bader, there is a conflict. And that is why you are here."

That had come out of the blue. Rex Bader blinked.

"How do you mean?"

"Certain elements among the Meritocracy can see little use for the stockholder. They contend he no longer serves a purpose."

"Damn subversives," the senator muttered.

"Other elements see the present form of government as antiquated and want the Meritcrats to take over to a larger degree even such fields as education, the post office, the management of the automated ultra-highways."

"I see," Rex said.

Coolidge leaned forward, his eyes full on those of the younger man. "You have been employed, Bader, by a group of these extremists to go to the Soviet Complex and check with their equal numbers there. Very well. They are fated to failure. This great nation of ours will continue, it will refuse to be swallowed up in some Utopian world order. However, it is our duty to keep close check on Francis Roget and his ilk. They wish to disturb the delicate balance of our society. It is our patriotic duty to forestall them."

"Hear, hear," Senator Hooker came up with.

The admiral nodded his approval.

Rex muttered, "Oh no, not again."

"I beg your pardon?" Coolidge sajd.

Rex Bader said, "Look. We won't have to stretch this out. If I understand you, you want me to report to you on any contacts I make in the Soviet Complex."

"Of course. It is your patriotic duty. You will, of course, be amply reimbursed. It is a wonderful opportunity, my boy."

Rex was shaking his head. "That's it, I'm not your boy. Nobody seems to believe me, but, you see, I didn't take the job and I'm not about to."

All eyes were on him.

The stranger gruffed a chuckle.

"What do you mean?" the senator asked, coldly.

"Just that. I was offered the job. I turned it down. I don't even speak Russian. I'd be a sitting duck if I went into that area on what amounts to an espionage expedition."

John Coplidge stared down into his TV screen, emptily. "See here, Bader. According to the computers of the National Bank, five thousand pseudo-dollars were transferred from the emergency fund of Francis W. Roget, Chairman of the Board of Intercontinental Communications, to your account. Why?"

Rex cleared his throat. "Possibly to impress me. To show a poor man just how advantageous it would be to stick his neck out for dear old ICI. O.K. I was impressed. If they wanted to impress me five thousand pseudo-dollars worth, O.K. I have a sense of integrity which I keep within reasonable bounds. So, I'll keep it and remain impressed, but I'm still not going to take a suicide assignment into the Soviet Complex."

The stranger who all this time had remained unintro-duced and silent said softly, "It would not be a suicide assignment, Mr. Bader."

Rex looked at him. "Who are you to say? It's my neck and it sounds like suicide to me."

John Coolidge said evenly, "Bader, let me introduce you to Colonel Ilya Simbnov, Greater Washington head of the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya."

If the other had been named a visitor from Mars, Rex couldn't have been more surprised.

"Chrezvychainaya Komissiya!" he blurted. "Soviet Complex espionage-counter-espionage."

The Soviet colonel said easily, "Originally the Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counter-Revolution and Sabotage. However, our duties have been somewhat expanded since the early days."

Rex's eyes went from him to the IABI director in disbelief. "But that means he's the head of Soviet expion-age in this country."

Coolidge nodded. "That is correct, Bader."

"Well… well, why don't you arrest him?"

"Possibly for the same reason that the Soviets do not arrest his equal number in Moscow."

The admiral laughed sourly, the senator seemed mildly embarrassed.

Coolidge said, "Look here, Bader, present day international intelligence is more sophisticated than is generally realized by the layman. Suppose I were to arrest the colonel. Which would, of course, immediately lead to the arrest of our people in Moscow. The Soviets would then send a replacement. It could well take us months, if not years, to locate him. Remember Major Abel, of fame some decades ago? As it is, we keep moderate, check on Colonel Simonov, they on our people in the Soviet Complex. Once in a while, if things become too overt, we make an arrest, they make an arrest. Finally, we exchange agents, even-Steven, and start all over again."

Rex Bader rolled his eyes upward slightly.

Coolidge said, "And there are other advantages to the situation. By cooperating we can sometimes profitably exchange information on China or some of the neutrals. Sometimes we can utilize each other's assistance as in this present situation."

Rex Bader looked from Colonel Simonov to John Coolidge and back again.

"What present situation?"

"The elements that the colonel represents in the Soviet Complex are no more interested in an upset of the world's delicate balance than the admiral, the senator and I am. It could well be that if Francis Roget and his cosmocorps Meritcrats were successful in their attempts to achieve a world government based upon the international corporations, that such as the colonel would of a sudden find themselves unemployed. What use would there be for international agents with a world government?"

Rex Bader came to his feet slowly. He said, his voice low, "And you might find yourself out of power as well, might you not, Mr. Coolidge? And you, Senator, since who could say what the local government might be like given such an amalgamation of world nations? And you, too, Admiral. What use is a military in a united world?"

He looked at Colonel Ilya Simonov. "If I understand you correctly, you'd let me into the Soviet Complex so that I could contact those elements in your equivalent of the Meritocracy that are unhappy with your present system. Then, of course, I'd betray them to your Chrezvychainaya Komissiya."

"Our government would be properly thankful, Mr. Bader. The Soviet Complex has long since ceased to be a have-not nation."

"I'm sure you're right," Rex said grimly. "However, no thanks. The more I hear about this whole project, from everybody involved, the more it scares me. So, if you gentlemen will forgive me…"

He turned abruptly and headed for the door.

Coolidge snapped after him, in obvious anger, "You realize, Bader, that my bureau is not without resources."

Rex grunted and said over his shoulder, "I know, I know, but you can't get plasma from a rutabaga, Mr. Coolidge. About the most you could do to me is have my license lifted. And I'm already on NIT. What have I got to lose?"

He had second thoughts on his way back home. But then third ones. Everybody and their cousin were offering him sizable sums to take on this assignment. Why he had been chosen, he hadn't the slightest idea, but suddenly everybody wanted him on their team. Well, it still looked like suicide to him. He was being asked to betray, not by just one group but by three different ones.

Roget and his affiliates wanted to line up with Soviet Complex Meritcrats, or whatever they might call them over there, with the intention of ultimately bypassing the governments of the United States and the Soviet Complex. Sophia Anastasis wanted him to betray Roget and report all to her so she could possibly take steps to throw a monkey wrench into the works. Coolidge and his people wanted him to cooperate with the Soviets in betraying everybody, period.

He still said, no thanks.

In irritation, he summoned an individual electro-steamer to take him back to New Princeton, the pseudo-city in which his apartment house was situated. It cost considerably more than the public buses would have but he didn't want to go through the routine of transferring and, besides, he was temporarily rich with his five thousand.

He disembarked from the vehicle in the terminal in his building and instead of making for his mini-apartment, went directly to his favorite autobar-club on the tenth floor level below ground. There were swankier establishments up above, but this was the nearest thing to a hangout he had.

The place was empty at this time of day, or nearly so. There were three or four others, all of them seated before the Tri-Di screen which dominated one end of the club room.

He got as far away from the screen, with its endless violence and noise, as he could and took an unoccupied table. He dialed himself a synthetic Jamaican rum-and-cola and when the frosted glass rose to the table center, from below, took it up glumly.

He wondered how much in the way of credits he would have realized if he had taken up Roget, Sophia Anastasis, Coolidge and Colonel Simonov, each in turn. A fortune, undoubtedly, a fortune which would have lasted him the rest of his life. What was a fortune to him, Rex Bader, was petty cash to any of them. Petty, petty cash. He swore, meaninglessly, at himself.

A stranger slid into the chair immediately next to him.

Rex scowled. The other was an open faced, cheerful looking type of about thirty-five. Dressed approximately like Rex himself, that is, as one who probably existed on his NIT, or at most, on a lower-level salary. He was blond of hair, blue of eye, Scandinavian in background by the looks of him. And the hell with him.

Rex said, "The place is practically empty. There are other tables."

The other didn't answer. Instead, he pushed a note over to Rex and then indicated that which he held, surreptitiously, in his right hand beneath the table's level. It was a black, Gyro-jet pistol and it was trained unwaveringly at Rex Bader's stomach.

Rex blinked. He had never before in his life had a gun trained at his belly. He could have gone on another twenty years without the experience and have remained just as happy.

He looked down at the note. It was very clearly printed and read:

DON'T SAY ANYTHING! HAND ME YOUR POCKET PHONE. Rex looked at him.

The other motioned slightly with the gun and his face was cold and empty.

Rex Bader reached into his pocket and brought forth his pocket phone and pushed it across the table to the stranger.

That worthy picked it up, turned slightly in his chair and tossed it to another newcomer who had taken his place at a table next to them. Rex hadn't noticed the second one until then.

That one scooped the phone up, stuck it into a bulky looking briefcase, got to his feet and headed toward the men's room.

IV

Rex Bader said, "It's illegal to deprive a citizen of his pocket phone."

"It sure is," the other said cheerfully.

He handed the gun over to Rex Bader. It was a child's toy.

Rex said, "What the hell. Hey, what's going on? Where's he gone with my pocket phone?" He started to stand up.

The counterfeit gunman held up a hand to restrain him. "He's just taking it out of earshot. You can have it back any time you want."

Rex glared at him. "I want it back right now, damn it! What do you mean, out of earshot?"

"You're bugged, Bader."

The glare turned into a stare. Rex stood there, half in his chair, half out.

"What in the devil are you talking about?"

"Coolidge has a twenty-four hour a day bug on you. Didn't you know any citizen's pocket phone can be utilized as a bug? Everything you say, from now on in, is monitored. Not necessarily a human on the other end. They have a computer, usually, and rely on key words. Words like crime, subversion, radical, demonstration, gun, fight, underground revolution, so on and so forth. If they come up, the computer automatically notifies whatever agent is handling your case and the whole conversation is played back. You're monitored, period. Not just what you say over the phone, after you've activated it, but whatever you say and whatever anybody else within twenty feet or so of you says."

As a matter of fact, Rex Bader had vaguely heard that it was possible to so monitor any citizen's speech but he had thought the authorities handled the ability with kid gloves. There had been a great deal of heat with the civil liberties people about it. Supposedly it was utilized only on confirmed criminals!

He sank back into his chair, baffled.

"But why?"

"For turning down his proposal, I suppose. I was proud of you, Bader."

"You were proud of me, Who are you? What goes on around here?"

"How about coming on over to my place and I'll fill you in. There are some things developing that I doubt if you know about."

"I don't want to know about them. All I want to do is get off of this damn merry-go-round."

The other said cheerfully, "I doubt if you can, Bader. It's moving too fast."

Rex Bader was glaring again. "Just who are you?"

"Call me Dave, if you want." He stood. "Coming?" Without waiting for an answer, he strolled toward the door.

For a brief moment, Rex Bader was going to let him go. But no, devil take it, he had to find out what the other was all about. He stood, too, and growling bitterly under his breath, followed.

Out in the corridor the self-named Dave led the way to the building's terminal and summoned a two-seater. They got into it and Dave dialed, putting his pocket phone, identity card in the payment screen.

Rex reached out suddenly and snatched it. The other didn't put up much in the way of resistance, merely shrugged. Rex looked at it. The name was David Zimmerman.

Zimmerman said mildly, "I told you my name was Dave."

"Where's my phone?" Rex said, handing it back.

"Jim's following with it," David Zimmerman said, still mildly. "You can have it whenever you wish. But, as I say, it's bugged."

"How do you know yours isn't?"

"I know," the other said simply.

"Well, at least you're different. No chauffeur-driven limousine."

"How's that?"

"Nothing." Rex Bader lapsed into sour silence.

The ride took them approximately fifteen minutes and they eventually emerged in a high-rise apartment house very similar to Rex Bader's own. He made a point of noting the name of the building and the address. Zimmerman didn't seem to mind.

They took an elevator to the twentieth floor, emerged and went on down the corridor to mini-apartment 218.

"Here we are," the other said. "Home again." He activated the door and let Rex precede him.

The apartment was one room larger than Bader's own and he grunted a sour admission that it was well done. Zimmerman was evidently in the way of being a travel buff and had furnished his place and decorated it from a score of lands which doesn't usually admit of good taste but in this case it came off.

"Come on in here to my escape sanctum," Dave Zimmerman said. "Not as swank as Roget's maybe but at least we'll be safe from any spot checking of our conversation."

Rex followed him into the inner room, saying. "Spot checking?"

Dave looked at him from the side of his eyes, even as he made his way over to the room's, autobar. "For a detective, you're on the naive side, Bader. Surely you know the authorities can bug any TV screen in the country at will."

Rex Bader slumped down into one of the room's three comfort chairs. "Sure. If they want to. But what's this spot-checking routine?"

"Pseudo-whiskey?" the other asked at the bar, and at Rex Bader's nod, dialed the drink. "It's fairly recent. Just for luck, the IABI periodically, and usually at random, checks the conversations going on in private homes."

"And this is supposed to be a free country!"

David Zimmerman brought the drinks, handed Rex his, and then sat down across from him. He said. "A citizenry has to be ever alert, Bader, or its liberties erode away, a bit here, a bit there until you have a totalitarian government on your hands."

He made a face. "The spot checking and bugging of private pocket phones? That's one of the big reasons that everybody who can builds an escape sanctum room into their homes. No TV screen. Usually, you even leave your pocket phone in the next room when you enter a sanctum. No contact with the outside world. You can relax.

You can talk. It's possible but damn difficult to bug a sanctum. Practically impossible in the really good ones."

"Then how are you aware of my conversation with Coolidge?"

Zimmerman grinned at him, and jiggled the ice in his drink. "I said practically impossible. Besides, Coolidge's office is no sanctum."

Rex slugged down his own drink. "Look. This bugged phone of mine. Why can't I simply take it to a technician and have him disconnect the bugging device?"

"You could, but whoever is monitoring you would immediately know and if they want you monitored badly enough they could take other steps."

"Such as?"

Zimmerman jiggled his ice again. "If they wish to go to the extreme, they can even plant an electronic device in your head, below the scalp and skull. They do it with some criminals. With such a goody in your skull they can drop you unconscious—or dead for that matter—any time they wish, such as if you tried to have it removed surgically."

Rex Bader gave it up, at least for the time being. "O.K. Let's get to the point. Who are you? What do you want?"

"I'm one of those who want you to take on Roget's proposition." Zimmerman added, "and do a chore or so for us, while doing it."

"Oh, no!"

"Oh, yes."

"I know. I know. And you're all set to pay off big."

The other shook his head ruefully and indicated the room in which they sat with a vague wave of his hand. "Does it look as though I'm in a position to hand over big sums, Bader?"

"Then why should I take on a dangerous mission to the Soviet Complex when I've already turned down half a dozen others all of whom offer me… how did one put it… remuneration beyond my dreams of avarice?"

Zimmerman smiled slightly and said, "That sounds like Temple Norman. However, the answer is that we weren't sure but from what we found in your dossier, we thought you might be amenable."

"My dossier! Has somebody been mimeographing my dossier and gone into business peddling it on street corners?"

Zimmerman chuckled. He said, "Our organization has access to the National Data Banks, Bader. We don't exercise it unless we have very good reason. We believe in the laws involving the privacy of a citizen's dossier."

"What organization?"

His host leaned back in his comfort chair and stuck his hands in his pockets. He said slowly, "Rex Bader, do you believe in the democratic ethic?"

"I believe in it but I think there's precious little of it left in the world, if there ever was much."

Zimmerman nodded. "I agree. Bader, have you ever analyzed Meritocracy as a socioeconomic system?"

"In the past few days I've had it analyzed for me until it's running out my ears."

"It served its purpose, perhaps, in its day, like most of the socioeconomic systems that preceded it. But its day is done now."

"I've been telling people and telling them that I'm not political."

"Neither am I, not in the old sense of the word."

"Then what are you? What do you want? And why drag me into it, damn it?"

The other kept his relaxed position. "Bader, have you ever read anything about the Technocrats?"

"Never heard of them."

"They were an organization that sprang up for a time back in the 1930s. Chap named Howard Scott was their leading light. Some of their theories were based on the work of Thorstein Veblen."

"I've read some Veblen."

"Yes, I know. 'The Theory of the Leisure Class' and 'The Engineers and the Price System'."

Rex Bader stared at the other. "How could you possibly know that? It's been at least ten years."

"You forget it's a computerized world, Bader. I should have said that I knew you had checked them out on your library booster TV screen. Whether or not you read them, is another thing. But the computers keep record of every book tapped, for statistical purposes, among others."

Rex Bader shook his head in wonder. "And you've gone to the bother of checking up on every book I've dialed from the library banks?"

"Only since you've been an adult. But to go on. The Technocrats advocated a socioeconomic system in many ways similar to Meritocracy. They called the gigantic bases of their system to be Functional Sequences, but the picture they drew was remarkably similar to the cos-mocorps of today. And the engineers who were to direct these ultra-large industries were similar to our present-day Meritcrats and achieved their position in much the same manner. They were to be appointed from above; a system, of course, that has nothing to do with the democratic ethic."

"What has the appointment of an official in an industry got to do with democracy?"

"We'll get to that. Bader, the Meritocracy has one built-in defense against potential enemies. It elevates the best elements in the lower classes into its ranks and it even seduces elements of the old rich stockholding class, who are smart enough, to get into its ranks. Because pay is so high for the top elements in Meritocracy and prestige so high that it is better to belong to the Meritocracy than to even the old rich.

"It's a new phenomenon in political economy, Bader. Under Meritocracy, both the lower class and the upper class lose their most brilliant members to the Meritcrats and hence those most capable of leading a revolt. For instance, under feudalism there was small chance of the newly emerging middle class of becoming feudalistic lords. It was possible, in individual cases, but not probable. Hence the best minds of the middle class remained in that class and plotted to overthrow feudalism. The British, almost alone, were canny enough to realize the situ-ation and knighted or made lords of their best elements in the middle and even the working class, until, eventually, the House of Lords itself was dominated by new peers who had come up the hard way rather than simply inheriting ancient titles. Even the heads of the so-called Labor Party were made earls upon retirement."

Rex says, "It sounds like a good institution. You get to the top through your own ability."

Dave Zimmerman nodded, but there was a ruefulness on his face. "It was. At least at first. The trouble is this. Featherbedding is not limited to labor unions. It is widely practiced in political parties, in the military, in business and financing, government and religious organizations. Those who belong are rewarded for doing little or no work, except what they're told to do or say.

"The thing is, our society has become a hundredfold more complicated than any that has gone before, and methods of judging the contributions of a man are increasingly difficult. In primary jobs it is easily seen how capable a farmer, or hunter, or miner is. Even in the secondary trades, you can easily judge a craftsman. In tertiary jobs, those that render services to the primary and secondary, you can still judge a good teacher, a good policeman, or whatever, but it's more difficult. When you get to quaternary occupations, you've got to the point where they judge themselves."

"This seems to be my week for getting lectured," Rex muttered.

"Sorry. I'll try to cut it short. Favoritism, nepotism, you-scratch-my-back-and-I'U-scratch-yours-ism, is not unknown under Meritocracy, Bader, although the elimination of these was supposedly the basic thing. Today, someone with a job as esoteric as Chairman of the Board of a cosmoscorps doesn't really have to know anything about the product of the industry which he heads. The head of International Communications does not have to know any more about a TV phone than how to dial one. Nor do the next three or four levels of company officials below him. It gets even worse in the nation's political bureaucracy. A relative idiot, such as Senator Sam Hooker, can hold the highest of offices. For that matter, look back over the chief executives of this nation since the turn of the Nineteenth Century. How many of them would you consider really intelligent men of integrity?"

"Maybe half," Rex said dryly.

"You dreamer, you," Dave Zimmerman grinned.

"O.K. So what's the answer?"

"The Meritocracy, with its one vote per one earned dollar, has taken over the country. With the high pay of the top one percent of the cosmocorps company officials and the fact that the majority of the citizens have no votes at all since they subsist on NIT and earn no votes, we have a situation where this top Meritocracy is self perpetuating."

"And?"

"The answer, Rex Bader, is to return to democracy. Today, a man in authority in industry is appointed from above, supposedly from the ranks of those best qualified. From foreman right up to the manager of a department, or even of a whole industry. When you get to the very top, they appoint each other—supposedly on merit."

"So you want them elected from below. From foreman of a crew right up to the manager, or whatever."

"Yes."

Rex Bader grunted.'"That's syndicalism."

"We don't like the word. It's a product of the Nineteenth Century and no longer applies in an advanced economy. Besides, the syndicalists blended in with the anarchists until you couldn't tell where one stopped and the other began. We're not anarchists. The whole conception doesn't make sense in a postindustrial society."

"O.K. So you're a modern version of syndicalists. What has this got to do with me and with Roget's basic idea of world government based on the cosmocorps?"

"Another drink?"

"No. Just an answer."

Zimmerman leaned forward earnestly, very seriously. "We, too, believe in world government. To that extent we are in basic agreement with Francis Roget and his group. However, we suspect, and it's more than a suspicion, that our own equal numbers must exist in the Soviet Complex. Their equivalent of the Meritocracy, the top Meritocracy, consisting largely of members of the Party, are perpetuating themselves, keeping the better jobs and the top political and military positions among themselves. The scientists, engineers and technicians who really keep the country going must be as disgusted with the situation as we are over here. While you're on this assignment for Roget, Bader, you'll be in an advantageous position to make initial contact with this group."

"To what end?"

"When this big change comes, the turnover from the present type national state government to world government, there is bound to be confusion. At that time if we and our equal numbers in the Soviet Complex are organized, we might well be able to make the changes we wish."

"Here we go again," Rex Bader said, coming to his feet. "Look, could I have my pocket phone back?"

Zimmerman stood, too, and for the first time some of the easy-going charm was gone. He said, "Your father's career before you and your own dossier suggested that you had some social consciousness, some feeling of duty to the society in which you live, Bader."

"O.K. Great. And now can I have my pocket phone?"

The other narrowed his eyes infinitesimally, but then he spun on his heel and headed for the door of the small sanctum. He opened it.

In the other room sat the man to whom he had tossed the pocket phone after finagling it away from Rex Bader. Zimmerman, holding silence, made a jerk of his head toward Rex.

The other reached down for the bulky briefcase beside him and activated its zipper. The interior of the carrying case seemed lined with some sort of lead, or other grayish metal, composition. He brought forth Rex Bader's pocket phone and handed it over. Then put his finger to his lips, indicating the need for silence.

"Nuts," Rex muttered and headed for the door.

He hadn't even thought it all out by the time he reached the building which housed the offices of the top officials of International Communications, Incorporated. He went to the same entrance through which Temple Norman had introduced him earlier in the week. The same uniformed doorman was on duty.

"I'd like to see either Mr. Roget, or Mr. Norman," Rex said.

The Bulgarian admiral gave him the fisheye for a moment, but then said, "Yes, sir." He turned to a screen, spoke into it, waited a moment, spoke again, waited a full five minutes, spoke again.

He.turned back to Rex Bader. "A moment, sir."

It was more than a moment, but at long last a beautifully groomed girl emerged from the ornate structure. ICI knew how to pick the hired help, Rex Bader decided inwardly.

She said, "Mr. Bader?"

"That's right."

"Follow me, please."

He followed her, taking exactly the same route Norman had led him along. He could have found the way himself, of course.

At the penthouse, she led the way down a corridor different from the one Roget's assistant had utilized and they wound up before a door only slightly less swank than that of the Chairman of the Board of ICI.

She looked into the identity screen and murmured, "Mr. Bader, Mr. Norman."

The door opened, Rex Bader entered, the girl disappeared.

When one achieves to a rank as high as that of Francis Roget his business office can be so informal as not even to include a desk. Temple Norman had not as yet reached those dizzy altitudes. He had a desk.

He looked up and said, "Yes, Mr. Bader. You have changed your mind on accepting… ah, Mr. Westley's assignment?"

"Not yet. I want to talk to Roget about it."

Norman stood. He was as immaculate and supercilious as he had been on the first occasion of their meeting. Half a dozen generations of aristocracy, Bader decided. Maybe there was something in heredity. Though, come to think of it, the founder of the hefty Norman fortune had been little better than a bandit.

Norman said, "I have been in touch with Mr…" he broke it off. "What did you call him?"

"You heard me," Rex said, an element of disgust in his voice. "You know I'm a detective. Just how hard do you think it was to check your identities?"

Temple Norman coughed gently and looked as though the other wasn't quite playing cricket. "Very well, I contacted Mr., ah, Roget while you were on your way up. He will be able to see you immediately."

They made their way down one corridor, around a corner, and wound up eventually at the door which led into the magnate's sanctumlike office.

Their identities cleared, the door opened. This was, Rex Bader had decided, the damnedest floor of offices he had ever been in. Save for the doorman and the girl, he had seen no other personnel except Temple Norman. How could you be a recluse and the Chairman of the Board of possibly the largest cosmbcorps in the world?

Francis Roget was dressed more formally today, even to a suit, a conservative baby-blue shirt and a cravat to match. He had been standing near a window. He turned, looked at Rex quizzically and came over to shake hands.

"Be seated, my dear Bader. You have changed your mind?"

Rex said, "Is it at all possible to bug this room?"

The magnate's eyes went up. "Why, no. As a matter of fact, Mr. Bader, this is one of the most efficient sanctums possible. I have a scrambler on power at all times, besides other precautions. No electronic device will work here."

Rex sat down. "I see. O.K., look, why me? Why did you pick me for this liaison job?"

"The computers picked you, my dear Bader. You were the private investigator in all the United States that most nearly filled all the qualifications."

"Which were…?"

"Beyond the obvious ones including character and health, the most important of all was a good basic knowledge of political economy. It's a qualification most men in your field fail to have. Of course, there are IABI operatives well versed in socioeconomics, but we had need of a private agent, available for hire, not a government man."

"I see. O.K., what did you figure on paying me? You mentioned some high-flown remuneration."

"Indeed I did. What would you say to ten thousand pseudo-dollars a week with a guarantee of at least a month of employment?"

Rex Bader hissed softly through his teeth.

Temple Norman stood off to one side where his superior couldn't see his face. His nostrils were high, in amusement.

Rex shook his head. "But I don't want pseudo-dollars. I want a block of ICI stock deposited to my account in Switzerland."

Roget scowled at him. "But why?"

"In case I have to go on the run. Deposity forty thousand dollars worth of your stock to my account in, say, Berne, and I'll take the job."

Temple Norman said indignantly, "And what guarantee is there that you will not simply go to Switzerland, acquire the stock, and abscond with it?"

Rex said dryly, "Evidently, one of the other qualifications my dossier said I had was integrity."

Francis Roget looked at his assistant in impatience. "That will be all, my dear Temple." His eyes went back to Rex. "Very well, you're on. Though I assure you, those precautions are needless. Your cover will be excellent. This whole project is very hush, hush."

"Ha!" Rex muttered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing. Let's have the details."

When he emerged from the building, several hours later, he carried a newly acquired briefcase. He said to the doorman, "Could you summon a car for me?"

"Certainly, sir." The fisheye was gone.

The car wasn't necessary. An official-looking vehicle pulled up and Tag Dermott looked out at him from the position behind the manual controls. John Mickoff sat to his right.

Dermott growled, "Get in, Bader. The Chief wants to talk to you."

"I know," Rex said.

Rex Bader said to John Coolidge, "All right, there's just one proviso."

"And that is?" The Inter-American Bureau of Investigation director's face was characteristically barren of expression.

"In spite of Colonel Simonov's assurances, double-dealing can result in some ruffled feelings, and these people are up to their ears in money. They can buy anything. Certainly revenge on a small timer such as myself."

"So?"

"So I want to be paid in advance. To a numbered account in Switzerland. Both my pay from you and whatever contributions the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya might want to make through Simonov."

Coolidge nodded. "Very well. The request isn't untoward."

Rex said, "There's anothing thing. I want you to discontinue bugging my pocket phone."

John Coolidge looked at him for a long cold moment. Finally, "How did you know you were being monitored?"

"I'm a detective."

"How did you find out?"

Rex snorted, as though in contempt. "In actuality, I didn't until right this moment," he lied. "However, I knew it was possible and on the off chance that you were doing it, I just accused you. Your reaction bears out my suspicions."

Coolidge nodded, grudgingly. "Very well. But why are you so anxious?"

Rex snorted again. "How would you like to be monitored twenty-four hours a day? How would you like

"All right, all right. It isn't really necessary anyway, now that you've taken your stand with us. It will be discontinued."

Rex said grimly, "And on top of that, I'm going to take my pocket phone to a technician and see that he permanently jimmies that part of it that allows for monitoring."

Coolidge's face was cold but he merely nodded acceptance.

Back in his mini-apartment, a new sheaf of papers added to those contributed by Francis Roget, Rex Ba-der thought it out for a moment. He tossed the briefcase to a couch and sat down in front of the room's TV phone screen.

He said into it, "International Diversified Industries."

A girl faded into the screen and said, "International Diversified Industries, Incorporated. Good day."

"I want to talk to Miss Sophia Anastasis."

The girl looked slightly startled. She said waveringly, "I'll connect you with one of Miss Anastasis's junior secretaries, sir. Whom should I say is calling?"

"Rex Bader."

He went through two levels of secretaries, evidently junior and senior, and finally wound up with the natty member of the twosome that had attacked him the other day, Luis. Luis looked at him without speaking.

Rex said, "I want to see Miss Anastasis."

"Why do you want to see her, Bader?"

"Tell her I'm ready to reconsider her offer."

V

In a little more than a month, Rex Bader took a shuttle-copter out to the international jetport, twenty miles off Long Beach and there took the Supersonic to the Eastern Mediterranean jetport floating some fifteen miles off Cannes and Nice. From there he took a shuttle to Genoa, and from there an electro-steamer limousine to Prague. He had never ridden in such swank transport in his life but that was part of his new image.

He had spent a bit more than two weeks of the preceding period boning up on the material that Francis Roget wanted to be sure he understood. The communications magnate continued playing his cards very close to chest. Temple Norman handled most of the details of Rex Bader's studies, giving him lists of books, classified ICI publications, clippings and articles. On three occasions Rex was turned over to others for specialized briefing. They were never introduced by name but all were experts on some phase of international political or economic affairs.

He had gotten a clearer picture of what Roget's group wanted. Rex Bader was to be the first to make contact with Roget's equal numbers in the Soviet Complex. After this very elementary touching of minds, the exchanges would become more thorough, a modus operandi for more sophisticated exchange of ideas decided upon.

Rex Bader wasn't being fooled. Roget was playing it very cool indeed. Rex was expendable. They were throwing him in at these preliminary stages to feel out what dangers might exist. He was undoubtedly going to earn his high pay.

He was with Roget and Temple Norman when the latter handed him an International Credit Card to supplement his ordinary pocket phone cum credit and identity card.

Rex said, "Just how far does this expense account of mine stretch?"

The ICI magnate said, "It is completely elastic, my dear Bader. The elements which you are expected to contact exist on the highest planes in the Soviet Complex. You could hardly go in as a tourist traveling Thrift Class. You will conduct yourself as a wealthy Ameri-can, staying at the best hotels, eating in the best restaurants, taking the advice of the sommeliers on the best vintages."

"O.K. It sounds great," Rex said. "However, how did I achieve this opulence so quickly? If your opponents have the same ability to delve into my dossier as you seem to have, then they'll find that my income usually consists of Negative Income Tax."

"We have gotten around that. A large amount has been deposited to your account. Supposedly, a legacy from your father, the late Professor Bader."

Rex said dryly, "My father left me a few hundred books, two or three family heirlooms and some used clothing. Dad had a predeliction for donating his all to lost causes. When he died, he was strapped. I sold the books to help my way through school."

Temple Norman put in, "It was not difficult to arrange. Supposedly it was a trust fund which you were unable to touch until you reached your present age. For all practical purposes, you have unlimited funds. Pray remember that we have access to the National Banking Computers. Any purchases such as mink coats, Rembrandt masterpieces, or diamond rings will immediately be made note of and the credit transfer disallowed."

Rex Bader looked at him.

Roget said, waggling a finger negatively at his underlying, "That will be all, my dear Temple. We're trusting Mr. Bader all the way down the line. Quibbling about expenses is hardly called for." He turned back to Rex. "Briefly, the situation is this. We have dropped a word here and there with our Soviet colleagues at international conferences. Everything very careful, of course. No place is so secret-police ridden as a conference between the West and the Soviet Complex. One must be circumspect, indeed. However, treading with the utmost care, we have made the arrangements for you to go in and discuss in more detail the possibility of cooperation."

Rex Bader shifted in his chair. "This is one thing that doesn't get through to me. I can see your cosmocorps possibly taking over through all of the West, in large countries and small. But to cross over the Iron Curtain?"

Roget shook a finger at him. "That Iron Curtain, Ba-der, began to rust shortly after it first dropped. The international corporate body is a natural functional institution and it can be kept from its role only if there is no extensive industrial development. For half a century and more you have been able to pick up a telephone and in moments call anyone you wished, in Budapest, Pinsk, Belgrade, Leningrad, or anywhere else throughout the Soviet countries. The first cosmocorps to invade the communist lands went into Yugoslavia, such corporations as Volkswagen and Fiat built factories there. Bulgaria was the first to let in Coca Cola, back in 1967. Russia herself succumbed about the same time when, at long last, she decided to build automobiles on a mass scale. Fiat came in to build the plant. American airlines-began to land at Moscow then, too. But above all, my dear Bader, communications. In the old days, the Soviet authorities attempted to jam radio reception but with the coming of the satellite communications system, every home in the Soviet Complex can listen to any television broadcast it wishes. The vast remote settlement in Tan-nu Tuva, Siberia, can watch American, Greek, or Argentine broadcasts with the local language dubbed in by the translator computers."

Rex shrugged. "I suppose you're right. It might take time but, if ultra-industrialization is going to blanket the world, Russia and China, too, ultimately will come in. So how do I contact these friends-to-be of yours?"

Francis Roget tapped his fingertips together. "You don't."

Rex looked at him questioningly.

"They contact you. You go first to Prague and conduct yourself as any well-to-do tourist, making his first trip into the Soviet Complex. You do all the things that any other tourist would do. They contact you."

"Then what do I do?"

"You have no iron instructions from this end, my dear

Bader. You go where they tell you to, listen to what they have to say. Eventually, you return and report."

"No reporting by standard communications, eh?"

"That's right. Everything verbal."

"How do I know the good guys from the bad guys? How do we make contact?"

"The code word to identify those who you will contact will be Byron. To acknowledge, you will return the code word Shelley. This is absolutely secure. The only three persons in the United States familiar with this identification code are in this room right now."

Rex Bader spent a good portion of his time for the following week being checked out by John Coolidge and Colonel Ilya Simonov.

At his final meeting with them, Coolidge said, "It is just possible, Bader, that we might have occasion to contact you while you are in the Soviet Complex. In which case, our man will utilize a code similar to your present one but on his saying Shelley, you will reply with Keats."

Rex was surprised. "I didn't tell you about those code words. Didn't think there was any particular reason to."

The wolfish Ilya Simonov gruffed out a chuckle.

Coolidge said, a touch of smugness in his voice, "Rex Bader, after all I am director of the Inter-American Bureau of Investigation."

Rex looked at the Soviet colonel. "The way I understood it, everybody was going to keep hands off until I return. If your agents flock around, you might very easily blow the whole thing. These people aren't chumps and they have at their command the resources to pull off just about anything."

Simonov nodded. "You'll see none of our men, Bader. We won't even tap your communications. I'm fully aware of the fact that if we attempted to, the information might get back to the men with whom you are making preliminary contact. We'll remain far, far in the background. The new code words are only for some ultimate emergency which I am convinced will never arise."

"O.K. He says Shelley and I say Keats, and that tips me off that I'm on contact with your people."

Coolidge said, "Ah, one other thing. I am giving your pocket phone a Priority Two in the National Data Banks."

Rex frowned. "Priority Two?"

"Possibly you weren't aware of the system. The average citizen has a Priority Four. He can tap the data banks for ordinary material, for books from the library banks, for various information relative to everyday life. Priority Three is for specialized citizens such as, say, doctors, who can scan anyone's medical records in line of work, or police officers, who can check your criminal record in line of duty. Priority Two, which you now hold, enables you to delve into the data banks on any level save the topmost security material, such as military and so forth. That, of course, is Priority One and only a handful of men in the entire nation hold it."

"O.K.," Rex nodded. "Offhand, I can't image the need for my dipping into the data banks any further than the average citizen, but I suppose something might come up."

He spent one session with Sophia Anastasis, driving about in her car, far out in the countryside.

They sat in the back, Harry and Luis, up front, seemingly not hearing.

The beauteous Sophia had little to say that was new. Her assignment was simple. She wanted, upon his return, to have a complete list of all Soviet citizens with whom he made contact. She wanted to know any arrangements made for further meetings between the Soviet heads and Roget's .group. She wanted to know just how amenable the Soviet industrial managers were to Roget's suggestions for a world government based on the cosmocorps.

And she wound it up with, "Oh, just one more thing. International Diversified Industries already has a few agents in the Soviet Complex, for what purposes you need not know. It is remotely possible that something might arise that would make it desirable for us to get in touch with you. If so, well continue the same basic code you already have, except he'll say Keats and you will return with Coleridge."

He was staring at her in disbelief. "How did you know that code?" he demanded.

Up in front, Luis grunted amusement.

He had hardly gotten back to his mini-apartment before the phone screen buzzed. He sat down in his comfort chair and activated it. David Zimmerman's Nordic face faded in, cheerful as ever.

Rex Bader said, "What do you want? I'm surprised that you'd take the chance of having your call monitored."

"It's not being monitored," Zimmerman said agreeably.

"How do you know?"

"I know."

"Well, what do you want?"

"Leaving tomorrow, eh?"

"How did you know?"

The other ignored that. He said, "We're in no position to pay you for services rendered, Bader. However, if there's any change in mind, on your part, we'd appreciate finding out what you discover over there. There's a remote possibility that one or more of our people…"

"Oh no," Rex began to protest.

"… Might get in touch with you. If so, the same code system you already have, but he'U say…"

"I know," Rex snarled. "Robert Burns."

The other's eyebrows went up. "How did you know?"

"Cause he's practically the only one left!" Rex snapped and flicked off the set.

He stared at the screen in disbelief. This whole thing was developing into a farce. Roget wanted him to make an ultra-hush-hush trip into the Soviet Complex to contact his equal numbers with the eventual aim of creating a world government based on the international corporations. Sophia Anastasis, of International Diversified Industries, thought such a world government would up-set the status quo to the detriment of what was once called the Mafia, and wanted all details. John Coolidge and his group were afraid such changes would upset the governmental bureaucracy and the military machine and wanted to prevent it from happening. Colonel Simonov felt the same from the Soviet viewpoint, and wanted to maintain the status quo. Dave Zimmerman was all in favor of world government but wanted the Meritocracy which would run it to be elected from the bottom up in each corporation, rather than being appointed.

And every damned one of them thought that their part of the operation was a secret.

He put his pocket phone into his standard model TV screen and said, "Priority Two. I want the dossier of David Zimmerman, Identity Number 10-KL-224-200." He thought that was right. He had memorized the number back when he had taken the phone from Zimmerman in the car.

It was right. The dossier flashed on the screen. He could have taken the information on his pocket phone, of course, but this larger screen was more comfortable for detailed print such as this.

He ran his eyes down the material. More or less standard. I.Q. of 138, educated in one of the better technological schools, graduated with honors. Computer specialist. -

Oh, oh. Several mysteries were solved. Friend Dave Zimmerman was a technician working in the National Data Banks in Denver. He undoubtedly had access to the banks and access to means of bugging and checking on who was being bugged. He was sitting in the catbird seat, in any such matters.

He came, eventually, to criminal record. Zimmerman's criminal record was on the sparse side. He had signed a few peace petitions back during the Asian War. He had participated in some anti-war demonstrations and once had been arrested in a riot. Case dismissed. No mention about subversive activities. Rex wondered. Zimmerman evidently had ample access to the data banks, could he have wiped out any such information? Or, on the other hand, was it possible that the IABI had additional information not to be found in the data banks? Rex Bader had no way of knowing.

Next was Sophia Anastasis. Her dossier was also largely surprise free. I.Q. of 132. Age forty-two. She certainly didn't look it. Educated at one of the better girls schools and later a business course at one of the older universities. Doctor's degree, no less. She was a member of the Board of International Diversified Industries, but there was nothing in the dossier to explain her duties. Criminal record? None whatsoever, not even a traffic violation. At the end of the dossier he came upon his one surprise. Additional information, Priority One.

He tried Francis Roget and Temple Norman, in turn, and came up with little information that hadn't been available to him on his former Priority Four basis. All very neat, all very standard. High I.Q.s, the best of educations. Spectacular business careers. Criminal records, nil.

Rex grunted and wondered about Luis and Harry, Sophia Anastasis's bodyguards, or secretaries, or whatever they were; probably a combination of both. He didn't know their last names or identity numbers and couldn't think of any manner in which to get them. Not that it was important.

He sat there for a long time, and finally said into the screen, "The dossier of John Coolidge, Director of the Inter-American Bureau of Investigation."

Tag Dermott's face faded onto the screen and he grinned sour reproach. "Rex, Rex," he said. "Naughty, naughty. That's Priority One information."

Rex shrugged ruefully. "I just wondered how far this Priority Two rating of mine would take me."

"It doesn't take you that far, chum-pal," Dermott said. The IABI agent's face faded from the screen.

Just for the dutch of it, Rex Bader said, "The dossier of Tag Dermott, IABI agent."

A robot voice said, "No information recorded. Further data please. What is the Identity Number?"

Rex grunted, "Damn if I know. And I have a sneaking suspicion that I couldn't find out very easily."

He thought about it for a while and then said, "Colonel Ilya Simonov of the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya. His dossier, please."

He had expected to be thwarted here, too, but instead ran into the most extensive material thus far. The National Data Banks had considerably more information on Ilya Simonov than on any of the others Rex had checked upon. It had his life down to an almost day by day report.

Aside from the standard data on background, I.Q., age, education and all the rest of it, it also revealed such little items as the fact that the colonel held the Soviet Hero's Combat Award, which as Rex had read was about as easily come by as the British Victoria Cross, the German Pour le Merit, the American Medal of Honor. Politicians and chairborne military do not receive such decorations. You earn them the hard way. Ilya Simonov had earned his the hard way. Rex was also interested to see that the other had participated in the Olympics at one time, winning a bronze medal for fencing, a silver one for pistols and another bronze for rifle marksmanship. He was, no doubt about it, one very tough customer. Rex winced to see the number of espionage agents, counter-revolutionists and other Soviet enemies of the state whose lives were credited to Ilya Simonov. The colonel was a one-man plague. He also evidently held all but carte blanche from the upper levels of the Soviet high command.

It behooved Rex Bader not to tread on Simonov's toes, and the trouble was that was exactly what he had planned to do.

His orders were to go to Prague and make like a very well-to-do American tourist. Very well, he was in Prague, for the first time in his life behind the Iron Curtain, now largely rusted through according to Francis Roget. Some years before he had taken a standard tourist trip to West-ern Europe, the usual London, Paris, Rome sort of thing but Czechoslovakia he found was considerably different.

He had dialed his limousine through to the New Jalta hotel, on Vaclavske Namesti which translated into Wen-ceslas Square and which was obviously the center of town. He suite came as a pleasant surprise, the rooms were high, the furniture avoided the ultramodern with which he was familiar back home. He got the impression that the Czechs, at least, were deliberately hanging onto the arts and traditions of yesteryear. There was even a reception desk and a live clerk in the lobby. Hotels were largely automated in the West and especially in North America.

By the time he had got settled in, it was time for luncheon and he considered momentarily dialing his noonday meal and having it here in the hotel. But no. His orders were to circulate around. He was to be contacted. He doubted if any of those persons Roget wanted him to meet would show up in his hotel room.

He went on down to the lobby and approached the desk clerk.

Rex said, "You speak English." More of a statement than a question.

The other said in impeccable English, "Comrade Ba-der, in this day and age anyone who has been to school for all practical reasons speaks English. Perhaps it was not the best language to pick for an international tongue, but, then, nobody deliberately picked it." Rex looked at him, scowling.

The clerk laughed softly. "It was a great joke on the Russians, but the trend had started too far back for them to buck it. First the British, with the largest and most widely spread empire the world has seen. Then the Americans with the largest financial and business empire the world had seen. During the Hitler War, with the rapid growth in both shipping and air travel, some international language had to be utilized, for landing instructions, for radio communication, for ships coming in and out of ports. So English was chosen, as the language already most widely spread. That meant that every airplane pilot, every radioman, had to study it. Every ship's captain, and his deck officers for that matter. Every port official, be he Russian or Greek, Brazilian or Chinese. So English became a compulsory subject in the schools of every nation."

Rex grunted amusement. "I suppose you're right, at that. I was reading the other day that when Sweden, Norway and Denmark amalgamated their airlines into the Scandinavian Airlines System they had to decide on a common language for plane crews and airport officials to use. What did they pick? Neither Norwegian, Swedish nor Danish. They picked English. O.K., so anyone with an education at all can speak English these days. So, what's the best restaurant in town?"

The Czech receptionist said smoothly, "The one in this hotel, of course, Comrade Bader."

Rex said. "Fine. But I don't feel like eating in the hotel this afternoon. What's the next best?"

The clerk said, "You might try the Valdstejnska Hos-poda. That translates into Waldstein Tavern. It's at To-masska 20—an old inn and wine cellar. Very picturesque, Comrade."

"O.K. Do your cabs take instructions in English?"

"But of course. We are not barbarians. Comrade Bader. Also any other language for all practical purposes. Our auto-cabs are fully integrated with the data banks and translation computers. Just as in your own country."

"Well, call me a cab then, will you please?"

The cab had scooted up to the hotel before Rex Bader had even emerged from the^ place. The door opened and he stepped inside.

"The Waldstein Tavern, at Tomasska 20," he said.

"Yes, Comrade," a robot voice said.

He looked about the cab. It was not quite so shiny and ornate as its equal number in the West might have been. Like the hotel, it seemed to cling slightly to yesteryear.

Rex said, "I don't seem to see a payment slot where I can submit my International Credit Card."

A robot voice said, "Transporation is free in the Soviet Complex, Comrade."

Rex was taken aback. "It is? Why?" That last had come out inadvertently.

The question took longer to answer. When it came it was in a somewhat different voice and a more human one. "Because it was found to be more economical not to have to go through all the computing. It allowed more easily for the automation of practically all transport in the Complex."

It took Bader only moments to see where that could be true. Back home, the transportation companies were gigantic in size and well integrated, but they were still privately owned and depended upon making a profit. The computer work must have been fabulous. A short hop in an auto-bus in the underground ultra-expressways, an expenditure of less than a single pseudo-dollar, had to be deducted from his credit account and accredited to that of the transport company. And the company probably handled a multi-million such fares a day. What the devil would have happened in the post-industrial world if the computer hadn't come along just when it did?

The Waldstein Tavern was everything that the reception clerk had said it would be, and more like a museum to Rex Bader's eyes than the auto-cafeterias of the pseudo-cities of the West. There were even live waiters. Rex Bader could hardly remember when he had last been served by a live waiter. Not that swank and ostentatious eateries didn't exist back home, but they were for the Meritcrats and the old rich, not for citizens on Negative Income Tax.

He looked about the place. He was one of the very few to be eating alone. Evidently the Czechs enjoyed their food and their companionship. At least, all seemed laughing and chatting and wolfing down monstrous portions of food that looked and smelled superlative.

He could see no one who looked as though he might come up and say, from the side of his mouth, "Byron forever," or whatever. Rex shrugged. It was their top, they could start spinning it any time they wanted. At least he didn't have to worry about being picked up by the police. The police undoubtedly were aware of him but they figured he was on their side.

When asked, the waiter, who was dressed in dark suit with a white apron about his middle and reminded Rex of a character actor doing a waiter's part in the Gay Nineties, recommended various Bohemian and Slovak dishes.

Rex sighed, completely out of his depth, and said, "I'll leave it to you."

"Very good, Comrade. And wine?" At this time of the day? Rex shrugged again. What the hell, it was all on Roget's ICI. Why not live it up? He left the wine to the waiter as well.

The food turned out to be some sort of game. Deer probably, Rex decided, although he had eaten deer exactly once before in his life. It came as a well-boiled slab, drowned in a thick, rich gravy and was accompanied by large dough dumplings, dubbed knedliky by the waiter, and zeli which turned out to be red cabbage.

The wine, according to the bottle, came from Bratislava, was a Reisling, and, Rex Bader was convinced, was made of grapes. It had never occurred to him that wine in the Soviet Complex was actually made from grapes these days. Were their laboratories that far behind those of the West? Did they devote valuable acreage to vineyards in this age? Were they out of their minds? However, it tasted delicious. It came to Rex Bader that while such potables as whiskey, vodka, rum and gin might be better concocted in modern laboratories and factories than the originals, that possibly it didn't apply to wine.

It didn't apply to beer, either, as he was to find later.

They didn't contact him that day, and they didn't contact him that week.

To his mind, his cover was beginning to look a bit silly. Prague was a beautiful town, a veritable museum of a town. He liked Prague fine. He liked the food, he liked the drink, he liked the entertainment, much less of which was canned than at home. He also liked the girls. Especially the Germanic Brunhild he had picked up at the Vikarka, a night spot at the Prague Castle. His first impression was that she was probably a police agent with orders to check him out, but not his second. He realized, eventually, that she was, as the old expression had it, a fallen woman. He was moderately surprised. He had thought that fallen ladies were supposedly nonexistent in the Soviet Complex. He wasn't particularly interested in her ultimate offerings, but he was interested in her way of life. How did one pay off a fallen lady in this age of cashless-checkless credit exchange, international as well as otherwise?

It turned out that you paid off with gifts. A girl on the Soviet equivalent of NIT had no difficulties with food, clothing and shelter, nor with medical care and such necessities. But the luxuries, in the lands of the Soviets, as well as in the West, came high. Rex bought her a comparatively inexpensive fur stole in one of the more swank shops on upper Vaclavske Namesi. As he did so, he wondered dryly what Temple Norman was going to think about the bill when it came through the computers. Well, the hell with Temple Norman. Part of Rex Bader's assignment was to get the feeling of these countries. O.K., he was getting the feeling.

The thing was, Prague was on the staid side. That is, so far as a supposed bachelor tourist, particularly a young and wealthy one, was concerned. All right, he went to Hradcany Castle, once the seat of the Boehmian kings, now a museum. He wandered around the old square, taking Tri-Di snapshots of such famed tourist attractions as the old town clock. He went through the old-old synagogue in the former Jewish ghetto and looked up aghast at the thousands upon thousands of names inscribed on the walls, the names of Jewish victims of the Hitler period. He took some photos of the St. Vitus

Gothic Cathedral where most of the Czech kings were buried. Big deal. But what wealthy young bachelor in his right mind would stay a whole week in this atmosphere?

On the eighth day, he was reaching. The alleged tourist attractions were giving out. He had eaten in all the top restaurants, got reasonably smashed in most of the nightspots and beer halls. No contact. He had one or two more places he could visit in line of being a tourist. The most suitable would seem to be U Fleku which was described in the tourist literature as being an old tavern that first began to make its smoked black beer in the year 1499. Evidently the owner had run into competition with the monks who ran the U Sv. Tomase and thought they were the only ones who could really make smoked black beer. The brothers decided the owner of the U Fleku was a disciple of the devil. It didn't seem to set him back too badly. Both taverns were still in operation.

Rex Bader had never heard of smoked black beer.

He found that smoked black beer was precious stuff indeed, as compared to the ultra-light, weakish brew that prevailed in the land of his birth. It came in pint-size ceramic mugs, distributed by buxom young ladies in the peasant skirts of the Bohemian past. They put a saucer in front of you and slapped a mug of brew on it and marked the saucer with a pencil. Each time one of the busy young ladies spotted that your mug was empty, she slipped the empty off and slid a full one after it, and gave your saucer another pencil mark. Evidently, when you got to the point when you could no longer slug down black smoked beer, one of the girls came around, totaled up your bill from the pencil marks and you paid off.

At the U Fleku you sat out in an enormous courtyard at enormous tables made of lumber yea thick and obviously running back centuries in age. The tables sat at least twenty apiece and most of them were shared, and packed. Some accommodated solitaries, such as Rex; some were pairs or trios of men, out to get swacked; some were parties of any number; some were family groups, including babes in arms. It made for a lot of yelling, a lot of swilling, a lot of laughter and quite a bit of song.

It was as they used to say, on the picturesque side. There was even a four-piece Bohemian band, banging away in great ardor and complete in native costume of a century and more ago.

Rex was charmed. But, for that matter, he had been getting charmed for the past week. His first impression had been that the Czechs were far, far behind the West. He was beginning to suspect that they were ahead. It didn't particularly matter that this town was medieval in appearance, as compared to the pseudo-cities of the States. That in the city proper, at least, there were few indeed of the high-rise apartment buildings that would contain two thousand and more apartments and be all but self-sufficient in ultra-stores, theaters and other entertainment. They didn't have the shine here, but, what was the German word? Gemutlich? Something like that. Anyway, they seemed to be less frenetic than the average American, having more fun out of life. In a way, it irritated him.

A newcomer slipped onto the wooden bench across from him, and in split seconds one of the girls had a saucer and full mug of beer before him. The new beer bibber sighed deeply and took down half of his mug in one fell swallow.

"Ah!" he said from deep down.

Rex grinned at him.

The newcomer made a gesture with his mug, as though in a half toast and took another draft. He said, "Vous etes un etranger?"

Rex said, after taking a pull at his own beer, "Sorry, I don't speak Czech."

"Ah ha, you are English. I thought you were French. I am a great admirer of you English. I studied your literature as a student. I am of the opinion that your Lord Byron was the greatest romantic period poet the world produced."

VI

Nobody else at the table seemed to be noticing them or listening in to their conversation. Rex Bader took another pull at his black smoked beer, emptying the mug. Magically, there was another one before him, another pencil mark on his saucer.

He said, "American, not British. However, I share your opinions on the literature, although my own preference among the poets of the English romantic period would be Shelley."

The other was a prosperous-looking, intelligent-looking, substantially built man in his middle years. One received the impression of a love of life, that in spite of high achievement he was not above entering such establishments as the U Fleku for a few mugs of beer, to enjoy the raucous music, perhaps to eat a sausage or a dish of the heavy goulash which seemed to be a house specialty.

"And how do you like Prague?"

Rex said, "Very much. This is my first trip into the Soviet Complex. There is much of interest. Much that surprises me."

"Ah?" The other was interested. "And what, for instance, surprises you, sir?"

Rex thought about it. Obviously, the thing to do was to let the other direct the conversation. He said, "Well, for one thing I didn't expect the affluence you've achieved. My reading had led me to believe that you were considerably behind the West in your per capita income."

The newcomer rumbled laughter. "My dear sir, that term the West, is a bit on the elastic side. If it means all the countries in the world besides the Soviet ones, when long since such areas as Czechoslovakia passed in per capita income the overwhelming majority of these.

But even if you count only the European and North American nations, it still doesn't hold up. You are too sweeping if you think all of the capitalist nations had or have a higher per capita income than all the Soviet ones."

He took another pull at his beer before going on. "This desperate competition for higher gross national product and per capita income seems to have really first hit the world shortly after the Second World War. Suddenly everybody was GNP conscious and per capita income conscious. Some seemed to find a belief that these statistics would ultimately decide which was the superior social system, capitalism or communism."

"Well, it's one way," Rex said mildly*

But the other was shaking his head, after taking still another swig of his black beer. "If so, from the first not much was proven. This happens to be a bit of a hobby of mine and I am acquainted with some of the United Nations figures since they began compiling them. Such Western countries, so-called, as Italy and Japan, not to speak of Portugal, Spain and Greece, were far behind Czechoslovakia, East Germany, the USSR and even Hungary, in annual per capita income. But the important thing wasn't so much where they were when the United Nations began collecting this data but how rapidly they were progressing."

Rex said uncomfortably, "Well, surely the Western European nations were progressing faster than the Eastern."

The other shook his head. "Some yes, some no. I don't know if you have ever heard of two of your fellow countrymen, Herman Kahn and Anthony Wiener of the Hudson Institute and the book they wrote in 1967 entitled 'The Year 2000'."

"I don't believe so." From the sides of his eyes, Rex Bader checked out the others at the table. Nobody was paying any attention to their conversation, they all had conversations of their own going.

"It was quite fascinating," the Czech said. "And it stands up very well for a work of its type. They had one chart which gave the per capita income of some thirty of the most advanced countries and computed how long it would take for each to attain to the 1965 GNP per capita of the United States which was $3,600. Sweden, it was found would take but eleven years, Canada twelve, West Germany sixteen and East Germany seventeen. France would take eighteen years and England nineteen. Czechoslovakia would take twenty and Japan twenty-two. Italy would take thirty years and Mexico, held back by her population explosion, would take one hundred sixty-two.

"The point I'm making is Kahn and Wiener foresaw that East Germany would be up to or past France and England by 1982 and Czechoslovakia, the USSR, Poland and Romania were not far behind."

Rex said, "But, of course, then, as now, the highest per capita annual income was enjoyed by the United States."

"No, actually you're wrong. The highest was Kuwait, the Arab oil state. Admittedly the population was only about half a million, but, per capita, their income was the largest in the world. And that, by the way, is one of the points I wanted to make. The fact that a nation's per capita income is high doesn't mean necessarily that the population enjoys it. The Emir Sabah Al-Salim Al-Sabah was absolute monarch. That income went directly into his pocket, more than half a billion a year. Comparatively little of it filtered down to the Arab in the street.

"So far as the average man is concerned, it's not what his nation's per capita annual income is but how much of it he gets and what he can accomplish with it. If an absolute monarch or a bureaucratic government expends the Gross National Product on their own projects, the individual can be at the poverty level. Consider the percentage of your nation's wealth that has been expended on so-called defense, on space programs, on maintaining a top-heavy bureaucratic machine."

"Or yours," Rex said defensively.

"Of course. Both of our countries. It's madness. How-ever, there is another aspect that should be considered. That is, how the GNP and the annual per capita income are arrived at. In the old days, it was comparatively simple when most of the employed were in primary or secondary occupations. It is easy enough to total up the amount of milk produced, the number of tons of ore, the number of pounds of fish caught. And in the secondary occupations, how many tons of steel are made from that ore, how much cheese produced from the milk and so forth. However, when we get into the tertiary occupations we begin to run into problems."

"How do you mean?" Rex said. Evidently they were as interested in such matters on this side of the Curtain as they were on the other.

"Well, let's go back to the days when the battle of the GNP was in its infancy. In your great country you had an entertainer by the name of Robert Hope who was a very popular comedian. His income, so I understand, sometimes reached a million dollars a year. In the Soviet Union at the same time was Glania Sergeyevna Ula-nova, People's Artist of the USSR and Prima Ballerina Assoluta, usually considered the greatest dancer in the world. Her pay was about twenty thousand dollars a year, which was very high for Russia. Both of these amounts, of course, were added to the GNP of the respective countries. Of course, not even Mr. Hope ever made the sums later enjoyed by The Beatles, of England, and their earnings, of course, totaled into the GNP of that country. At the same time! more than sixty cities in the Soviet Union had philharmonic orchestras. All their conductors combined did not total the earnings of The Beatles."

Rex laughed ruefully. "I begin to get your point."

"Yes. But we have not as yet reached the extreme of ridiculousness. For entertainers are, after all, tertiary employees. When we get to our present postindustrial societies the majority of those who are employed are in quaternary occupations. How does one evaluate monetarily the efforts of the president of a nonprofit foundation? Or, let us say we have a noted psychiatrist who devotes his efforts largely to those who hold down well-paying quaternary positions. He treats a popular artist and at the end of the year sends him a bill for $25,000. Without flinching, the artist pays up and later sells the doctor's wife a painting for the same amount. Lo and behold, the Gross National Product has been increased by $50,000. How does one evaluate a painter's work? He may reach the heights of a Picasso and receive a million dollars for a single painting which might not have taken more than a day to finish. I am reminded of the young lad who raised two $25,000 cats and traded them for one $50,000 dog."

Rex Bader laughed aloud and waved to one of the hurrying waitresses who was on her way past with three pint mugs of beer in each hand. She stopped long enough to slide one on his saucer and give him his pencil mark. Rex Bader was beginning to get a bit beer logged, but it still tasted fine.

He said, "Well, what's the answer?"

The other laughed, too. "The answer is that the whole thing has become a farce. In actuality, both the advanced Western nations and the Soviet Complex have achieved to affluence. We both now produce sufficient for our people to lead affluent lives. Nobody starves or goes without adequate shelter, clothing, medical care, and the other necessities, indeed, most luxuries."

The Czech looked suddenly at his wristwatch, which surprised Rex Bader slightly. Few people in the States carried watches any more. They could ask for the time on their portable phones.

The other stood up. He said, "It has been a great pleasure talking to you, sir. I must leave. I hope you enjoy your evening at the U Fleku." He looked as though something had just come to him. "If you get hungry, you might try the sausage strudle here, a sort of meat pie. They are famous for it."

"Thanks," Rex said. "Nice to have met you."

The Czech looking at his watch again, hurried away.

Rex Bader reapplied himself to his beer. Now what had all that been about? He had spent the better part of fifteen minutes listening to a lecture on the relative gross national products of the United States and the Soviet Complex. What had been accomplished? Obviously, the man was one of those that Roget had expected him to contact. Very well, they had come in contact. Now what?

One of the girls went by with a tray laden down with portions of goulash and of what looked to be pastry. The Czech's recommendation came to him. The beer had created an appetite. He summoned one of the girls and placed his order for a single sausage strudle.

In about five minutes she returned with it, hurried the plate before him and was off. He picked the stuffed pastry up and examined it. It was piping hot and smelled wonderful. He turned it over, considering how to get in the first bite, in view of the size of the tidbit and the heat.

On the bottom was printed GO TO BUCHAREST.

He didn't know what the medium of the writing was, but undoubtedly it wouldn't kill him. He ate the pastry, writing and all. O.K., he'd go to Bucharest.

Back at the hotel he activated the door of his suite and stepped through into the short entrada and started for the bedroom. He came to a halt and looked down at the floor. There was a small sheet of stationery. He picked it up. It read: Room 1052.

He was on the tenth floor. Presumably so would be Room 1052. He took the note into the bath, tore it into very small pieces and flushed it away. He opened the door of his suite, looked up and down the hall, saw no one. He started down the corridor, looking for Room 1052 and had no trouble finding it. He more or less expected to find the Czech he had met at the U Fleku.

Instead, Tag Dermott looked up at him from the chair in which he sat, a tall highball glass in hand.

The IABI agent said, "Been reading any Shelley, lately?"

Rex grunted and let the door close behind him. "I prefer Keats," he said. "What are you doing here? I thought the theory was not to communicate until I got back to the States. I haven't been here much more than a week. Do you want to blow my cover?"

"There've been some changes. Things are moving faster than the Chief figured on. Have a drink?"

Rex shook his head. "I've just had a drink." This room was considerably smaller than his own suite. He sat down on the edge of the bed, facing the other. "What things?"

"First, have you made any contacts with these jokers yet?"

Rex said slowly, "I don't know whether to tell you or not."

The agent scowled at him. "Why not?" he demanded.

"Because I'm not sure what's going on and who's leaking what to whom in this whole project. Everybody seems to know everybody else's supposed secrets. If the same thing applies over here as it does in the States, then I'll never get to meet these characters I'm supposed to meet. They'll avoid me like the plague."

Dermott was still scowling. "That doesn't apply to us, Bader."

"It applies to everybody, so far as I can see. However, I can tell you that thus far I haven't a single name. Now what's all this about there being some changes?"

"What do you know about Intersputnik?"

"Not a thing. It's the Soviet Complex equivalent to our Intelsat, isn't it?"

"That's right. Back in the Sixties, the United States sponsored the International Telecommunications Satellite Consortium and it was an immediate success. After three or four years, the Russkies couldn't bear the idea and started up their own. Their first Intersputnik satellite weighed more than half a ton, four times the size of the four satellites Intelsat had up, but, of course, that was just beginning. We were just getting underway."

"O.K., what has this got to do with my assignment?"

"A little more background. At first, four U.S. cosmo-corps, ITT, AT&T, Western Union International and RCA bought up Intelsat's time and circuits and sold or leased them in turn to clients in over sixty countries. They'd get from $11,500 to $18,625 for one hour's transmission of color television between New York and Paris.

That sort of thing. Black and white was cheaper, but at any rate they made a neat profit from the beginning." Rex was still mystified. "O.K., and so now?"

"Now it's a much bigger project. That was peanuts. It developed into one of the biggest operations the world's ever seen."

"What are you getting at?"

"Haven't you been getting the news?"

"Over here?"

Tag Dermott was impatient. "You can get the American news over here. At any rate, a bill was presented in the Senate the other day to unite Intelsat and Inter-sputnik. Senator Hooker's people, and Admiral West-over and his, don't like it and neither does the Chief."

Rex thought about it. "Does it have much chance of passing?"

"Not if the Senator, the Admiral and the Chief can help it. They figure it's the first really big attempt of the cosmocorps gang to break down the barriers between the Soviets and the free world."

"Free world?" Rex grunted. "Do they still use that term? Why not splice up the two satellite communications outfits? It'd make the whole operation more efficient. It makes a lot of sense. It's not the first thing we've ever cooperated in. Coast and geodetic surveys, weather stations, Antarctic exploration."

Dermott said flatly, "There are angles to this. Angles with a lot of scary ramifications from the viewpoint of our people. This isn't just a cooperation in exploring."

Rex waited.

Tag Dermott said, "The bill would involve all the services of the two satellite communications systems being free. Available to any country in the world, and free."

"Free?"

"That's right. With some complicated system where the expenses would be borne by every country that employs the system on a per capita basis. Nobody would make any money out of it."

Rex hissed between his teeth.

The agent said, "It'd be a step in internationalization of a major industry that'd start this world government project of the cosmocorps people off at a gallop. It's obviously only the first step, too. They have no intention of stopping there."

"What's the second step?"

"The grapevine has it that the second step would involve all international transportation being welded into one cosmocorps and being declared free."

Rex bug-eyed him. "But why? Everybody and his cousin would be tearing around the globe, having the time of their lives freeloading."

Tag Dermott shook his head. "Don't argue with me. I'm not in favor of it. I'm a free enterprise boy, myself. But they deny that would happen. For one thing, with the supersonics we have these days, world travel is already within the reach of just about anybody. Besides, the big expense of traveling isn't the transportation. Its hotels, meals, and all the rest of it once you get from one place to another. They've had free transportation within the Soviet Complex for some time. Do you think everybody spends all their time riding up and down the subways, just because it's free? They claim it cuts down on the number of persons needed to handle the- paperwork. O.K., this step would eliminate hundreds of thousands of people involved in all the gobblydygook of international travel. That's their story."

"And the big emergency is?"

Tag Dermott shook his head at him. "Obviously, it would be the beginning of the end. Internationalize world communications and transportation and before the decade was out there'd be half a dozen other things. The cosmocorps would take over. There'd be no more United States, no more Soviet Complex, no more countries, period."

Rex Bader thought about it for another long spell. He said finally, "I doubt if the bill will go through. Too many congressmen have irons in the fire."

Dermott snorted, "Too many congressmen are the tools of the cosmocorps. These days you can't tell where industry leaves off and government begins. Men like Francis Roget have a dozen congressmen in their pockets. In each pocket, for that matter."

"The Soviets wouldn't stand for it."

"Some would hate to, but can you see how world opinion would be for it? Now the two super-nations have a monopoly on communications satellites. Everybody has to pay up to one side or the other. Free communications would be received with open arms by the so-called Third World."

"O.K.," Rex said. "So how does this affect my assignment?"

Dermott said slowly, "The Chief wants something hot. Something to make both the American Congress and the lads in the Kremlin back away."

It was Rex Bader's turn to scowl. "Like what?"

"Like the U-2 affair back in Eisenhower's administration. Like the Czech suppression in 1968, or the Hungarian one back in 1956. Like the Bay of Pigs fiasco, or the Cuban missile confrontation under Kennedy. Something to chill up the Cold War."

"Cold War? That's another term I haven't heard for a coon's age."

"Well, let's hope you hear it more often," Dermott said grimly. "Otherwise, you're going to wind up a man without a country." He grunted sourly. "Along with all the rest of us."

Rex looked at him questioningly. "Just out of curiosity, why are you so against world government, Dermott?"

"Aren't you?" the other demanded. "I asked you first. Frankly, I haven't made up my mind, entirely."

The other's face worked. "Because I'm an American and want to remain one. I don't want to become a fellow citizen of some uneducated black running around in a G-string in Tazania or wherever."

"It's just a matter of time, isn't it, before that black gets an education and affluence enough to wear more orthodox clothes? And that would be sped up if the whole world was cooperating."

Tag Dermott, his face dark, came to his feet and went over to the door and opened it. He said, tightly, "You've got your orders, Bader. The Chief wants you to keep your eyes open for some way to make a wheel come off this attempt at cooperation. If you need some help, I'll be around and, through me, our whole organization is available."

Rex Bader stood, too, and went to the door. He said, as he left, "You know, I've often wondered who blew the tail off that U-2 Powers was flying."

Tag Dermott scowled at him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"His coming down in Russia at that time sure threw a monkey wrench in the forks so far as a detente between the Soviets and the West was concerned. There were various elements in the States at that time that didn't want to see such a detente, and felt about it strongly enough to have pulled just about anything to prevent Eisenhower and Nikita Khrushchev from getting together."

The agent grunted. "Well, start thinking in terms of other monkey wrenches when you make these contacts of yours, Bader."

Rex Bader made his way back to his own quarters thoughtfully. He imagined the reason that Dermott had preferred that he come to the agent's room to talk was the off chance that Bader's room was bugged, in spite of the fact that Colonel Ilya Simonov had guaranteed otherwise. But, for that matter, how had Dermott known that his own quarters weren't bugged? Rex shifted his shoulders in an unconscious shrug. He was getting bug-conscious these days. Possibly the IABI man had an electronic mop and had checked out his room before their meeting.

He activated the door of his suite and entered. The beer had largely worn off. He made his way to the liv-ing room with the intention of dialing himself a slivovice, the firey Czech plum brandy for which he was building a fine tolerance.

He pulled himself up abruptly.

Luis and Harry sat there, obviously patiently awaiting him.

VII

Luis said, "Been reading your Keats lately, Buster?"

Rex stared at him. "What is this, a convention? I thought the idea was to keep away from me."

Harry said, empty as always of expression, "You're supposed to answer Coleridge. Wasn't he the one who wrote 'The Ancient Mariner'?"

Rex Bader went over to the bar in disgust and dialed the drink he doubly wanted now. He said. "Erudition from a couple of thugs?"

Luis said, "This pair of thugs have had as much schooling as you've had, Buster."

Glass in hand, Rex came back and sat down. "Yeah? Well to keep up this high level of conversation, what are you trying to do, get this particular albatross shot?"

Luis said, "We follow orders, Bader, just as you do. There's been a meeting of the Board of Diversified Industries. Miss Anastasis has some new orders. Have you heard about the bill to internationalize all communications?"

"Yes." Rex Bader knocked half of his drink back. He deliberately refrained from offering refreshments to them. He was still irritated by his conversation with Tag Der-mott. What's it go to do with you people?"

"All communications," Harry said, as though explaining something to a dense child.

"So?"

Harry said, "Look, International Diversified Industries is diversified. Period. It has lots of interests. One of the biggest is a network of communications that involves practically every booky in the world. It's all but a monopoly. Goes into every country where making book on the horse races is legal, and even some where it isn't but the local authorities have itchy palms."

"Oh, I see."

Luis said patiently, "Miss Anastasis and the Board would take a dim view if this international communications amalgamation went through. It'd just be a matter of time before every country we operate in would nationalize, then internationalize our facilities."

Rex snorted, "The way you talk, Luis, you'd think you had a slice of the cake yourself."

Luis looked at him evenly, "I have, Buster. A small slice, but a slice. Don't get the idea that we're a couple of crumb-bums like yourself."

Harry said, "All right, let's cut this out and get to the point."

Rex said, finishing his drink, "By all means. So what's the point?"

"Miss Anastasis figures that since Roget and his Intercontinental Communications are prominent in this cos-mocorps thing, that most likely you'll be getting in touch with some of the communications bigwigs over here."

"I imagine that's possible."

"Great, Buster. As soon as you do, we want the name or names. We want to know who's at the top of the ladder on this side, in the gang that likes the idea of this internationalizing of communications."

"Why? I was supposed to report to Sophia Anastasis, when I got back to the States, not to you."

"We gave you the password, Buster. We need the information soonest. We can't wait until you get back home."

"And suppose I can't get it?" Rex said argumenta-tively.

"Then we want the name of some other bigwig who's in favor of this cosmocorps thing. Somebody big enough so that if anything happened to him a big stink would go up."

"Rex Bader shook his head in disbelief. "Good grief," he muttered. "Somebody else who wants another U-2."

"What?" Luis demanded.

"Nothing. O.K., you've delivered your message. Why don't you get along? Every minute you're here increases the chances that somebody'U find out and smell a rat. I'm not supposed to know anybody in this town. How do you know this room isn't bugged?"

Luis grinned contempt and pulled a small device from his pocket. It was a metallic gismo about the size of a cigarette pack. "Haven't you ever seen one of these, Bader? Maybe they're a little beyond cheap private eyes. It's a scrambler. No electronic devices work within twenty feet."

However, both he and Harry stood and started for the door. Rex Bader followed.

Just as they got to the arch that led into the entrada, Harry turned suddenly and said, "We don't exactly like your attitude, Bader. Maybe you need a little lesson on just whose side you're on."

He lashed out a fist toward Rex Bader's belly, but had made the mistake of telegraphing his intention with too much talk.

Rex swung sideways, sucked in his stomach, chopped out with his right hand and hit the other's wrist. He let his right foot go back, swiveled, and using all his weight speared his right hand into the other's side, immediately below the ribcage. The hand was held not as a fist but with fingers extended, pearlike. Harry jacknifed forward, his face white in agony. He fell to his knees and remained there both trying to catch his breath and groan.

Rex Bader spun on his companion, but Luis was no amateur. He had stepped backward, one, two, three and his hand had blurred toward his left shoulder. It emerged with a small gyro-jet pistol, ugly, but efficient looking.

Luis shook his head dangerously. "That's enough. Harry was out of line, but that's enough."

Rex said tightly, "I get the feeling that you two think I'm a little on the softy side."

Luis shook his head, his gun hand very steady. "Not after that. Straighten up, Bader. Miss Anastasis is paying you plenty. Earn it. We pay for what we need, but we want delivery. Don't need any second warning. You won't get it. And don't get delusions of grandeur, about taking Harry just now. The best man with his hands who ever lived couldn't take a pro who has a gun. Smarten up, Bader. You've been bought. Stay bought, or you'li be sorry. We're a big outfit, Bader."

Rex Bader stared at him, his hands at his sides.

Harry stumbled to his feet, his face still white. "I'm going to plug you one," he snarled.

"I wouldn't suggest it," Rex said.

Luis said, "All right, you two. Let's forget about it. You're acting like a couple of jerk kids. Come on, Harry, let's get out of here."

Harry turned on his companion, glaring. "Sure, great. He didn't foul you. You just stood there like a…"

"Shut up," Luis said. "Keep it for another day."

Harry snarled at Rex, "Don't think there won't be another day, Buster."

Rex said sourly, "There was. Remember? There in the park in front of my apartment house. You both came in on me from the rear, when I wasn't expecting it. Am I supposed to love you, just because we work for the same boss?"

Luis said, "Come on, Harry. Miss Anastasis isn't going to like this."

"How'U she know?" Harry growled.

Luis sighed, even as he returned his gun to its shoulder rig. "She'll know. She knows everything."

Rex Bader hadn't told them that he was on his way to Romania the next morning. He hadn't told Tag Der-mott, for that matter. He was beginning to get the feeling of being penned in. He had the damnedest feeling that Dave Zimmerman or Temple Norman would be turning up next.

He could have taken the underground expressway to Bucharest, the automated electro-steamers were evi-dently as efficient here in the Soviet Complex as they were in the West. However, he had the desire to see at least a little of the country, as small as that might be from the air. Rex Bader was of the opinion that the more efficient a means of transportation became, the less desirable. If you walked, at the rate of three miles an hour, at least you saw the area through which you traveled. Ride a horse or a bike and the same was still largely true. But by the time you got into a car, or, in the past, a train, and already you were zipping along at a speed that precluded experiencing the countryside. And an aircraft? You saw a little as you took off and as you landed; staring down was about as profitable as looking at a map. He decided that it must really be meaningless to fly in a spacecraft—you'd be going faster and seeing less than any means of travel ever devised by man.

He was largely correct. The Soviet Supersonic flew at an altitude that largely precluded seeing the countryside below. Rex Bader sat with a tourist map on his lap, playing his part, and peered down. Within what seemed moments, they were over the Bohemian Moravian Highlands and, for his money, it could have been the Appalachians just as well. Their only stop before Bucharest was at Budapest, that once capital of Hungary before the merging of the Soviet countries. That, at least, had its elements and he decided that the twin cities of Buda and Pest on opposite sides of the Danube boasted one of the most beautiful settings of any town he had ever seen, certainly the equal of San Francisco or New York.

They were off again and a steward came through with trays of small pilsen-type glasses. He hovered over Rex Bader politely, "Barak, Comrade," he said. "The Hungarian national spirit."

Rex said, "Thanks," and took one up. He sniffed it. There was a faint odor of apricots in the bouquet. He decided distastefully that the Hungarian national beverage was evidently a cordial. Largely, he disliked sweet drinks. However…

He knocked half of the slightly yellowish liqueur back over his tonsils and then all but spewed it up again onto the seatback in front of him. He closed his eyes and said, "Wow!" He couldn't remember ever drinking anything quite that strong before. He looked down at the glass reproachfully. Barak might be based on apricots, but it had been distilled down to the point where there was no sweetness left at all, and to an alcoholic content that must have been pushing two hundred proof. If this was the national beverage, the Hungarians wouldn't have to bother brushing their teeth. This stuff would take the enamel off, all on its own.

Down below, there were new aspects of the scenery and they crossed and recrossed the winding Danube over and over again until finally it disappeared to the south. If he was following his map correctly, they were now crossing into what was once the nation of Romania and that portion of it known as Transylvania. First the Bihor Mountains and then the Transylvania Alps. It was somewhere in here, Rex Bader decided, that Castle Dracula had been situated. As a matter of fact, once in a while he could make out former castles on strategically located hills or mountaintops.

They pulled into Bucharest's Baneasa jetport in the early afternoon and a dark-complexioned bright young thing in a trim airport uniform met him at the Supersonic's gangplank.

She said, brightly, "Buna ziua, Comrade Bader."

Rex Bader looked at her speculatively. He said, "Doughnuts to dollars will get you that Buna means good. I know some Spanish and I know that Romanian is a Latin language, too. And, just guessing, I'll bet that second word means either afternoon or day."

She tilted her head a bit and looked at him from the side of her eyes. "You'd make a good detective, Comrade Bader. I said, 'Good day.'"

He made a mock bow. "Retired. As though you didn't already know. However, you're wrong. I made a lousy private investigator."

Her laughter tinkled. "We have, of course, a short dossier on you, Comrade Ba^er. But you needn't worry.

It is routine. The Chrezvychainaya Komissiya reports that you are harmless."

"That is a gross lie," Rex said flatly. "I am very dangerous indeed. Especially to young ladies. Especially to pretty young ladies."

She held her right hand over her heart and recited as though very passionately:

"'Here's a sigh to those who love me,

"'And a smile to those who hate; " 'And, whatever sky's above me,

"'Here's a heart for any fate!'"

He started to chuckle, and then suddenly got it. He blinked at her, thought fast for a moment and then cleared his throat and got out:

"'I arise from dreams of thee " 'In the first sweet sleep of night, " 'When the winds are breathing low, " 'And the stars are shining bright.'"

She laughed and said, "You are a romantic. But I don't believe I know that one."

He said, "I was a great one for poetry when I was going to school. It's from Shelley. The first stanza of 'The Indian Serenade'. And yours was from 'To Thomas Moore' by Lord Byron, of course."

"Of course," she said brightly. She held out a hand. "My name is Ana Georgescu. I'm from NTO, our national tourist office. My job is to get you oriented, Comrade Bader."

He shook the hand, finding it feminine but firm, and said, "Well, fine. How in the world did you know I was coming?"

They turned and headed in the direction of the jet-port's administration buildings, walking side by side. She said, "Our sister organization in Prague, Cedok,

called ahead, as soon as you had made your supersonic reservations. We make a policy here of welcoming our distinguished foreign visitors. Of…of getting them oriented."

"And I'm a distinguished visitor?"

She said, half mockingly again, "Anyone who can afford to travel using deluxe class accommodations in the Soviet Complex is distinguished, Comrade."

"That's one way of deciding," Rex said. "O.K. Orient me."

"Hm-m-m," she said. "You have a manner of pronouncing it that gives it a leering quality."

He took her in all over again. Brunette. Only up to his shoulder in height. A broad, good mouth and delicate chin. Creamy dark of complexion and with a very faint down on her face, that came off attractively. She was, say, twenty-five years of age and her English was at least as good as his own. She was sharply intelligent and obviously well educated, item, her being able to quote from Byron. And somehow she was connected with the camp he was to contact for Francis Roget and his group.

Well, it was their canoe, let them start paddling.

She said briskly, "I recommend the Athenee Palace Hotel. It is well situated in the downtown area. You'll be able to participate in the festival without going out of your way."

"Festival?"

"It is September, Comrade Bader. The Folklore Festival is in full swing. Didn't you know? At the NTO offices we assumed that was why you had come to this part of the Soviet Complex at this time of the year."

He carried on the gobblydygook, it coming to him that it was quite possible to be monitoring this whole conversation from a point hundreds of yards away. Or, for that matter, a lip reader with binoculars might be checking up on them. And, of course, it need not be Ilya Simonov's people, either.

He said, "Then that will be just added interest. Actually, I came on an impulse. I was getting tired of Prague and wanted to check out some of the other major cities. I read in one of the guide books that Bucharest is called the Paris of the East."

She nodded, seriously. "There are many similarities, the wide boulevards, the many parks, the manner in which the Dimbovita River maunders through town in much the same way as does the Seine in Paris. Then there is the gaiety of the people, the night life, the fact that Bucharest is the nation's art center. Ah, here we are. Would you prefer the underground or surface transportation, Comrade Bader? I can summon an electro-steamer limousine, if you wish."

Rex followed her into the administration building. They could have as easily been in that of Greater Washington, Denver, or San Francisco. There- is something identical in jetports, the world over; the scurrying multitudes, the luggage floaters, the ticket windows with their automated reservation screens, the rows of souvenir and traveler's needs stands with their displays and order boxes, the autobars and snack bars, the TV screens flashing their news of arrivals and departures.

He said, in some surprise, "Electro-steamer? Do you mean you allow individual cars into the downtown areas of a city this large?"

She smiled up at him. "This would be an official NTO limousine, Comrade Bader, not a privately owned vehicle. We don't have privately owned vehicles in the Soviet Complex any more. It proved an inefficient manner of getting about."

"We have a few in the States, not many," Rex said. "O.K., car it is. It'll give me a chance of seeing the town."

"If we can get through the mobs of celebrants," she said.

They had come up to an area the sign above which proclaimed it the offices of the NTO in half a dozen languages, including English. There was one woman present, attired the same as was his guide, but she didn't bother to look up from the TV phone before her. Evidently, NTO was as automated these days as was American Express-Cooks that travel cosmocorps of the West.

Ana Georgescu stood before another phone screen, activated it, and spoke in a language which Rex couldn't begin to follow. Romanian, evidently. She turned back to him and said, "This way, please."

She led him to a nearby door and out onto the street on the opposite side of the building from which they had entered. By the time they arrived at the curb, the limousine was there. Its door opened at their approach. The car was identical to several in which Rex had Tidden in Prague, when he had taken spins out into the countryside, less ultra-modern than that of Sophia Anastasis, or, at least, less loud. It came to Rex Bader, all over again, that the Europeans, both of East and West, made more of an effort to retain some of the charm of yesteryear than did his compatriots. The urge to press into tomorrow seemed not quite so strong. He wasn't sure if he approved or not.

And gave directions into the car's screen.

Rex said, "My luggage?"

"Will be in your suite, Comrade." She smiled at him reproachfully. "We aren't so primitive as all that."

"No customs? No presentation of my International Identity Card?"

"You went through that, such as it is these days, back in Prague, Comrade Bader. And, of course, nowadays it is not even necessary to open luggage to inspect it thoroughly. So far as your identity card is concerned, you were checked out on identity before you ever left your own country. As soon as you received your ser-vations to fly to the Soviet Complex, in fact."

"Time gallops on," Rex muttered, then added, to keep the conversation on its original light level, "though sometimes I'd like to get off the horse—or mule, or ass, or whatever it is."

She laughed, although the bon mot hadn't been that good.

They started down what Ana told him was Baneasa Road and shortly passed over the Dimbovita River, Rex already noting that Bucharest was a more modern city than Prague, with considerably more high-rise apart-ments of the Western type. He wondered how long it would be before the pseudo-city came to the Balkans.

And already he was beginning to see evidence of the Folklore Festival. In Prague, the only national costumes he had come up against had been in nightspots on performers, or in such Middle Ages taverns as the U-Fleku had been. But here, on the streets, they were everywhere. Both men and women were wearing highly embroidered folk costume in red, green, white, gold and blue.

Mobs of them were parading up and down the streets, some occasionally arm in arm, singing at the tops of their voices, whether or not they had musical accompaniment. From time to time the car slowed or even came to a complete halt while folk dancers doing their bit in the street's center cleared out of their way. Romanian folk dancing was on the frenetic side and of a half dozen different types. Sometimes there would be as many as a dozen men, arms over each other's shoulders, swinging out at a pace that seemingly couldn't have been maintained for more than a few minutes; sometimes the line would be of women, or men and women alternating. Largely, they were flushed of face, either through exertion, or drink—or both.

Once when the limousine ground to a halt, a bleary-eyed, staggering, costumed reveler approached Rex Ba-der's window and thrust a bulbous bottle through it and slurred something in an unknown tongue the last word of which came through as lichior.

Ana said calmly, "He invites you to have a drink of his tsuica."

"What's tsuica, or however you pronounce it?" Rex said.

"You'll see," she said dryly. "It is the Romanian national spirit." She added, "It would be an insult not to accept."

Rex took the bottle. There was no top on it. He applied it to his mouth, took a gulp and said, "Whoosh . . ." It was as potent as the Hungarian barack had been.

The dancer beamed drunkenly at him, and seized the bottle back and staggered away.

"You take your festivals seriously here, don't you?" Rex said. "How long will this go on?"

"All night," Ana said.

"Starting this early in the day?"

"Starting yesterday."

They turned left down what Ana told him was Kise-leff Road and what Rex would have thought of as a boulevard. Bucharest, he decided, deserved its Paris of the East title. The crowds were getting thicker, there were more bands, more groups of wandering musicians, some numbering a dozen or more violinists, guitarists, accordion players and what not. Some strolled about solo. A good many of them appeared to be gypsies, Rex decided; one led, of all things, a dancing bear.

Rex said, "After the hotel what?" _

"Oh, we'll go out to see the town, if you would like."

Rex looked over at here. "There isn't anybody in particular that you'd like me to meet?"

She made a quick gesture of putting finger to lips, but then carried through as though she was simply touching up her lipstick.

She said, "Why no. Whom did you have in mind? I am afraid that we have no equivalent of private investigators, retired or otherwise, in the Soviet Complex, so it would be impossible to introduce you to colleagues with whom to talk shop."

Rex said, "O.K., skip it. Tell me, in the States every vehicle, both private and public, is automatically monitored through its phone screen by computer. A record is kept of every trip. If there is any reason to, the conversations taking place in any vehicle can be recorded. Are you that highly automated here?"

"Even more so, Comrade," she said evenly. "In the Soviet Complex, every conversation that takes place in a vehicle is recorded. Our police have found it a very efficient method of keeping track of would-be subversives or other enemies of the people. Not simply vehicles, of course, but every public building, and almost every home, for that matter. It has proven very practical."

"I'll bet it has," Rex said grimly. "What do you mean by almost every home? Which ones would be exempt?"

"High-ranking Party members sometimes find it expedient to dispense with monitoring of their homes and vehicles. They, of course, are on a level where it is not necessary. One who is on the highest levels of government obviously is not interested in subversion. One does not subvert one's self."

"I see what you mean."

The car progressed more slowly through the teeming crowds of peasant costumed celebrants. Rex Bader was impressed. The lines of dancers lengthened. On occasion there must have been as many as a hundred of them at a time, arms entertwined.

Rex Bader was fascinated. He said, "They don't dress like this all the time, do they?"

She laughed at him. "Of course not. However, we Romanians are possibly the most folk-costume conscious nation in Europe, either East or West. Everybody prides himself on his costume. Only on special occasions are they brought out and worn."

They entered a large square and inched their way through it. He had to admire the auto-controls of the vehicle. The square was literally packed.

"This is the Piata Victoriei" she told him in a guide's tone. "You would say Victory Square. Would you like me to tell you how it got its name?"

"Never mind, every town on Earth seems to have a Victory Square or a Victory Avenue, no matter how many defeats the country might have suffered in its time. And, come to think about it, I don't believe I've ever heard of a Defeat Square."

They emerged to a wide boulevard beyond and she said, an amused quality in her voice, "How right you are. This is Calea Victoriei, which comes out, Victory Avenue."

It was not quite so jam packed with dancers and cele-brants as had been the square, but it was packed bad enough. They crept forward.

They finally pulled up before an ornate hotel entrance. Offhand, Rex Bader couldn't remember an American hotel over twenty years old these days. Such buildings, at home, had a habit of coming down to make room for a more modern hostelry almost as soon as they were in operation. Coming back to a city you hadn't been in for ten years had its complications. You had a hard time finding your way around. This place looked as though it was at least half a century old. But then, Prague had been the same, or even more so. Some of the hotels in Czechoslovakia had been centuries in age. Actually, Rex Bader hadn't minded. American ultra-modern buildings had a sterile quality about them that he hadn't particularly noticed until he came to Europe.

They emerged from the electro-steamer and turned to head for the entry. And were immediately surrounded by two separate bevies of dancing, swirling, shouting and singing revelers. One group surrounded Rex, arms entwined, feet a-flying; the other abducted Ana Georgescu, shouting laughter.

Immediately, she laughed, too, and tried to call something to Rex but they carried her off. The last expression Rex saw on her face was one of sudden alarm but then she waltzed into the street, her head too short to be seen over the highly costumed kidnappers.

Somebody shoved a bottle into Rex's hands. A girl, laughing into his eyes, grabbed him about the neck and kissed him hard. She was a buxom wench spectacularly done up in blues, whites, and golds.

"Hey!" Rex said.

They were hustling him out into the street. Various pedestrians, who had been standing in front of the hotel, watching the fun, laughed briefly at his discomfort, but then turned their attention elsewhere as his group, singing and dancing still, hustled and bustled him into the street.

They twirled around him, shouting, most of them red of face, sweating, some already showing by their uneven dance steps the effects of tsuica and whatever else it was they were drinking. Just to be amiable about it, in spite of the fact that it was all he could do to stay erect, he took a pull at the bottle. It was tsuica, all right, all right. He tried to pass the bottle on to someone else, but most of them seemed already to have one of their own.

They swirled around an old-fashioned, horse-drawn gypsy caravan, highly painted but obviously a carnival type prop, rather than an antique.

Rex was beginning to get tired of the mauling he was taking. Had he known the dance steps, he would have made the effort to join them, for a moment or two, to maintain the spirit of the thing, but it was all he could do to keep on his feet.

For a moment, the crowd seemed thicker still and he was up against the caravan, his back to its rear end. Skirts and shawls swung suddenly higher in a great swirl. He felt a door open behind him. A push from in front.

And suddenly he was inside. The door slammed shut.

"Welcome to Romania, Rex Bader," a voice said smoothly.

VIII

Rex was on the floor, trying to get his balance. He sat up, then stood and glared. There were two of them, civilian dressed and both sat on the wooden seat, a bench which ran along one side of the gypsy vehicle.

"You must pardon the romantic method of contacting you," the first one said.

Rex said, "O.K., but I'm beginning to think that I'm earning my money. What's the password?" And, in actuality, he was truly interested in what the answer might be. He had enough passwords to fill a codebook, he had long since decided.

"Why, Byron, of course."

"Shelley," Rex snapped. "I've already been contacted by a Byron. What was wrong with Miss Georgescu? Frankly, she was better looking than either of you." He brushed dust from his pants.

"Nothing was wrong with Ana," the second one said. "She brought you here. If you had a tail or if you were being monitored, we could not think of a better method in which to shake them. And now, Ana, of course, has a perfect alibi for having lost you. You can turn up at the hotel later, somewhat drunk and bedraggled from the festival, supposedly, and nobody would think twice."

Rex looked them over. In actuality, they were clean-cut, intelligent looking types somewhere in the vicinity of his own age. One was blondish and looked like a Slav, the other dark and probably a Romanian, he decided. There was no reason to believe they weren't what they said they were.

"How do you know that this vehicle isn't bugged?" he said. "I'm getting to the point where I'd suspect my own mother of being bugged."

They laughed and the blond one made a slight gesture encompassing the interior of the caravan which had already begun to move, the horse's hooves going clop-clop even over the shrill sounds of the dancers outside.

"It is not the sort of vehicle that even the most ardent police investigator could consider worth bugging, Mr. Ba-der. Please sit down, we have a short ride."

Rex sat. There were windows in the copy of a primitive gypsy caravan, but they were heavily curtained and the embroidered curtains, drawn. They maintained silence and after ten or fifteen minutes most of the sounds of the revelry faded away. The horse's hooves could be heard more distinctly.

"Where are we going?" Rex said.

The brunette one shook his head, nothing more.

The road seemed to incline downward and all sounds of the street disappeared. Rex Bader assumed that they had entered a garage, or some other entry into a building and was proven correct a couple of minutes later when one of his two captors, if that was the word for them, came to his feet when the caravan stopped.

"Here we are," he said and opened the door in the rear.

They emerged into what was obviously a fairly large garage, near an elevator bank. Silent, they led him to one of the elevators and when the door closed behind them the blond one gave orders to the screen in what Rex assumed was Romanian. They went down two or three levels and the door opened again. They stepped forth into an empty corridor. The brunette led the way, the blond bringing up the rear.

They approached a large, heavy door and the brunette said something into its identity screen. When it opened, the dark one stepped to one side, the light one to the other and they stood as guards.

O.K., Rex decided. The others had the ball, it was up to them to start pitching.

It was furnished as a conference room. A heavy table dominated it. About ten persons sat about the table, looking at him with interest. At the far end sat Colonal Ilya Simonov, of the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya. The door closed behind Rex Bader.

At long last Rex Bader cleared his throat and said, "I thought the scheme was for you people to stay completely away from me during this assignment."

The cold, efficient appearing counter espionage trou-bleshooter quoted, " 'The best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft a-gley,' Mr. Bader."

The eyes of Rex Bader would not have bugged more had the Soviet super-agent suddenly levitated. It couldn't have been coincidence.

It sounded inane, but out it came. "Do you know what you're saying? That's a quote from Robert Burns!"

"That I am an associate of Mr. David Zimmerman? Of course, Mr. Bader. The question has become of whom are you an associate?"

Rex Bader ran his eyes around the ten others, who thus far had remained silent, their own eyes on him in interest. He came back to the Soviet agent.

"Possibly I'm not completely sure."

"It would seem, Rex Bader, that you are not simply a double agent but at least a triple, and, if you count myself, a quadruple, and if Mr. Zimmerman's American group is numbered you are a five-time agent, serving that many opposed organizations. You get around, Mr. Bader."

For the moment, Rex ignored that. Still standing near the door, he indicated the table with his head. "Who are these men?"

"Those you were sent to contact. However, the situation being what it is, they are somewhat inclined to hesitate before confiding in you, Rex Bader."

Rex looked at them, one by one. "You are influential scientists, engineers, educators and so forth interested in exploring the possibility of internationalizing, still further, cosmocorps, with the eventual aim of a world government based on them?"

One of the older of the group nodded and said, "That is as good a method of stating it as any, I suppose."

There was an empty chair at the end of the table opposite from Ilya Simonov. Rex went to it deliberately and sat down. He gave a long sigh. For the first time, he noticed that the Czech he had talked to at the U Fleku was among the number present. He nodded to him, received a cheerful nod in return, but the other didn't speak.

"O.K.," Rex said. "I suppose it's time to put the cards on the table."

Simonov said flatly, "The difficulty seems to be that you evidently are holding five hands, Rex Bader. As an old espionage₇counter-espionage pro, a number that surprises even me."

Rex looked at him, scowling, and said, "Why bring me into it if you were already in contact with this group? Why couldn't you have handled it?"

"And blow my cover?" the other said reasonably. "You see, I, too, have been more or less acting as a double agent. However, in actuality, it has been since I saw you last that I made arrangements with Mr. Zimmerman's people. I had not really known they existed until your activities brought home to me the fact. But now, Mr. Bader, please! Just whom are you working for; Mr. Ro-get, Miss Anastasis, Mr. Coolidge, the secret police of the Soviet Complex, or Mr. Zimmerman? Or what combination of these?"

"Perhaps for myself," Rex said bitterly.

There was now a dangerous element in the other's voice. "Mr. Bader, the stakes are high in this game in which you mentioned putting down the cards."

"Don't I know it?" Rex said bitterly. "So high that when I wanted to drop out, before the game had hardly begun, I was afraid to."

Ilya Simonov took him in but for the time held his peace.

Rex said, "I doubt if my life was in danger from Ro-get's group, when I turned him down. And although Dave Zimmerman evidently can play a bit rough if the occasion demands, I doubt if it was from him, even after he had disclosed his activities. However, the Inter-American Bureau of Investigation is an organization I am afraid of. But not as afraid as I am of the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya and of International Diversified Industries. I came to the conclusion that I could be decided expendable by any, or all, of these. They had each bared their souls, so to speak. I knew too much."

"So?"

"So nobody would eliminate a man they thought they had in pocket. I had to let them all think that seemingly I was on their side. When a card game is crooked, Colonel, you're an ass to play your own hand honestly."

The oldest of the group, who was evidently in the way of being spokesman, had to laugh. "But the question still remains, whom do you represent?" he said.

Rex Bader said, "Me." And when they all scowled at him, he added slowly. "When this first came up, I told everybody I wasn't political. Well, actually this is more than political. And possibly some of my father's idealism has rubbed off on me. I'm as interested as the next man in guaranteeing that the bombs never fall. I'm even largely in favor of world government, sooner or later. But the question is, which one of your groups is more apt to deliver world government and no bombs?"

They considered what he said, some still scowling. They consulted in some language he didn't place, although it was probably a Slavic one.

The spokesman finally said, "Very well, Mr. Bader. Your original message was from Francis Roget of ICI. Please deliver it."

Rex did, at length. From time to time one would in-terupt with a question. At the ^nd, all present had at least one question. He answered as best he could. Roget had gone into great detail on just what he was to say to them.

Finally, the elder spokesman nodded. "Very well. In actuality, of course, there is comparatively little that we aren't already familiar with. Among other sources, Colonel Simonov has been a font of considerable information."

Rex looked at the top espionage agent. "Where do you come in on all this? Supposedly, you're in the equivalent camp of John Coolidge."

Simonov looked at the meeting's chairman, if he might be called that. He said, "Comrade, perhaps some background is due Mr. Bader."

The older man nodded. He said, "I understand that you are not completely ungrounded in socioeconomics, Mr. Bader. However, you of the West often have some strong misunderstandings about the situation that prevailed and prevails in the Soviet Complex both at earlier dates and the present."

He leaned back a moment and thought about it before going on. Then, "Mr. Bader, the Russian Revolution of 1917 was a fluke. It should never have happened. History was not ready for the Bolsheviks to come upon the scene. In many ways for the followers of the teachings of Marx and Engels and for the world for that matter, it was a tragedy. The situation was brought on by the confusion of the First World War and the collapse of the

Russian military and government. Lenin was given an opportunity which he had never really expected in his lifetime. However, upon the Bolsheviks taking power he stood before their first assembly of the Supreme Soviet and said words to the effect that they would now proceed to establish the first Socialist State. He was mistaken, Mr. Bader. It was quite impossible for that body, or any other body in Russia, to build socialism. Russia was far from ready for socialism. Socialism, no matter if you think it good, bad, ridiculous, or even an impossible society, presupposes a highly industrialized one. You can't start with less. Russia didn't have it. They proceeded to try and muddle through." He hesitated and looked at Rex.

Rex said, "O.K. You haven't said anything really new to me so far."

"Of course not. Keep in mind, Mr. Bader, that those Old Bolsheviks were idealists. First-generation revolutionists, willing to die for their honest beliefs, mistaken or not. Most of them finally did die for them when the second generation, led by Stalin, came along. Stalin supposedly was one of the Old Bolsheviks himself but he was slyly clever enough to stay out in front of the coming opportunists and to preside at the butchering of his former comrades. His was the second generation of the bureaucrats who had taken over the task of modernizing backward Russia, supposedly preparing it for true socialism. By the time the third generation of bureaucrats took over, they were completely opportunistic, viciously so, Mr. Bader. The original Bolsheviks had taken no more salary for themselves than received by an ordinary mechanic in a factory. The new breed paid themselves as highly as their equivalents in the West. They became the New Class, as the Yugoslavian Milovan Dü-las had it. More than that, they began to perpetuate themselves. They made sure that their children went to the best schools, entered the Party and eventually took over the nation's most lucrative positions. By the fourth generation, this situation had largely solidified itself. The Party had become a ruling caste."

"I'm still with you," Rex said, a bit impatiently.

The older man nodded again, "The thing is that as the industrialization gained, a situation similar to what was developing in the West presented itself. No more than the old type capitalist entrepreneur could manage a cosmocorps could politicians manage the Soviet Complex industrial explosion. Politicians cannot run industries, Mr. Bader. It takes scientists, technicians, engineers, skilled mechanics. It takes what you call Meritcrats. It takes men of high I.Q. and energy. Politicians often have energy, but it is surprising how few have a high I.Q. It is evidently not particularly necessary in a politician."

The following came out more slowly. "The Party and its bureaucrats, whether or not sincere, are no longer of any value, Mr. Bader. We, of the element you call the Meritcrats in the West are frustrated rather than helped by them. Obviously, the cosmocorps are the future. International borderlines are no longer valid."

"O.K.," Rex said ."So what do I report to Mr. Roget?"

The chairman looked around at his colleagues before replying. Some went to the trouble of nodding, but all kept their peace. They weren't a very talkative bunch, Rex Bader had long since decided. The chairman turned back to him.

"It will not be an overnight affair, but we must begin and the sooner the better. Urge Mr. Roget to push the internationalization of communications bill through your Congress. If and when it passes, whether or not the Party would like it so, there will have to be an international congress to discuss the matter. The Party will probably try to turn it down, but we of the Soviet Meritcrats will expend every effort to push it through. We suspect that the popularity of the idea will eventually see it triumph. When and if the governments of both the West and the Soviet Complex have agreed, a new type of cosmocorps will have to be set up, possibly in Switzerland. Very well, Mr. Bader, that cosmocorps will be our point of contact with our fellows in the West. There we will lay out our plans for future ventures. Per-haps transportation will be next. Tell all this to Mr. Roget."

"O.K.," Rex said. Then,- "Just one more thing: What is Colonel Simonov doing here? It makes me a little leery to be having your secrets discussed in front of him."

Hya Simonov spoke up. "There are a good many of my equivalent in the Soviet Complex bureaucracy, Ba-der. You see, even in a bureaucracy, if you're going to g&t the hard jobs done, you've got to expect the rising of a Meritocracy. Certainly, nepotism and favoritism prevail in the very highest echelons, but we who really do the work can't be semi-idiots. Many, many of us see the need to change the old and look forward to a world government based on the cosmocorps. Needless to say I'm among them."

"But this connection with Dave Zimmerman's people?"

"Is still in the early stages, but we're very interested in the ideas he urges. You've got to realize that when and if the Party is eliminated we in the Soviet Complex will have to establish new institutions. Obviously, at this late date we can't go back to Czarism, or even classical capitalism. Personally, I'm not particularly happy about your American one-earned-dollar-one-vote arrangement."

Rex said, "Would you have an unemployed ditch digger have as much say in the running of the country as, say, a nuclear scientist?"

Simonov shook his head. "No, I recognize the fact that all men are not created equal, in the sense that some can be, and are, of more value to the community than others. Why not do it this way? Every voter begins with one vote. For every unit of I.Q. that he has above one hundred he is granted another vote, o man with an I.Q. of 101 would get two votes. A genius with an I.Q. of 150 would have 51 votes."

"An interesting conception," the chairman nodded. Rex shifted his shoulders in a slight shrug. "O.K. So for the time being, that is all?"

"That is all," the chairman said, and began to come to his feet.

The others stood, too, as did Rex and Ilya Simonov who came around to him. The meeting broke up into chattering groups.

Simonov clapped Rex on the shoulder in an amused comradely gesture and said, "Mr. Bader, you are a Machiavellian. Stalin himself would have been proud of you." He tossed his head back and laughed heartily. "Five hands of cards in the game? How could you lose?"

Rex had to grin back at him. "Colonel Simonov, you've obviously read 'The Prince' yourself. I suspect you've been aware of just about every conversation I've had these past few weeks."

The agent chuckled sourly. "Not quite all. With the ultra-modern scramblers utilized by, say, Mr. Roget, no bug can get through." He snorted contempt. "The smaller, portable ones such as carried by your two friends, Luis Costello and Harry Bellini are meaningless to our advanced equipment. They think they are scrambling all electronic devices in their vicinity. We merely unscramble them. We listen in to everything those latter-day hoodlums say."

Rex shook his head and returned the other's friendly clap, saying, "What a business to be in." Then he frowned. Was the other wearing a girdle? The Soviet agent didn't even remotely seem the swish type.

That worthy interpreted the look and laughed heartily again. "It is not a corset, Mr. Bader, but body armor. It has saved my life three times over. It would take a laser to cut through."

"Once again," Rex said. "What a business to be in. O.K., what's next? How do I get back to my hotel?"

"The same way you came," Simonov said reasonably. "By the original house trailer, the gypsy caravan."

He assumed that they returned him by approximately the same route as they had come. As before, the two guards, or whatever they were, sat in the caravan with him. After a short time he could hear the sounds of trie festival's revelry outside. The sounds grew and eventually the vehicle came to a halt.

The blond one said, "You are now behind the Athenee Palace hotel. Miss Georgescu will meet you in the lobby. She will pretend to be upset over your disappearance. You can simply laugh and say you had a very enjoyable time. You can pretend to be a bit drunk, if you wish. You will go up to your rooms and this evening she will make her appearance once more and show you about town. In the morning, you will return first to Paris then to Greater Washington."

"So it's all laid out for me."

"Yes."

It progressed as they had stated. Ana Georgescu was terribly upset and apologetic. Rex laughed, on cue. They made their plans for meeting that evening and he proceeded to his suite, looking forward to a bath, a drink and a change of clothes. It had been an eventful day.

The drink he shortly had in hand but the bath and change of clothes had to be postponed. He had hardly dialed himself a tsuica—the stuff was already growing on him—before the identity screen on the door hummed.

He activated it and the face of Luis was there.

"Oh damn," he said.

He considered refusing entry. But no. He would have to find out what the other wanted. He flicked the button that opened up.

Luis and Harry entered, followed by Tag Dermott. Rex Bader was taken back by the third visitor. There had been some strange lineups, an ultra-hash of double-dealing in this whole mess, but he hadn't expected cooperation between the Inter-American Bureau of Investigation and the descendants of the Mafia.

"O.K.," he sighed. "Get yourselves drinks if you want and sit down. To what do I owe this honor, gentlemen?"

Harry looked at him coldly. "No smartness, Bader."

"Sorry." Rex looked at Dermott.

Tag Dermott, ignoring the invitation to a drink, sank onto a couch and returned the look, his face as cold as those of the two Diversified Industries men. He said,

"You've been with the people you were sent to contact." It was a statement, not a question.

"That's right."

"What did they say?"

Rex Bader thought about it for a moment.

"Speak up," Luis rasped. "You've been paid, Bader. Deliver."

Rex said, "They were interested in Roget's proposal. They want to get together with him further."

Tag Dermott muttered something under his breath.

Harry said softly, "What're their names?"

"I don't know. No names were given."

"Where'd you meet them?"

"I don't know. I was taken there in a closed vehicle."

Tag Dermott leaned forward. "Listen, Bader. We're under orders to foul up this whole proposition before it gets any further. We want the name of someone as high up, over here, as Roget is back home."

Rex looked at him speculatively. "You know, I doubt if you're working for John Coolidge. This sort of thing isn't his style. He might be against the cosmocorps bit, but he wouldn't condone assassination, or whatever you three have in mind."

Dermott said, "That's none of your business, Bader."

"I think you've sold out to Sophia Anastasis."

Harry grunted humor. He, too, had taken a seat. He said, "Look who's talking about selling out. You'd sell out your own mother in spades, Bader. Come on, we need a name. Somebody to hit. Somebody big enough that it'll cause such an international stink that this communications merger will be shelved. You must have seen somebody there that you can finger."

Rex said, "You have your scrambler working?"

"Of course."

"So nobody can be listening in on this?"

"I told you it was working."

Rex said slowly, "Then there's only one I can think of."

"He's a big wheel here in the Soviet Complex, and somebody connected with this operation?"

"Very much so."

"If he was knocked off, obviously by someone from the West, it'd cause a big stink?"

"It would cause one hell of a stink, resulting in the arrest of a whole batch of American agents in the Soviet Complex, which would be followed by the arrest of a whole batch of Soviet agents in the West. Relations between East and West would be in an uproar."

"Great," Dermott snapped. "Who is it?"

"Colonel Ilya Simonov. If I have the picture clearly, he's one of the top activators in this scheme, and he's also a top Soviet bureaucrat."

"Do you know where he is now?"

"He's in town, somewhere in Bucharest, otherwise I don't know."

All three came to their feet.

"We'll find him," Luis said emptily.

After the door had closed behind them, Rex Bader looked at it. "I'm afraid he'll find you first, boys," he said.

Aftermath

Rex Bader was seated again in the office-sanctum of Francis W. Roget, Chairman of the Board of International Communications, Incorporated. As before, the only others present were Roget, himself, and his assistant, Temple Norman.

"So that wraps it up!" Rex Bader was saying. "I returned their money to both Coolic^ge and his group and Miss Anastasis—by phone, of course. I didn't see them. I reported the truth. I hadn't learned the names of any of the group you wanted contacted. I didn't add that I hadn't tried. I fibbed a bit, perhaps, when I told Miss Anastasis that I didn't know what had happened to her two men, Luis and Harry. She intimated that they had disappeared. Coolidge was irritated with me, but made no mention of his man, Tag Dermott. It's possible that he didn't even know Dermott was in Europe, he had evidently sold out to Diversified Industries."

Rex cleared his throat and wound it up. "I'll hold you to our agreement and keep your stock since I figure I did what you wanted. Your initial contact has been made."

Roget nodded. "We expected a little more, but you can keep the stock we advanced you. We had expected you to travel more considerably in the Soviet Complex, talking to quite a number of interested persons."

"As it turned out, it wasn't necessary," Rex said.

Temple Norman said testily, "It seems to me you did precious little to earn your pay."

Rex looked at him. "There's one other thing that I haven't reported as yet."

Roget frowned. "What's that, my dear Bader?"

Rex Bader kept his eyes on the magnate's assistant. "You mentioned once in that supercilious manner of yours that I was a detective and asked me what I had detected. Have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Norman?"

"Of course. What are you driving at, Bader." The Temple Norman nostrils were aloft.

"Holmes once said something to the effect that if you rule out the impossible then what remains, no matter how improbable, is the truth."

Francis Roget said in puzzlement, "Well, what seems so implausible but is the truth?"

"That your closest assistant, a member of one of the richest old families in the country, is a traitor who has betrayed you to either, or both, Coolidge and his group and Miss Anastasis and hers."

Temple Norman stiffened in indignation. "Are you insane?"

"I don't think so." Rex looked back at Roget. "This sanctum is unbuggable. You've said so yourself. So has Colonel Simonov, and he ought to know. Intelligently, you kept me and my mission under wraps. I've met nobody at all connected with your organization except Temple Norman and yourself. I doubt if you're the traitor, Mr. Roget. It doesn't make sense. But somebody leaked everything you told me, including our little sys-tern of passwords. There's nobody to do the leaking, except one of us."

His eyes turned to Temple Norman again. "It's not as implausible as all that. Inheritance taxes, capital gains taxes, corporation taxes and all the rest of it have been whittling away at the old great fortunes but they still exist. You may be strange bedfellows but both you and Miss Anastasis are not interested in the further growth of the Meritocracy and the cosmocorps."

He went back to Roget. "I suggest that you get yourself a new assistant, Mr. Roget."

The super-magnate turned to his secretary-assistant. "That will be all, Temple. I shall look further into this later."

"But, sir!"

"Get out!"

The other got.

Rex Bader stood erect. "I'll be getting along, too."

"No."

Rex looked down at him. "The job's done."

Francis W. Roget shook his head. "The story hasn't ended, my dear Bader. Just the first chapter. I have another assignment for you."

"Oh, no."