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Presteign sat bolt upright at this. His merciless fingers tapped
slowly and sharply.
"Damn it," Y'ang-Yeovil stormed. "Can't you recognize a crisis,
Sheffield? We're on a tightrope. What the devil are you doing backing
Presteign in this shabby deal? You're the leader of the Liberal party . .
. Terra's arch patriot. You're Presteign's political archenemy. Sell him
out, you fool, before he sells us all out."
"Captain Yeovil," Presteign broke in with icy venom. "These
expressions cannot be countenanced."
"We want and need PyrE," Y'ang-Yeovil continued. "We'll have
to investigate that twenty pounds of PyrE, rediscover the synthesis,
learn to apply it to the war effort . . . and all this before the O.S. beats
us to the punch, if they haven't already. But Presteign refuses to co-
operate. Why? Because he's opposed to the party in power. He wants
no military victories for the Liberals. He'd rather we lost the war for
the sake of politics because rich men like Presteign never lose. Come
to your senses, Sheffield. You've been retained by a traitor. What in
God's name are you trying to do?"
Before Sheffield could answer, there was a discreet tap on the
door of the Star Chamber and Saul Dagenham was ushered in. Time
was when Dagenham was one of the Inner Planets' research wizards,
a physicist with inspired intuition, total recall, and a sixth-order
computer for a brain. But there was an accident at Tycho Sands, and
the fission blast that should have killed him did not. Instead it turned
him dangerously radioactive; it turned
him "hot"; it transformed him into a twenty-fourth century
"Typhoid Mary." He was paid ~r 25,000 a year by the Inner planets
government to take
precautions which they trusted him to carry out. He avoided
physical contact with any person for more than five minutes per day.
He could not occupy any room other than his own for more than
thirty minutes a day. Commanded and paid by the IP to isolate
himself, Dagenham had abandoned research and built the colossus of
Dagenham Couriers, Inc.
When Y'ang-Yeovil saw the short blond cadaver with leaden
skin and death's-head smile enter the Star Chamber, he knew he was
assured of defeat in this encounter. He was no match for the three
men together. He arose at once.
"I'm getting an Admiralty order for Foyle," he said. "As far as
Intelligence is concerned, all negotiations are ended. From now on it's
war."
"Captain Yeovil is leaving," Presteign called to the Jaunte-
Watch officer who had guided Dagenham in. "Please see him out
through the maze."
Y'ang-Yeovil waited until the officer stepped alongside him and
bowed. Then, as the man courteously motioned to the door, Y'ang-
Yeovil looked directly at Presteign, smiled ironically, and disappeared
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with a faint Pop!
"Presteign!" Bunny exclaimed. "He jaunted. This room isn't
blind to him. He-"
"Evidently," Presteign said icily. "Inform the Master of the
Household," he instructed the amazed Watch officer. "The
coordinates of the Star Chamber are no longer secret. They must be
changed within twenty-four hours. And now, Mr. Dagenham. -
"One minute," Dagenham said. "There's that Admiralty order."
Without apology or explanation he disappeared too. Presteign
raised his eyebrows. "Another party to the Star Chamber secret," he
murmured. "But at least he had the tact to conceal his knowledge
until the secret was out."
Dagenham reappeared. "No point wasting time going through
the motions of the maze," he said. "I've given orders in Washington.
They'll hold Yeovil up; two hours guaranteed, three hours probably,
four hours possible."
"How will they hold him up?" Bunny asked.
Dagenham gave him his deadly smile. "Standard FFCC
Operation of Dagenham Couriers. Fun, fantasy, confusion,
catastrophe. . . - We'll need all four hours. Damn! I've disrupted your
dolls, Presteign." The robots were suddenly capering in lunatic
fashion as Dagenham's hard radiation penetrated their electronic
systems. "No matter, I'll be on my way."
"Foyle?" Presteign asked.
"Nothing yet." Dagenham grinned his death's-head smile. "He's
really unique. I've tried all the standard drugs and routines on him . . .
Nothing. Outside, he's just an ordinary spaceman . . . if you forget the
tattoo on his face. . . but inside he's got steel guts. Something's got
hold of him and he
Won't give."
"What's got hold of him?" Sheffield asked.
"I hope to find out."
"How?"
"Don't ask; you'd be an accessory. Have you got a ship ready,
Presteign?"
Presteign nodded.
"I'm not guaranteeing there'll be any 'Nomad' for us to find, but
we'll have to get a jump on the navy if there is. Law ready, Sheffield?"
"Ready. I'm hoping we won't have to use it."
"I'm hoping too; but again, I'm not guaranteeing. All right.
Stand by for instructions. I'm on my way to crack Foyle."
"Where have you got him?"
Dagenham shook his head. "This room isn't secure." He
disappeared.
He jaunted Cincinnati-New Orleans-Monterey to Mexico City,
where he appeared in the Psychiatry Wing of the giant hospital of the
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Combined Terran Universities. Wing was hardly an adequate name
for this section which occupied an entire city in the metropolis which
was the hospital. Dagenham jaunted up to the 43rd floor of the
Therapy Division and looked into the isolated tank where Foyle
floated, unconscious. He glanced at the distinguished bearded
gentlemen in attendance.
"Hello, Fritz."
"Hello, Saul."
"Hell of a thing, the Head of Psychiatry minding a patient for
me."
"I think we owe you favors, Saul."
"You still brooding about Tycho Sands, Fritz? I'm not. Am I
lousing your wing with radiation?"
"I've had everything shielded."
"Ready for the dirty work?"
"I wish I knew what you were after."
"Information."
"And you have to turn my therapy department into an
inquisition to get it?"
"That was the idea." -
"Why not use ordinary drugs?"
"Tried them already. No good. He's not an ordinary man."
"You know this is illegal."
"I know. Changed your mind? Want to back out? I can duplicate
your equipment for a quarter of a million."
"No, Saul. We'll always owe you favors."
"Then let's go. Nightmare Theater first."
They trundled the tank down a corridor and into a hundred feet
square padded room. It was one of therapy's by-passed experiments.
Nightmare Theater had been an early attempt to shock schizophrenics
back into the objective world by rendering the phantasy world into
which they were withdrawing uninhabitable. But the shattering and
laceration of patients' emotions had proved to be too cruel and
dubious a treatment.
For Dagenham's sake, the head of Psychiatry had dusted off the
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