He returned to the bleak lobby. The little dark man sat as before. Waylock said, “I’ve just killed Carleon.”

  The dark man showed no particular interest.

  “Carleon wanted to cross the river,” said Waylock. “He arranged with the assassins for a pardon.”

  The dark man flashed his luminous eyes across the table at Waylock. Waylock said, “I need a hundred men, Rubel. I have a great project in mind and I need help. I will pay five hundred florins for a night’s work.”

  Rubel nodded solemnly. “Is there danger?”

  “Some.”

  “The money in advance?”

  “Half in advance.”

  “Do you possess this money?”

  “Yes, Rubel.” The Grayven Warlock, publisher of the Clarges Direction, had been a wealthy man. “You shall act as paymaster.”

  “When do you want these men?”

  “I will let you know four hours in advance. They must be strong, quick, intelligent; they must be able to avoid common death traps. They must follow instructions exactly.”

  Rubel said, “I doubt if there are a hundred such in all Carnevalle.”

  “Then find women. They will suit just as well, and perhaps better, in certain cases.”

  Rubel nodded.

  “One last caution. The assassins generally work through you, Rubel. You are their agent.”

  Rubel made a smiling dissent which Waylock ignored.

  “Therefore you know the lesser informers. There must be absolutely no leaks. You will be held responsible. Do you understand?”

  “Fully,” said Rubel.

  “Good. When next I see you I will bring money.”

  A little screen box buzzed; Rubel, with a cautious look at Waylock, answered. A voice spoke in Carnevalle cant, unintelligible to the plain citizen.

  Rubel turned to Waylock. “The assassins want Carleon.”

  “Tell them that Carleon is dead.”

  3

  The news was relayed to Jarvis; he reacted decisively. “Send the Special Squad to Carnevalle, every man. Their orders are to find Gavin Waylock and take him.”

  Two hours passed, and the reports began trickling back.

  “He’s slipped us by.” Jarvis sat back in his chair, gazed across the black roofs of Garstang. “Well, we’ll find him…A pity we can’t use televection… They tie our hands!” He swung around, volleyed a barrage of orders.

  Chapter XVIII

  1

  T

  he Amaranth Society had convened to its two hundred and twenty-ninth conclave. Each member sat in a chamber of his home, facing a curved wall, formed of ten thousand facets. Each facet showed the face of an Amaranth and his vote-indicator—a tiny bulb which could glow the red of vigorous dissent, the orange of disapproval, the yellow of neutrality, the green of approval, or the blue of vehement approbation.

  At the center of the mosaic a tabulator integrated the votes and displayed the color of the group decision. Any member addressing the Society was depicted on a large central screen.

  Tonight, ninety-two per cent of the Society was in attendance.

  After the traditional opening ceremonies, The Roland Zygmont preempted the speaker’s screen.

  “I will waste no time on introductory flourishes. We meet tonight to discuss a matter which everyone has pretended not to notice: the violent distemporization of one Amaranth by another.

  “We have ignored this matter because we deemed it shameful and not too serious: after all, why else are surrogates empathized?

  “Now we must strike out boldly for our principles. The quenching of life is a fundamental evil; we must react savagely against any transgressor among us.

  “You wonder why the topic arises now. The basic reason is the continuing and steady series of distemporizations across the years, the latest victim being The Anastasia de Fancourt. Her assailant ended his own life; neither the new Anastasia nor the new Abel have yet returned to us.

  “There is one case, however, which exemplifies the evil which can come from disregard for another’s life. The protagonist of the case is one Gavin Waylock, known to many of us as The Grayven Warlock.”

  From the mosaic came a quick hum of interest.

  “I yield now to The Jacynth Martin who has made a study of the case.”

  The face of The Jacynth appeared on the central screen. Her eyes were wide and brilliant; she appeared overdrawn and tense.

  “The case of Gavin Waylock defines the entire issue which faces us. Or perhaps I do him an injustice—because Gavin Waylock is a man unique!

  “Let me list the violent devitalizations for which Gavin Waylock is directly responsible: The Abel Mandeville; myself, The Jacynth Martin. Speculatively, Seth Caddigan, Rolf Aversham. Only yesterday, the Berber Carleon. These are the events known to us. Doubtless there have been others. Evil follows Waylock.

  “Why is this? Is it accidental? Is Waylock an innocent instrument of doom? Or is Waylock possessed of so massive an arrogance that he destroys to gain his selfish ends?”

  Her voice had risen, her words were uttered at a staccato pace. She was breathing heavily.

  “I have studied Gavin Waylock. He is no innocent instrument of doom. He is a Monster. His morals are those of the Jurassic swamp; they give him a remorseless power, which is directed against the people of Clarges. He is a physical threat to each of us!”

  From the mosaic came a rustle, a buzz. A voice cried, “How so?” echoed by another voice and another: “How so? How so?”

  The Jacynth responded: “Gavin Waylock ignores our laws. He breaks them whenever he feels so inclined. Success is contagious. He will be joined by others. Like a virus molecule, he will contaminate our entire community.”

  The mosaic hummed and whispered.

  “Gavin Waylock’s goal is Amaranth. He is candid on the subject.” She leaned back, looked around the mosaic, scanning the thousands of minute faces. “If we felt so inclined, we could ignore the law of Clarges, and give him what he wants.” She asked in a quiet voice, “What is your will on this?”

  A dull sound like spent surf came from the speaker. Hands reached for the optators, the mosaic twinkled with color: a blue here and there, a few more greens, a sprinkle of yellows, a great wash of orange and red. The panel of the tabulating register glowed vermillion.

  The Jacynth held up her hand. “But if we don’t surrender, I warn you, we must fight this man. We must not only discourage and subdue him; this will not be enough. We must—” she leaned forward and spoke with concentrated brutality “—We must extinguish him!”

  There was no sound from the mosaic; each facet hung like a painted tile.

  “Some of you are shocked and uncomfortable,” said The Jacynth, “but you must adjust yourselves to a harsh undertaking. We must destroy this man for the predator that he is.”

  She sat back; The Roland Zygmont, chairman of the Society, assumed the control plate. He spoke in a subdued voice. “The Jacynth has illuminated a specific aspect of the general problem. Beyond question Grayven Warlock is a clever rogue; he seems to have outwitted the assassins and laid low for seven years, then registered in Brood as his own relict, with the intent of making the climb once more to Amaranth.”

  A faint voice cried out, “And where is the wrong in this?”

  The Roland ignored the question. “However in this larger matter—”

  The Jacynth reappeared on the panel. Her eyes roved up and down among ten thousand faces. “Who spoke?”

  “I spoke.”

  “And who are you?”

  “I am Gavin Waylock—or The Grayven Warlock, if you prefer. I serve as Vice-Chancellor of the Prytanean.”

  Across the great mosaic, faces shifted and moved as eyes scanned the ten thousand facets.

  “Let me speak further. Chairman, give me the floor please—”

  “I yield,” said The Jacynth.

  Waylock’s face appeared on the central screen. Ten thousand pairs of eyes studied the stern face.

  “Seven years ago,” said Waylock, “I was relinquished to the assassins and convicted of a crime of which I was only technically guilty. By good fortune I am here today to protest. I petition this conclave to rescind the order of arrest, to acknowledge the mistake, and declare me once more a member of the Society in good standing.”

  The Roland Zygmont spoke in a voice burdened with perturbation. “The conclave is at liberty to vote on your petition.”

  “You are a Monster!” came an angry voice. “We will never submit!”

  Waylock said in a steady voice, “I request your vote of acceptance.”

  The tabulator plate burnt ember red.

  “You have defeated the proposal,” said Waylock. “May I inquire—Chairman Zygmont, I call on you—why I have been denied?”

  “I can only guess at the Society’s motives,” muttered The Roland. “Apparently we feel that your methods are reprehensible. You have been accused of irregularity, if not crime. We are annoyed by your aggressive approach. We do not find you qualified by character or achievement for membership in the Amaranth Society.”

  “But,” said Waylock mildly, “my character is irrelevant, as it is with any Amaranth. I am The Grayven Warlock, and I claim recognition.”

  The Roland yielded to The Jacynth Martin. “You are registered at the Actuarian as Gavin Waylock, are you not?”

  “That is true. It was a matter of convenience, a—”

  “Then this is your legal identity. By your own recognition, The Grayven is extinct. You are Gavin Waylock, Brood.”

  “I registered as Gavin Waylock, relict to The Grayven. This is a matter of record. However I am the identity of Grayven, and hence entitled to the same perquisites as if I were The Grayven himself. It is all one.”

  The Jacynth laughed. “I will allow The Roland to respond; he is the arbiter on such matters.”

  The Roland said shortly, “I deny the assertion of Mr. Gavin Waylock. The Grayven was Amaranth for only two years at the time of his trouble. He could not conceivably have brought surrogates to a state of full empathy.”

  “This is the case, however,” said Waylock. “You may challenge me on any aspect of The Grayven’s past; you will discover an unbroken continuity. You have acknowledged me Warlock’s surrogate; I therefore petition for recognition as the new Grayven Warlock.”

  The Roland said uneasily, “I cannot receive your petition. You may be The Grayven’s relict, but you cannot possibly be his identity, his surrogate.”

  The argument had resolved to interchange between these two, and their faces shared the screen.

  “But,” asked Waylock, “is this not your doctrine in regard to surrogates? Is not each of your surrogates the identity of you?”

  “Each surrogate is an individual, until he is invested with the legal identity of the proto-Amaranth, whence he becomes the Amaranth.”

  Waylock for a moment had nothing to say. To the mosaic of faces, he appeared countered and thwarted.

  “Then the surrogates are distinct individuals?”

  “In effect, yes,” responded The Roland.

  Waylock asked the Society. “All of you agree?”

  The tabulator shone bright blue.

  “It occurs to me,” said Waylock thoughtfully, “that in making this affirmation you admit to a vast and cynical felony.”

  There was silence across the mosaic.

  Waylock continued in a stronger voice. “As you know, I am invested with certain duties. They are latent, but nonetheless real. In the absence of the Chancellor, I, as Vice-Chancellor, at least tentatively hold the Amaranth Society in violation of basic law.”

  The Roland Zygmont frowned. “What nonsense is this?”

  “You maintain adult individuals in captivity, do you not? It is therefore my executive order that you desist from this violation. You must liberate these individuals at once, or suffer an appropriate penalty.”

  The mutter of indignation swelled to a roar. The chairman’s voice shook. “You are mad.”

  There was little light in the chamber from which Waylock spoke; his face showed on the screen like a dark stone mask.

  “It is by your own admission that you are incriminated. You must choose. The surrogates are either individuals, or they are identities of the proto-Amaranth.”

  The chairman averted his eyes. “I will gladly allow others of the Society to comment on these witless remarks. The Sexton Van Ek?”

  “The remarks, as you say, are witless,” said The Sexton Van Ek after a moment’s hesitation. “Worse, they are insulting.”

  “To be sure,” sighed the chairman. “The Jacynth Martin?” There was no response. The Jacynth’s square of mosaic was vacant.

  “The Grandon Plantagenet?”

  “I echo the words of The Sexton Van Ek. This criminal’s words are only to be ignored.”

  “He is no criminal until he is so adjudged,” sighed The Roland.

  “Just what is he after?” The Marcus Carson-See demanded peevishly. “Frankly, I am confused.”

  Waylock answered, “Bluntly, endorse me Amaranth, or liberate your own surrogates.”

  There was silence, then a few faint laughs.

  The Roland said, “You know we will never turn out our surrogates. The idea is fantastic!”

  “Then you recognize my right to be endorsed into the Society?”

  The tabulator glowed first orange, then red. “No!” cried voices.

  Waylock stood back, suddenly haggard. “You are beyond reason.”

  “We will not be hectored by you!” “We will not submit to extortion!” came faint calls.

  “I warn you: I am not helpless. I have been victimized once, I have spent years in misery.”

  “How have we victimized you?” demanded the chairman. “We are not guilty of The Grayven Warlock’s crimes.”

  “You dealt him the harshest possible penalty for a nominal offense—one of which hundreds of you have committed. The Abel Mandeville extinguished two souls—but he survives unscathed in his surrogates.”

  “I can only say,” remarked The Roland, “that The Grayven should have guarded himself until his surrogates were ready.”

  “I will not be turned aside,” cried Waylock in a passionate voice. “I insist on my due. If you deny me, I will act with the same ruthlessness that you have shown me.”

  The faces of the mosaic quivered in surprise. The Roland said in a half-conciliatory tone, “If you like, we will review your case, although I doubt—”

  “No! I will use my power now—either in forbearance, or in retaliation. The choice is yours.”

  “What power is this? What can you do?”

  “I can liberate your surrogates.” Waylock looked across the mosaic with a harsh smile. “In fact, they are being liberated at this moment, for I anticipated your stubbornness. And there will be no stopping until you allow me my rights—or until every surrogate of every Amaranth is free.”