How had he gotten into such a predicament? He smiled bitterly. Not that he’d had a choice. He’d bowed to power. Refusing would have been tantamount to cutting his own throat. Still, he hadn’t contemplated that the whole affair could blow up in his face. He could wind up practicing medicine on Pluto. The thought was frightening. He wondered again if he should flee.

  The chimes sounded. “Come in,” he called hopefully. Kelsey entered, his face white under the soft glow of the zen tubes.

  “He’s gone,” he exclaimed hoarsely.

  “How long was he alone?” snapped Sundberg. He spoke louder than he should, attempting to override his own fears through the exertion of authority. Kelsey shifted uneasily. He’d been under strict orders never to leave the patient’s side except when the nurse was present. “Well?” demanded Sundberg.

  “I just stepped out for coffee,” he protested.

  ‘For how long?”

  “Not more than a minute.”

  “Put out your hand.” Sundberg reached for an electrode, snapped it on the attendant’s finger, and asked, “What do you know about Seventeen-L’s disappearance?”

  “Nothing,” Kelsey answered flatly.

  Sundberg watched a needle dance on a dial face before it settled down, then yanked off the electrode. “Send in Nurse Caldwell,” he snapped.

  Ten minutes later, after all the members of his staff had successfully passed the lie detector test, he leaned back and shut his eyes. Good Lord, the man had been a teleport! Could the brain surgery have unleashed some latent talent? Inconceivable as it seemed, he could find no other answer. He swore softly. Less than a score of teleports in the entire system, now 17L was one of them!

  “Damn Wehl,” he gritted. What could he do? The premier would have his neck. Not officially, perhaps, but unofficially; that sort of thing happened often enough. But could the premier afford revenge? The question stirred his hope. Not if he were dying. Not with Franckel waiting in the wings to seize power! Despite the old man’s condition, the premier urgently needed him. He had to produce the missing patient, and quickly. If he didn’t, and the premier died …

  He forced himself to think of the consequences. The empire would be up for grabs. Franckel, Montre, Gullen— all three were hungrily eyeing the Big Power Seat. Of the three, Franckel was strongest. Still, the struggle could tear the empire to shreds.

  He slowly folded and unfolded his hands while considering possible courses of action. He could attempt to find his missing patient; he could hide; he could tell the premier the truth—that the man had teleported. Would that story be believed? Scarcely!

  Hide. The word came back. Could he hide from Jing Lee Horn? Hom was a bloodhound. But if he could hide? In that event, when the premier died, his successor undoubtedly would have but scant interest in investigating the reasons why he’d failed to produce Wehl. More likely that person—Franckel?—would prove extremely grateful.

  But he couldn’t hide! He knew that with finality. Jing Lee Hom would find him if he had to tear apart every atom in the universe. He’d find him and send him to Pluto. Hiding was out. So then what? He nervously considered it.

  Felix Quigg. He let the name unfold in his mind. Quigg was far and away the best private intelligence operator in the business. Unscrupulous, yes, but good. And expensive. Quigg didn’t come cheap. Big Fees Bring Big Results— that was Quigg’s motto. Lord knows he’d seen it on the triscreen often enough. But the man could produce, a rare thing in a world of nonproducers.

  If he could get Quigg! The thought that perhaps he couldn’t dismayed him. Quigg had the reputation of being extremely selective. Could he appeal to Quigg’s patriotism? No, that was out; Quigg didn’t concern himself with that kind of foolishness. A big fee—that was the only talking point he had. He had to shake the money tree, shake it hard. Quigg liked to hear the golden apples drop.

  He lifted the laser phone and got through to the nurse. “Get me Felix Quigg,” he instructed. “If you have any difficulty, tell him it concerns the Big Power Seat.” He broke the connection with savage satisfaction. That should bring Quigg running.

  The phone tinkled to life in amazingly short time. He pressed a button and watched a small screen flare to life. The raucous sound of Martian nose flutes leaped from the instrument, and the green and orange sign that filled the screen read:

  FELIX QUIGG & ASSOCIATES

  WE COVER THE EMPIRE

  NO JOB UNDER 50,000 CPU

  Fifty thousand charge plate units! Sundberg winced, waiting impatiently. When the commercial ended, Felix Quigg’s suave, polished face replaced the sign. Sundberg barked, “Quigg, I need you right away.”

  “Sorry, Sundberg, I’m booked for months three.”

  “This is a matter of empire security, Quigg.”

  “There’s bo security except what you buy.”

  “I’m shaking the money tree,” he exclaimed hoarsely. “That bad, eh? State the terms.”

  “Seventy-five thousand cpu.”

  “Seventy-five thousand charge plate units?” Quigg laughed nastily. “Why did you bother to call?”

  “One hundred thousand cpu for successful performance,” he shot back.

  “I don’t like the qualification,” Quigg countered.

  “One hundred thousand fixed fee plus fifty percent for successful performance, Quigg. That’s all I can crop.”

  “The advance?”

  “Fifty thousand to your charge plate. I’ll initiate it immediately.”

  “Who’s your guarantor?”

  Sundberg hesitated. “Craxton Wehl,” he said finally. “That’s not the Big Power Seat, Sundberg. An expremier’s like an ex-mistress — nothing but a damned nuisance.”

  Sundberg dropped his voice. “Premier Rayburn is involved.”

  “As guarantor?”

  “Of course.” He groped with his thoughts. “But he can’t afford to be directly involved. You understand that.”

  “I’ll buy. What performance is required?”

  “A missing person. I need him back here in a hurry.” “Name?”

  “Craxton Wehl.”

  TWO

  Dark, sharp-featured, with quick-moving black eyes, Felix Quigg was considered by many to be the top private intelligence operator in the empire. Reputedly a man who would do anything for money, many whispered he often had. He listened intently as Sundberg related his troubles.

  When the medic finished, Quigg asked, “So Wehl vanished, eh?”

  “Like that.” Sundberg snapped his fingers.

  “Connivance.”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “We’ll get to that” Quigg smiled frostily. “Let’s discuss the angles.”

  “Angles?”

  “You hired me to do a job,” Quigg snapped. “Don’t stall. Why did Wehl come to you as a patient?”

  ‘That’s a professional confidence, Quigg.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “He was in failing health,” Sundberg said reluctantly. He leaned with his elbows on the desk and formed a steeple with his fingers while wondering how much he could divulge safely. “He was afraid he didn’t have long to live.”

  “Why would he come here to die?”

  “The Sky Haven Clinic is the House of Hope, Quigg. That’s our motto.”

  “Don’t try to klotch me. Why did he come here?”

  “Well, confidentially …”

  “Come off it, Sundberg.”

  The medic flushed and said, “He had a nervous breakdown.”

  “What symptoms? Be specific.”

  “He was paranoiac, believed everyone was out to assassinate him.”

  “Small wonder.”

  “He also realized the precarious condition of his health. That’s what prompted him to step down, pass the power to Rayburn.”

  “That doesn’t ring true, Sundberg. I wondered about it at the time.”

  “Why doesn’t it?” he asked defiantly.

  “Wehl was power-mad if ever a man was. He could have appointed Rayburn to the Big Power Seat effective at time of his own death. That was the more logical course.”

  “His daughter persuaded him.”

  “Madelyn?” Quigg snickered. “She’s as power-mad as he is.”

  “I’m Wehl’s physician, remember? He confided in me.

  Paranoid delusions, Quigg. He feared that if he appointed Rayburn on those terms, Rayburn might hasten the process.”

  “Did he actually state that?”

  “Absolutely. He believed that by passing the power, he could buy time, at least die in peace. He was focusing the heat on Rayburn.”

  “You’re holding out, Sundberg.”

  “It’s the truth,” be cried.

  “Shaking the money tree to the tune of one hundred thousand plus fifty percent for successful performance to get back a man who’s practically dead? There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  Sundberg stared indecisively at him. “Rayburn’s dying,” he finally admitted.

  Quigg’s head snapped up. ‘The premier’s dying?” “Europa fever.”

  “Your story stinks.”

  “Why?” he demanded.

  “Rayburn’s big and young and tough. He was splashed on every triscreen in the system when he arrived here from Europa. That’s the main thing they played up—his youth, his vigor. Now you’re trying to tell me he’s dying. You’re trying to klotch me, Sundberg.”

  “It’s the truth,” he cried hoarsely.

  “Then someone’s trying to klotch you.”

  “I’m a medic, Quigg, I know. He’s got Europa fever. He showed the first symptoms a few days after taking over the Big Power Seat”

  Quigg shook his head. ‘Too coincidental.”

  “You’re an expert on Europa fever?”

  “I’m an expert on coincidences. I wouldn’t put my charge plate on that one. It spells klotch: K-L-O-T-C-H.” “Wrong.” Sundberg struggled to regain his composure. “They brought him here in secrecy and I gave him the works. Not that he didn’t already know what he had. That stuff’s been killing them off on Europa ever since they colonized that berg. It’s Europa fever, all right, and there’s no known cure. Rayburn has perhaps two weeks to go, three at most. I’d stake my reputation on that.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “Oh, it shook him, but it didn’t shake his thought processes. He realized immediately that he either had to return the empire to Wehl to prevent, ah, one of the governors from seizing power, or to prevail on Wehl to recommend another successor.”

  “Why didn’t he ask Wehl when he came up for the check? Wehl was here; you said so yourself.”

  “It wasn’t that simple.”

  “Why not?”

  “Secret of State, Quigg.”

  “The lid’s off,” Quigg snapped. “I need the facts.”

  “My God, Quigg, that information is classified at the Q level!”

  “There’s no such thing as secrecy, Sundberg. Secrecy ended the day they invented the whisper. So out with it.”

  “I’d performed surgery to remove a small tumor from Wehl’s brain,” Sunberg admitted. “I couldn’t get it with sonics; I had to go in with the knife. I feel certain that the tumor was the reason for his delusions. At any rate, the surgery left him with a temporary loss of memory.” “Amnesia?” asked Quigg sharply.

  “A temporary condition, I’m positive.”

  “How temporary?”

  ‘That’s difficult to say, but I’m certain I can clear it up with a bit of treatment.” Sundberg shifted uneasily. “I can’t afford even a whisper of that to get out, Quigg.” “Surgery on an ex-premier? What’s so hot about that?” “If it became known that he wasn’t, ah, competent, the knowledge might be used to prevent Rayburn from returning the power to him, or to negate any recommendation Wehl might make. Can’t you see what Franckel or one of the other governors might do with a thing like that? It fits under the competency laws,” Sundberg declared. “They’d take it to the High Court.”

  “The High Court,” Quigg sneered. “The premier is the High Court, Sundberg, and you know it. Those other jokers are window dressing.”

  “In normal times, yes, but these aren’t normal times, Quigg.”

  “So if Rayburn dies without passing the power?”

  “You know the answer.” Sundberg gestured helplessly. “Franckel of Eurasia, Montre of the Americas, Gullen of Mars—they’d tear apart the empire in their battle for power.”

  “Wehl wouldn’t give a damn.” Quigg shook his head.

  “He’s too self-centered to care about what happens after he’s gone.”

  “Wrong!” Sundberg’s eyes glinted triumphantly. “You don’t understand the ego, Quigg. Wehl’s ego is enormous. If you doubt that, ask yourself why a thousand parks bear his name, ten thousand avenues. How many thousands of statues of him has the government manufactured for free distribution to the schools? That’s the size of his ego. He’d grab back the power in a second if it were to protect his image in history.”

  “I doubt it. He’s the kind who believes history will end with his passing.”

  “Our problem is Rayburn,” Sundberg said crossly. “He wants him back—wants to return the power. He has a social conscience.”

  “Those colonists usually have.” Quigg studied him. “Where does Madelyn Wehl stand in all this?”

  “Well …”

  “What’s her stake?”

  “None to speak of.”

  “Cerebrate, Sundberg.”

  “Well, if Wehl came back into power, her balloon would be up again, of course. But that would last only for as long as it took him to appoint another successor. That’s not much of a stake.”

  “Did she oppose his stepping down?”

  “She encouraged it. I told you that.”

  “Did she approve her father’s choice?”

  “Of his successor? Loud and clear.”

  “How does Rayburn feel about her?”

  “They jibe, Quigg. Why shouldn’t they? Rayburn owes his power to her father.”

  “That doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “The Congress of Governors gave Madelyn the Wehl House in perpetuity, plus upkeep, maintenance, and a fat yearly retainer,” Sundberg explained. “Of course Wehl engineered the deal, but Rayburn went along with it. That certainly reflects his regard.”

  “It doesn’t figure.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “Wehl’s selection; that’s what I’m getting at. Rayburn was a Mr. Nobody, a dome-dweller from Europa, a hick from Methanville. Something hasn’t surfaced, Sundberg. How did Wehl happen to choose him?”

  “Politics, I suppose.”

  “Don’t try to klotch me!”

  “The selection was designed to keep peace with the OutSats, Quigg. Those dome-dwellers have been pretty damned perturbed over the kind of governors we keep shoving down their throats. Also, it was designed to prevent Franckel, Montre, and Gullen from waging a power battle. By naming Rayburn, he pulled,their fangs.”

  “Did he? The law states the premier has to be Earth-born, Sundberg. Franckel’s not convinced that Rayburn meets that requirement He publicly challenged that point.”

  “After Rayburn’s birth certificate was stolen from the public records,” answered Sundberg testily. “His family copy proved that he was born right here in Los Angeles.”

  “A copy.” Quigg sniffed.

  “Wehl was satisfied.”

  “He pushed Rayburn down a lot of throats, Sundberg.” “What has all this to do with finding Wehl?” he snapped.

  “I need the facts, the background. I’m still not satisfied with the reasons for Rayburn’s selection.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Did Rayburn wield that kind of power? I never heard of him until Wehl uncorked him as the heir.”

  “He pulled weight out among the gas giants, Quigg.” “Enough to give him the Big Power Seat?” Quigg shook his head. “Something smells, Sundberg. And if the situation is as you say, and Wehl’s at the end of the line, what’s so important about getting him back? Why can’t Rayburn make his own selection?”

  “You’re not with it,” Sundberg shot back irritably. “Wehl’s better fitted to make the selection. He knows the power lines, Quigg. Rayburn realizes that. He’s held power less than two weeks. Would you expect him to pass on a decision that big? He needs Wehl and needs him badly. The empire needs him, Quigg.”

  “Another good Samaritan concerned with the common cause, eh?”

  “They’re not all bastards, Quigg.”

  “Most are. If the situation is as you say, why doesn’t he take his guidance from Madelyn? She certainly knows the power structure.”

  Sundberg said uncomfortably, “I understand he’s acting on her advice. I’ve given it to you straight, Quigg.”

  “All but one thing.”

  “What’s that?” asked Sundberg guardedly.

  “How did Wehl escape from this trap.. Don’t tell me he was kidnaped.”

  “He teleported.”

  “Sundberg!”

  “So help me, it’s the truth.”

  “Wehl a teleport? Never!” Quigg shook his head. “There’s not a score of those birds in the system, Sundberg. What are you trying to cover? Did he die in surgery?”

  “Certainly not,” he snapped indignantly.

  “People have been buried in space before, Sundberg.” “Not my patients. I’m a psychosurgeon, Quigg, not a butcher.”

  “Then how did he get away?”

  “I told you, he teleported.”

  Quigg smiled nastily. “After seventy-some years he turns out to be a teleport, is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  “The surgery caused it,” Sundberg returned hotly. “The talent must have been latent—was freed when I went into the cortex. Perhaps new neural pathways were formed.”

  “How far can a teleport jump?” Quigg demanded. “The record is somewhat under five miles. Your perigee here is nearly two hundred. How do you explain that?”