Chessman thought about that. He looked to Barry Watson again.
Watson said, “The whole Texcocan State is about to topple. Not only do we have to give them immediate reform, but we’re going to have to blame the past hardships and mistakes on somebody. Somebody has to take the rap, be thrown to the wolves. If not, maybe we’ll all wind up taking the blame.”
“Ah,” Chessman said. His red-rimmed eyes went around them again, thoughtfully. “We should be able to dig up a few local chieftains and some of the Security Police heads.”
They shook their heads. “It has to be somebody big,” Natt Roberts said thickly, “a few of my Security Police won’t do it.”
Joe Chessman’s eyes went to Reif. “The Khan is the highest ranking Texcocan of all,” he said, finally. “The Khan and some Security Police heads would satisfy them.”
Reif’s face was as frigid as the Earthman’s. He said, “I am afraid not, Joseph Chessman. You are Number One. It is your statue that is in every commune square. It is your portrait that hangs in every distribution center, every messhall, every schoolroom. You are the Number One—as you have so often pointed out to us. My title has become meaningless.”
Joe Chessman spat out a curse, fumbled the gun into his hand and fired before the Tulan soldiers could get to him. In a moment they had wrested the weapon from his hand and had his arms pinioned. It was too late.
Reif had been thrown backward two paces by the blast of the heavy-calibered gun. Now he held a palm over his belly and staggered to a chair. He collapsed into it, looked at his son, let a wash of amusement pass over his face, said, “Khan,” meaninglessly, and died.
Natt Roberts shrilled at Chessman, “You fool, we were going to give you a big, theatrical trial. Sentence you to prison and then, later, claim you’d died in your cell and smuggle you out to the Pedagogue.”
Watson snapped to the guards, “Take him outside and shoot him.”
The Tulans began dragging the snarling, cursing Chessman to the door.
Taller said, “A moment, please.”
Watson, Roberts and Hawkins looked to him.
Taller said, “This perhaps can be done more effectively.”
His voice was completely emotionless. “This man has killed both my father and grandfather, both of them Khans of Tula, heads of the most powerful city on all Texcoco, before the coming of you Earthlings.”
The guards hesitated. Watson detained them with a motion of his hand.
Taller said, “I suggest you turn him over to me, to be dealt with in the traditional way of the People.”
“No,” Chessman said hoarsely. “Barry, Dick, Natt, send me back to the Pedagogue. I’ll be out of things there. Or maybe Mayer can use me on Genoa.”
They didn’t bother to look in his direction. Roberts muttered savagely, “We told you all that was needed was a spark. Now you’ve killed the Khan, the most popular man on Texcoco. There’s no way of saving you.”
Taller said, “None of you have studied our traditions, our customs. But now, perhaps, you will understand the added effect of my taking charge. It will be a more…profitable manner of using the downfall of this…this power mad murderer.”
Chessman said desperately, “Look, Barry, Natt, if you have to, shoot me. At least give me a man’s death. Remember those human sacrifices the Tulans had when we first arrived? Can you imagine what went on in those temples? Barry, Dick—for old time’s sake, boys …”
Barry Watson said to Taller, “He’s yours. If this doesn’t take the pressure off us, nothing will.”
X.
At the end of the third decade, the Texcocan delegation was already seated in the Pedagogue’s lounge when Jerome Kennedy, Martin Gunther, Peter MacDonald, Fredric Buchwald and three Genoese, Baron Leonar and the Honorables Russ and Modrin appeared.
The Texcocan group consisted of Barry Watson, Dick Hawkins and Natt Roberts to one side of him, Generalissimo Taller and six highly bemedaled Texcocans on the other.
Before taking a seat Barry Watson barked, “Where’s Amschel Mayer? I’ve got some important points to cover with him.”
“Take it easy,” Kennedy slurred. “For that matter, where’s Joe Chessman?”
Watson glared at the other. “You know where he is.”
“That I do,” Kennedy said. “He’s purged, to use a term of yesteryear. At the rate you laddy-bucks are going, there won’t be anything left of you by the time our half century is up.” He snapped his fingers and a Genoese servant who’d been inconspicuously in the background, hurried to his side. “Let’s have some refreshments here. What’ll everybody have?”
“You act as though you’ve had enough already,” Watson bit out.
Kennedy ignored him, insisted on everyone being served before he allowed the conversation to turn serious. Then he said, slyly, “I see we’ve been successful in apprehending all of your agents, or you’d know more of our affairs.”
“Not all our agents,” Watson barked. “Only those on your southern continent. What happened to Amschel Mayer?”
Peter MacDonald, who, with Buchwald, was for the first time attending one of the decade-end conferences, had been hardly recognized in his new girth by the Texcocan team. But his added weight had evidently done nothing to his keenness of mind. He said smoothly, “Our good Amschel is under arrest. Imprisoned, in fact.” He shook his head, his double chin wobbling. “A tragedy.”
“Imprisoned! By whom?” Taller scowled. “I don’t like this. After all, he was your expedition’s head man.”
Barry Watson rapped, “Don’t leave us there, MacDonald. What happened to him?”
MacDonald explained. “The financial and industrial empire he had built was overextended. A small crisis and it collapsed. Thousands of investors suffered. In brief, he was arrested and found guilty.”
Watson was unbelieving. “There is nothing you could do? The whole team! Couldn’t you bribe him out? Rescue him by force and get him back to the ship? With all the wealth you characters control—”
Jerry Kennedy laughed shortly. “We were busy bailing ourselves out of our own situations, Watson. You don’t know what international finance can be. Besides, he dug his grave…uh…that is, he made his bed.”
Kennedy signaled the servant for another drink, said, “Let’s cut out this dismal talk. How about our progress reports?”
“Progress reports,” Barry Watson said. “That’s a laugh. You have agents on Texcoco, we have them on Genoa. What’s the use of having these conferences at all?”
For the first time, one of the Genoese put in a word. Baron Leonar, son of the original Baron who had met with Amschel Mayer thirty years before, was a man in his mid-forties. He said quietly, “It seems to me the time has arrived when the two planets might profit by intercourse. Surely in this time one has progressed
