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«For God's sake, Presteign! Are you insane? What's got into you? Are you fighting Regis Sheffield's Liberal party again?»
«It's quite simple, Dagenham,» Y'ang-Yeovil interposed. «My information about the surrender-defeat situation has shown Presteign a way to better his position. No doubt he intends negotiating a sale to the enemy in return for. . . property advantages.»
«Can nothing move you?» Dagenham asked Presteign scornfully. «Can nothing touch you? Are you all property and nothing else? Go away, Jiz! The whole thing's fallen apart.»
Jisbella had jaunted into the Star Chamber again. «Commando Brigade's reported,» she said. «We know what happened to Foyle.»
«What?»
«Presteign's got him.»
«What!» Both Dagenham and Y'ang-Yeovil started to their feet.
«He left Mars in a private yawl, was shot up, and was observed being picked up by the Presteign S.S. 'Vorga.»
«Damn you, Presteign,» Dagenham snapped. «So that's why you've been…”
«Wait,» Y'ang-Yeovil commanded. «It's news to him too, Dagenham. Look at him.»
Presteign's handsome face had gone the color of ashes. He tried to rise and fell back stiffly in his chair. «Olivia . . .» he whispered. «With him…That scum . . .»
«Presteign?»
«My daughter, gentlemen, has . . .for some time been engaged in certain activities. The family vice. Blood and…I . . . have managed to close my eyes to it . . . Had almost convinced myself that I was mistaken. I . . . But Foyle! Dirt! Filth! He must be destroyed!» Presteign's voice soared alarmingly. His head twisted back like a hanged man's and his body began to shudder.
«What in the…?»
«Epilepsy,» Y'ang-Yeovil said. He pulled Presteign out of the chair onto the floor. «A spoon, Miss McQueen. Quick!» He levered Presteign's teeth open and placed a spoon between them to protect the tongue. As suddenly as it had begun, the seizure was over. The shuddering stopped. Presteign opened his eyes.
«Petit ma1,» Y'ang-Yeovil murmured, withdrawing the spoon. «But he'll be dazed for a while.»
Suddenly Presteign began speaking in a low monotone. «PyrE is a pyrophoric alloy. A pyrophore is a metal which emits sparks when scraped or struck. PyrE emits energy, which is why E, the energy symbol, was added to the prefix Pyr. PyrE is a solid solution of transplutonian isotopes, releasing thermonuclear energy on the order of stellar Phoenix action. It's discoverer was of the opinion that he had produced the equivalent of the primordial protomatter which exploded into the Universe.»
«My God!» Jisbella exclaimed.
Dagenham silenced her with a gesture and bent over Presteign. «How is it brought to critical mass, Presteign? How is the energy released?»
«As the original energy was generated in the begi
«I'm convinced he's a Cellar Christian,» Dagenham muttered to Y'angYeovil. He raised his voice. «Will you explain, Presteign?»
«Through Will and Idea,» Presteign repeated. «PyrE can only be exploded by psychokinesis. Its energy can only be released by thought. It must be willed to explode and the thought directed at it. That is the only way.»
«There's no key? No formula?»
«No. Only Will and Idea are necessary.» The glazed eyes closed.
«God in heaven!» Dagenham mopped his brow. «Will this give the Outer Satellites pause, Yeovil?»
«It'll give us all pause.»
«It's the road to hell,» Jisbella said.
«Then let's find it and get off the road. Here's my idea, Yeovil. Foyle was tinkering with that hell brew in his lab in Old St. Pat's, trying to analyze it.»
«I told you that in strict confidence,» Jisbella said furiously.
«I'm sorry, dear. We're past honor and the decencies. Now look, Yeovil, there must be some fragments of the stuff lying about. . . as dust, in solution, in precipitates. . . We've got to detonate those fragments and blow the hell out of Foyle's circus.»
«Why?»
«To bring him ru
«What if it blows up too?»
«It can't, not inside an Inert Lead Isotope safe.»
«Maybe it's not all inside.»
«Jiz says it is . . .at least so Foyle reported.»
«Leave me out of this,» Jisbella said.
«Anyway, we'll have to gamble.»
«Gamble!» Y'ang-Yeovil exclaimed. «On a Phoenix action? You'll gamble the solar system into a brand new nova.»
«What else can we do? Pick any other road . . and it's the road to destruction too. Have we got any choice?»
«We can wait,» Jisbella said.
«For what? For Foyle to blow us up himself with his tinkering?»
«We can warn him.»
«We don't know where he is.»
«We can find him.»
«How soon? Won't that be a gamble too? And what about that stuff lying around waiting for someone to think it into energy? Suppose a Jack-jaunter gets in and cracks the safe, looking for goodies? And then we don't just have dust waiting for an accidental thought, but twenty pounds.»
Jisbella turned pale. Dagenham turned to the Intelligence man. «You make the decision, Yeovil. Do we try it my way or do we wait?»
Y'ang-Yeovil sighed. «I was afraid of this,» he said. «Damn all scientists. I'll have to make my decision for a reason you don't know, Dagenham. The Outer Satellites are on to this too. We've got reason to believe that they've got agents looking for Foyle in the worst way. If we wait they may pick him up before us. In fact, they may have him now.»
«So your decision is . . .”
«The blow-up. Let's bring Foyle ru
«No!» Jisbella cried.
«How?» Dagenham asked, ignoring her.
«Oh, I've got just the one for the job. A one-way telepath named Robin Wednesbury.»
«When?»
«At once. We'll clear the entire neighborhood. We'll get full news coverage and do a full broadcast. If Foyle's anywhere in the I
«Not about it,» Jisbella said in despair. «He'll hear it. It'll be the last thing any of us hear.»
«Will and Idea,» Presteign whispered.
As always, when he returned from a stormy civil court session in Leningrad, Regis Sheffield was pleased and complacent, rather like a cocky prizefighter who's won a tough fight. He stopped off at Blekma
As he strode through the clattering corridors and outer rooms, he was greeted by his secretary with a handful of memo-beads.
«Knocked Djargo-Dantchenko for a loop,» Sheffield reported triumphantly. «Judgment and full damages. Old DD's sore as a boil. This makes the score eleven to five, my favor.» He took the beads, juggled them, and then began tossing them into unlikely receptacles all over the office, including the open mouth of a gaping clerk.
«Really, Mr. Sheffield! Have you been drinking?»
«No more work today. The war news is too damned gloomy. Have to do something to stay cheerful. What say we brawl in the streets?»
«Mr. Sheffield!»
«Anything waiting for me that can't wait another day?»
«There's a gentleman in your office.»
«He made you let him get that far?» Sheffield looked impressed. «Who is he? God, or somebody?»
«He won't give his name. He gave me this.»
The secretary handed Sheffield a sealed envelope. On it was scrawled:
«URGENT.» Sheffield tore it open, his blunt features crinkling with curiosity. Then his eyes widened. Inside the envelope were two ~r 50,000 notes. Sheffield turned without a word and burst into his private office. Foyle arose from his chair.
«These are genuine,» Sheffield blurted.