The Grand Wheel

Hakandra was disturbed to hear Shane talk in this religious way, smacking as it did of the mystique adopted by the Grand Wheel. ‘There is no goddess,’ he said curtly. ‘Put that nonsense out of your head.’

As the sky darkened there was a faint glow in the south. It came from some ruins Hakandra had visited. They were made of a light-retentive stone and glowed at night like phosphorescent bones. The race that had built them had died ages ago, when the planet dried up.

It was the same story all over the Cave, which was littered with the ruins of dead civilizations, as though the force that generated life was insufficient to enable that life to survive the hazards of existence. There was not one example, as far as was known, of a living intelligence still surviving in the Cave.

It almost persuaded Hakandra to believe in Shane’s pessimistic mysticism. But he shook off the mood. It was unfitting, in an officer of the Legitimacy.

FOUR

Overhead, the sun beat down brilliantly on the extended wings of the shuttle. Below, visible through the vehicle’s windows once they were within the atmosphere, were spread out chessboard squares of cloud, land and sea: the pattern of Earth’s controlled weather areas.

As they descended the chessboard effect was reinforced by the illusion of pieces standing on some of the squares. The pieces were in fact vertical tower cities, complete with coronas and lumpy protruberances, creating the impression of kings and queens, knights and castles.

The shuttle planed down to the big dispersal centre. Here there was no automatic immigration count, as there would have been on, say, Mars, a Legitimacy-dominated world. They walked straight off the shuttle and on to the force network platforms. Soon Scarne’s escorts had procured a vehicle and they were hurtling through the air towards their destination, propelled by the invisible inertial guidelines.

The landscape was mostly forest and empty plain, dotted here and there with vacation lodges. The population was all in the teeming colourful cities.

It said much for the dichotomic nature of human civilization that Earth, the capital planet, was a Wheel world – one where the Grand Wheel’s influence was strong, unchecked by the Legitimacy’s repressive efforts. On Earth the game was the thing; it was the site of the original corruption, the birthplace of the Wheel. Here people spent their lives testing fortune, moving from one ingenious game of chance to another.

A vast pile loomed up and became a blur as the inertial vehicle slammed towards it at ten thousand miles per hour, slowing to a mere sixty in the few seconds before entering the tower city. Briefly they sped through lighted tunnels, changing direction every now and then.

When the inertial beam brought the vehicle to a stop they were in what seemed to be a largish office, or study. An untidy desk was littered with papers, tapes and box files. Around it were chairs, a couch, a service cabinet. One or two paintings, mediocre to moderately good, hung on the walls.

Hervold folded down the front of the small vehicle. They clambered out, looking around them.

‘Where’s Soma?’ Caiman asked, disgruntled.

‘He ain’t here.’ Hervold crossed to the desk, glanced at a notepad there. ‘Well, we delivered, anyway.’

He spoke to Scarne. ‘He’ll be along shortly. Make yourself comfortable.’

He nodded to Caiman. The two of them climbed back into the inertial cab. It withdrew into the tunnel; a facing panel came down, leaving the wall smooth and unbroken. In a few hours they would probably be back on Io.

Suddenly alone, Scarne put down his holdall. He went to the desk. Nothing there gave him any clue.

A door opened behind him. Scarne turned to see a pale-eyed woman, aged about thirty-five, standing in sudden surprise in the doorway.

She recovered herself quickly. ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘The man from Io?’ She searched her mind. ‘Professor Scarne.’

‘Yes. Cheyne Scarne.’ He offered his hand. She shook it limply. She was still attractive, Scarne thought, but with the faded, slightly worn look of a woman who has lived perhaps a little too fast. Her face had something appealing, almost touching about it.

‘Welcome to the Make-Out Club,’ she said. ‘I’m Cadence Mellors. We’d better get to know one another, I guess. How long have you been synched?’

‘Synched?’

A frown crossed her face. ‘How long have you been entitled to wear one of these?’ She held up her wrist to show him the dangling gridded wheel, similar to Hervold’s.

He caught her meaning. There was probably a lot of jargon inside the Wheel organization. ‘Only since yesterday, as a matter of fact.’

‘Oh.’ The new realization clouded her features, as if it disappointed her.

‘Who’s this man Soma?’ Scarne asked.

‘Jerry Soma? He’ll be your boss. This is his office. He runs the Make-Out.’ She crossed to the service unit and came back with two glasses, handing one to Scarne. ‘Have some refreshment.’