"... more than ten thousand already, from all parts of Earth. Judge Waring's announcement that the first assassin will be chosen at this session——"

Al whistled appreciatively. "Verrick doesn't waste any time."

Benteley crouched down and snapped the television off. The sounds and images faded as he rose to his feet.

"You mind?" he asked. "I'm tired of the Convention and everything about it."

"It won't be for a time, anyhow," Al said, seeking to smooth things out. "They're still testing equipment."

"I went to Batavia expecting to get in on something big," Benteley continued. "Something beyond people grabbing for power, struggling to get to the top of the heap over each other's dead bodies."

Al Davis extended a chubby finger.

"Reese Verrick will be back in the number One spot inside a week. His money picks the assassin. The assassin is under fealty to him. When he kills this Cartwright per­son the limelight returns to Verrick. Wait a week, man. It'll be back the way it was."

Laura appeared at the doorway, her face flooded with peevish anxiety. "Al, couldn't we get the Convention? I can hear Judy Klein's set down the hall and they're choos­ing the assassin now!"

"I'll turn it on," Benteley said wearily. "I'm going, anyhow." He snapped on the power and as he moved to­wards the front door a thick voice swelled from the speakers out into the room.

"Oh, heavens!" Laura moaned, "it's that Sam Oster. Turn him off and get the Convention!"

Benteley closed the door, and with the grumble of Oster's voice still in his ears plunged down the dark path.

Sitting at his desk, his script gripped in his beefy, thick-fingered hands, his bull-neck jutting forward, his square face set in a rigid block, Sam Oster addressed his invisible audience with great care, picking each word with studied precision and letting it grind out harshly and methodically.