Verrick turned without ceremony to Benteley. "Always be where I can find you." He spat his words out contemptuously. "I don't have any more teeps around to thought-wave people in. I have to find them the hard way." He jerked his thumb at Eleanor. "She came along, but minus ability."
Eleanor smiled bleakly and said nothing.
Verrick spun round and shouted at Herb Moore, who had emerged from a deep chair in the corner. "Is that damn thing fixed yet?"
"Almost."
Verrick grunted. "This is a sort of celebration," he said to Benteley, "although I don't know what about."
Herb Moore strolled over, confident and full of talk, a sleek little model of an interplan star rocket in his hands.
"We've got plenty to celebrate. This is the first time a Quizmaster chose an assassin. Pellig isn't somebody chosen by a bunch of senile fogies; Verrick has had him on tap and——"
"You talk too much," Verrick cut in. "You're too full of easy words."
Benteley moved uncomfortably away. Verrick was slightly drunk, but behind his clumsy movements was a mind that missed nothing.
The chamber was high-ceilinged and like a church, domed and ribbed, its roof dissolving in amber gloom.
Laura was examining tapestries that hung dead and heavy over the windows. On a mantel over the huge fireplace were battered Saxon cups. Benteley gingerly took one down. It was a ponderous lump in his hands.
"You'll meet Pellig in a few minutes," Verrick announced. "Eleanor and Moore have already met him."
Moore laughed, an offensive sharp bark, like that of a thin-toothed dog.