Our Friends From Frolix 8 Read Online Free PDF Page A

while Provoni is gone. I admit that this might backfire; the Old Men might riot for a time… but on the other hand this might bring the Under Men out of hiding where we could get at them. In a sense, I’m about to deliberately spark a premature show of force by the Under Men; there will be wild waves as soon as Cordon’s death is announced, but ultimately—’
    He broke off. On the big screen, which comprised the far wall of his great bedroom, a face had begun to ignite. A thin, esthetic face with hollows about the jaw: a weak jaw, Gram reflected as he saw the jaw move with speech. Rimless glasses, meager hair in the form of carefully combed strands across an otherwise bald head.
    ‘Sound,’ Gram instructed, as Cordon’s lips continued to move inaudibly.
    ‘… pleasure,’ Cordon boomed, as the sound came on too loudly. ‘I know how busy you are, sir. But if you wish to speak to me—’ Cordon gestured elegantly. ‘I am ready.’
    To one of his bedside aides, Gram said, ‘Where the hell is he now?’
    ‘In Brightforth Prison.’
    ‘You getting enough to eat?’ Gram asked the image on the big screen.
    ‘Very much so, yes.’ Cordon smiled, showing teeth so even as to seem – and probably were – false.
    ‘And you’re free to write?’
    Cordon said, ‘I have the materials.’
    ‘Tell me, Cordon,’ Gram said energetically, ‘why do you write and say those damn things? You know they’re not true.’
    ‘Truth is in the eye of the beholder.’ Cordon chuckled in his thin, humorless way.
    ‘You know that trial a few months ago,’ Gram asked, ‘where you were sentenced to sixteen years in prison for treason? Well, goddam it, the judges have gone back and eradicated the specifications of your punishment. They’ve now decided on the death penalty.’
    No expression appeared on Cordon’s bleak face.
    ‘Can he hear me?’ Gram asked an aide.
    ‘Oh yes, sir. He hears you, all right.’
    Gram said, ‘We’re going to execute you, Cordon. You know, I can read your mind; I know how afraid you are.’ It was true; inside Cordon quaked. Even though their contact remained purely electronic, with Cordon himself actually two thousand miles away. Psionic capacities like this always baffled the Old Men – and, frequently, the New Men as well.
    Cordon said nothing. But it was obvious that he grasped the fact that Gram had begun to feel him out telepathically.
    ‘Down underneath,’ Gram said, ‘you’re thinking, “Maybe I should bolt. Provoni is dead—“’
    ‘I don’t think Provoni is dead,’ Cordon broke in, showing outrage: his first genuine facial expression.
    ‘Subconsciously,’ Gram said. ‘You’re not even aware of it.’
    ‘Even if Thors were dead—’
    ‘Oh, come off it,’ Gram said. ‘You know and I know that if Provoni were dead you’d drop your agitation and propaganda enterprises and creep off out of public sight for the rest of your damn ineffectual life.’
    A buzzer in the communications apparatus to Gram’sright all at once squeaked into life. ‘Pardon me,’ Gram said, and pressed a switch.
    ‘Your wife’s attorney is here, Council Chairman. You left word that he was to be let in no matter what you were doing. Shall I send him on in, or—’
    ‘Send him in,’ Gram said. To Cordon he said, ‘We’ll notify you – Director Barnes, most probably – an hour before your scheduled death. Goodbye, I’m busy now.’ He made a motion and the wall-size screen dribbled into opaqueness.
    The central bedroom door opened and a slim, tall, well-dressed gentleman with a short beard strode briskly into the room, briefcase in hand. Horace Denfeld, who always dressed this way.
    ‘Do you know what I read in Eric Cordon’s mind just now?’ Gram said. ‘Subconsciously, he wishes he’d never joined the Under Men, and here he is, the leader of it – to the extent that they have a leader. I’m going to obliterate their existence, starting with Cordon. Do you approve of my ordering