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Ganymede—”
    “The ship is going all the way out. We’re not setting up another squatters’ colony.”
    “You’re counting a lot on that antiquated old ore-carrier.”
    “Everything we have is there.”
    “You think
you
can hold on long enough?”
    “I hope so.”
    “So do I,” Shaeffer said dispassionately. “By the way.” He gestured toward the blooming island coming into existence ahead and below. “When we land, there will be an agent of Verrick’s waiting for you.”
    Cartwright moaned sharply. “Already?”
    “Not an assassin. There’s been no Challenge Convention yet. This man is under fief to Verrick, a personal staff member named Herb Moore. He’s been searched for weapons and passed. He just wants to talk to you.”
    “How do you know this?”
    “Within the last few minutes I’ve been getting the Corps headquarters. It’s all processed information going around from one to the next. We’re a chain, actually. You have nothing to worry about: at least two of us will be with you when you talk to him.”
    “Suppose I don’t want to talk to him?”
    “That’s your privilege.”
    Cartwright snapped off the tv set as the ship lowered over the magnetic grapples. “What do you recommend?”
    “Talk to him. Hear what he has to say. It’ll give you more of an idea what you’re up against.”
        Herbert Moore was a handsome blond-haired man in his early thirties. He arose gracefully as Cartwright, Shaeffer, and two other Corpsmen entered the main lounge of the Directorate building.
    “Greetings,” Moore said to Shaeffer in a bright voice.
    Shaeffer pushed open the doors to the inner offices and stood aside as Cartwright entered. This was the first time the new Quizmaster had seen his inheritance. He stood in the doorway, his coat over his arm, completely entranced by the sight.
    “This is a long jump from the Society building,” he saidfinally. Wandering slowly over, he touched the polished mahogany surface of the desk. “It’s a strange thing … I had all the abstract significance figured out in terms of power to do this, power to do that. I had it all down in symbolized form, but the sight of these carpets and this big desk—”
    “This isn’t your desk,” Major Shaeffer told him. “This is your secretary’s desk. Eleanor Stevens, an ex-teep.”
    “Oh.” Cartwright reddened. “Well, then where is she?”
    “She left with Verrick. An interesting situation.” Major Shaeffer slammed the door after them, leaving Herb Moore in the plush lounge outside. “She was new in the Corps; she came after Verrick was Quizmaster. She was just seventeen and Verrick was the only person she ever served. After a couple of years she changed her oath from what we call a positional oath to a personal oath. When Verrick left, she packed up her stuff and trailed along.”
    “Then Verrick has use of a teep.”
    “She loses her supralobe, according to law. Interesting, that such personal loyalty could be built up. As far as I know, there’s no sexual relationship. In fact she’s been the mistress of Moore, the young man waiting outside there.”
    Cartwright roamed around the luxurious office examining file cabinets, the massive ipvic sets, the chairs, the desk, the shifting random-paintings on the walls. “Where’s my office?”
    Shaeffer kicked open a heavy door. He and the two other Corpsmen followed Cartwright past a series of check-points and thick protective stages into a bleak solid-rexeroid chamber. “Big, but not as lush,” Shaeffer said. “Verrick was a realist. When he came this was a sort of Arabian erotic house: bed girls lying around on all sides, plenty of liquor to drink, couches, music and colors going constantly. Verrick ripped all the bric-a-brac out, sent the girls to the Martian work-camps, tore down the fixtures and gingerbread, and built
this.
” Shaeffer rapped on the wall; it echoed dully. “A good twenty feet of rexeroid. It’s bomb-proof, bore-proof,