Chapter 7

Ben Wrail was taking things easy. Stretched out in his chair, with his cigar lit and burning satisfactorily, he listened to a radio program broadcast from Earth.

Through the window beside him, he could look out of his skyscraper apartment over the domed city of Ranthoor. Looming in the sky, slightly distorted by the heavy quartz of the distant dome, was massive Jupiter, a scarlet ball tinged with orange and yellow. Overwhelmingly luminous, monstrously large, it filled a large portion of the visible sky, a sight that brought millions of tourists to the Jovian moons each year, a sight that even the old-timers still must stare at, drawn by some unfathomable fascination.

Ben Wrail stared at it now, puffing at his cigar, listening to the radio. An awe-inspiring thing, a looming planet that seemed almost ready to topple and crash upon this airless, frigid world.

Wrail was an old-timer. For thirty years--Earth years--he had made his home in Ranthoor. He had seen the city grow from a dinky little mining camp enclosed by a small dome to one that boasted half a million population. The dome that now covered the city was the fourth one. Four times, like the nautilus, the city had outgrown its shell, until today it was the greatest domed city in the Solar System. Where life had once been cheap and where the scum of the system had held rendezvous, he had seen Ranthoor grow into a city of dignity, capital of the Jovian confederacy.

He had helped build that confederacy, had been elected a member of the constitution commission, had helped create the government and for over a decade had helped to make its laws.

But now ... Ben Wrail spat angrily and stuffed the cigar back in his mouth again, taking a fresh and fearsome grip. Now everything had changed. The Jovian worlds today were held in bond by Spencer Chambers. The government was in the hands of his henchmen. Duly elected, of course, but in an election held under the unspoken threat that Interplanetary Power would withdraw, leaving the moons circling the great planet without heat, air, energy. For the worlds of the Jovian confederacy, every single one of them, depended for their life upon the accumulators freighted outward from the Sun.

Talk of revolt was in the air, but, lacking a leader, it would get nowhere. John Moore Mallory was imprisoned on one of the prison spaceships that plied through the Solar System. Mallory, months ago, had been secretly transferred from the Callisto prison to the spaceship, but in a week’s time the secret had been spread in angry whispers. If there had been riots and bloodshed, they would have been to no purpose. For revolution, even if successful, would gain nothing. It would merely goad Interplanetary Power into withdrawing, refusing to service the domed cities on the moons.

Ben Wrail stirred restlessly in his chair. The cigar had gone out. The radio program blared unheard. His eyes still looked out the window without seeing Jupiter.

“Damn,” said Ben Wrail. Why did he have to go and spoil an evening thinking about this damned political situation? Despite his part in the building of the confederacy, he was a businessman, not a politician. Still, it hurt to see something torn down that he had helped to build, though he knew that every pioneering strike in history had been taken over by shrewd, ruthless, powerful operators. Knowing that should have helped, but it didn’t. He and the other Jovian pioneers had hoped it wouldn’t happen and, of course, it had.

“Ben Wrail,” said a voice in the room.

Wrail swung around, away from the window.

“Manning!” he yelled, and the man in the center of the room grinned bleakly at him. “How did you come in without me hearing you? When did you get here?”

“I’m not here,” said Greg. “I’m back on Earth.”

“You’re what?” asked Wrail blankly. “That’s a pretty silly statement, isn’t it, Manning? Or did you decide to loosen up and pull a gag now and then?”

“I mean it,” said Manning. “This is just an image of me. My body is back on Earth.”

“You mean you’re dead? You’re a ghost?”

The grin widened, but the face was bleak as ever.

“No, Ben, I’m just alive as you are. Let me explain. This is a television image of me. Three-dimensional television. I can travel anywhere like this.”

Wrail sat down in the chair again. “I don’t suppose there’d be any use trying to shake hands with you.”

“No use,” agreed Manning’s image. “There isn’t any hand.”

“Nor asking you to have a chair?”

Manning shook his head.

“Anyhow,” said Wrail, “I’m damn glad to see you--or think I see you. I don’t know which. Figure you can stay and talk with me a while?”

“Certainly,” said Manning. “That is what I came for. I want to ask your help.”

“Listen,” declared Wrail, “you can’t be on Earth, Manning. I say something to you and you answer right back. That isn’t possible. You can’t hear anything I say until 45 minutes after I say it, and then I’d have to wait another 45 minutes to hear your answer.”

“That’s right,” agreed the image, “if you insist upon talking about the velocity of light. We have something better than that.”

“We?”

“Russell Page and myself. We have a two-way television apparatus that works almost instantaneously. To all purposes, so far as the distance between Earth and Callisto is concerned, it is instantaneous.”

Wrail’s jaw fell. “Well, I be damned. What have you two fellows been up to now?”

“A lot,” said Manning laconically. “For one thing we are out to bust Interplanetary Power. Bust them wide open. Hear that, Wrail?”

Wrail stared in stupefaction. “Sure, I hear. But I can’t believe it.”

“All right then,” said Manning grimly, “we’ll give you proof. What could you do, Ben, if we told you what was happening on the stock market in New York ... without you having to wait the 45 minutes it takes the quotations to get here?”

Wrail sprang to his feet. “What could I do? Why, I could run the pants off every trader in the exchange! I could make a billion a minute!” He stopped and looked at the image. “But this isn’t like you. This isn’t the way you’d do things.”