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this was an astronomically remote contingency, “our meeting need not delay us for long.” His thin smile suggested that he was aware they were busy men, that not all their business was entirely laudable, and that he knew all their secrets, which in fact he did. The chief of police envied Galin’s smile; it packed a heavy psychological punch.
    The Council, apart from a few throat-clearings, was silent.
    “Good,” said Galin. “The first matter we will consider is the indoctrination of pilgrims… .”
    For ten minutes there was a relatively free exchange of views. Not that anyone actively disagreed with Galin, or if they did, they soon allowed themselves to be converted to his opinion, convinced—and said so—by his superior logic. This gambit might not endear these people to the rest of their colleagues, but that was no more than a pity. A converted freethinker was a better image than that of the eternal yes-man. To be earnest, devoted, but not too bright was a good formula to use when dealing with Forbin’s successor-designate. But any way anyone played, it added up to wholehearted acceptance of Galin’s proposals.
    “And now,” said Galin, leaning forward, carefully adjusting his sleeves, “we come to a most important, delicate, and sad matter.”
    Expressions were composed to show their preparedness and ability to deal with such affairs, and all took care not to look at the cameras.
    “I refer, of course, to Blake.” Galin’s voice was safe, neutral. “As we all know in our hearts, Doctor Blake is against the Master.”
    Heads nodded sadly.
    “But the Master, in his just, superhuman wisdom, allows no action without proof. There is no proof that Blake is active against the Master-yet!”
    The last word came sharply, like the crack of a whip, making some look at Galin with even greater attention.
    “No, not yet,” Galin repeated. “We know, of course, of his meeting with the debased, so-called poet Kluge. I, for one, cannot imagine they met to discuss Kluge’s crazy scribbles!” He smiled. “Whatever else Blake may be, I don’t think he has sunk that low” The smile vanished, the thin joke over; he continued in a curt, authoritative voice. “It is the Master’s opinion that Kluge is a courier for the well-known dissident arts group.” There was a world of disparagement in his voice. “What the Blake activists would want with that freakish collection is not known. It is possible that Blake is merely trying to waste our time, that there is no real significance in the association. Certainly, he did little to conceal his contact.”
    The chief of police frowned. It worried him, too. Thank God—no, get it right—Thank Colossus, that Colossus was around to make the real decisions.
    Galin clasped his hands on the table before him; spotless white cuffs showed inside his gold sleeves, lending an incongruously modern note to his archaic costume. He spoke more intimately.
    “Frankly, I speak only of this moment.” The proviso would be a way out if he was later proven wrong. “I suspect this link, at worst, is no more than tiresome nonsense. These so-called artists complain that the Master inhibits their creative talent.” His sarcasm was heavy. “Sad! And complete rubbish! They seek to excuse their lack of ability; they are barren!” A glittering arm swept the art world into limbo. “No matter—but this does matter: within twenty-four hours of the Kluge contact,” he spoke slowly, emphasizing each word, “Blake had a hasty meeting—alone—with Father Forbin’s wife!”
    The Council shuffled its feet and did some collective throat-clearing to convey their shock. Only the chief of police was immobile, thinking. You had to hand it to Galin; he was getting to the meat, and very dangerous meat at that, with great care.
    Galin was well aware he was sticking his neck out, although he did so less than that fat slob of a policeman doubtlessly supposed. “Yes, brethren, it saddens me, but in the