by E. C. Tubb
He'd have Fiona Velen groveling at his feet before it was over!
"Maximus?" The soft voice held a note of interrogation and he realized he hadn't answered the original announcement. For a moment he was tempted to vocalize his immediate reaction then thought better of it. Not that he needed Zao-for once he would act on his own, yet to insult the cyber would be to act with stupidity.
He said, temporizing, "I am engaged. Ask him to have patience and wait."
"For how long, Maximus?"
An hour? Two? How to tell how long it would take?
"I will summon him later." He looked again at the screen, frowned as again the voice broke his concentration, "What is it now?"
"Cyber Zao asks that you be notified that he will be unavailable for three hours, Maximus."
A snub and later he would decide what to do about it but for now let the man think he had asserted his authority.
"In three hours, then."
"Yes, Maximus."
Again he concentrated on the pattern of lights. All was relatively calm; only slight activity from a few minor holders maneuvering for advantage, as was to be expected. The large holders were quiescent, probably studying the situation and waiting for an opportunity. Arment would need to consolidate his recent gains and Helm must realize how dangerous it was to expand too fast. Bulem was easy meat and could be vanquished at a touch but would that be to his benefit? Reed held a flexible position and Lynne Oldrant's aspirations were obvious.
A pact? The woman was ambitious and noted for her greed. As was Myra Lancing. A moment and he had passed on to study other facts, other possibilities. The screen of lights changed as he moved to a closer study of any other variables. The weed in the installation held by Chargel- would that affect the value of Lobel's holding? Would the man again come to another's rescue? A possibility to be negated and for long minutes Kalova searched for a way to combat the event should it threaten. Time which joined that already wasted.
Again the soft voice broke his concentration. "Maximus. Cyber Zao has arrived."
So soon? Kalova blinked as he turned his head from the dancing, hypnotic glow of the lights. Should he send the man away or yield and allow him to enter? To work alone or to ask for aid?
Alone, he decided. His would be the labor and his the reward all the more sweet for having been gained by his own skill. A sweetness strengthened by another's respect and regard.
"Maximus?"
"Have him enter."
He chose to ignore the man, concentrating again on the signals, assessing streaming facts and feeling himself expand with recaptured ability.
"My lord?" Zao stepped to where Kalova was sitting. "You know that the woman Fiona Velen has taken Dumarest to her house? The prediction that they are now lovers is of the order of ninety-nine percent."
"An advantage, Cyber." Kalova looked at the tall, robed figure. "One I recognized as soon as the information was received. Let her use him; once she tires of her new toy she will be eager to sell."
The assessment of an amateur but Zao made no comment.
"Not that I will wait," snapped Kalova. "My plans are being formulated at this very moment. Pressure on Reed and Traske so as to apply a pincer movement on the holdings adjacent to those held by Barracola. The result will be a flurry between Judd, Vanderburg and Prador. While attention is diverted I will snap up Bulem and force the woman to sell in order to protect her eastern holdings. A good plan, you agree?"
A complicated one and it would not work as intended- Zao could tell it at a glance. Kalova was too blinded by his anger toward the woman to be able to assess clearly the situation. He ignored factors which had to be taken into account in his determination to ruin Fiona Velen who had dared to defy him. A weakness and one he failed to recognize. The fact alone proclaimed his failing abilities as did his insistence on working alone.
Megalomania, now clearly obvious, a disease which threatened the stability of Sacaweena.
"Well?" Kalova was impatient. "Your comments?"
"I would advise a delay, my lord. Nothing is to be gained by undue haste."
"You talk of delay? What of the punishment you wish to inflict on Dumarest?"
"You confuse determination with revenge, my lord. Haste can lead to error and confusion. The delay I speak of is a matter of a few days. Time to wait until the situation is more favorable."
"You doubt my plan, is that it?"
"My lord-what if it should fail?"
"It will not fail!" Kalova's hands were quivering with rage, an anger reflected in his eyes, the savage compression of his lips. Abruptly he rose to pace the floor with quick, impatient strides. "I am the Maximus," he snapped. "I am that because I won the majority holding years ago. The skill which served me then is still with me. You have helped, Cyber, that I agree, but this is one thing I will do alone. That bitch will have cause to regret her contempt!"
"Even so, my lord, I-"
"No!" Kalova was curt in his interruption. "I will hear no more. Why did you want to see me?"
"A matter of your authorization on this order." Zao produced it. "For the. guards at the field," he explained. "Under no circumstances must Dumarest be permitted to leave this world without your approval."
An irksome formality and already he had given the instructions but the fierce pride of the Orres demanded such rituals. Each held complete autonomy over his holdings; to violate their rights would be to risk losing all.
"Here!" Kalova threw back the signed order. "Your man is trapped-I trust the Cyclan will be grateful for my cooperation."
Risan was busy when Zao returned to his quarters, a sheaf of papers strewn on the desk before him, the compact keyboard of a computer at his side. On a relay the dancing lights flashed and glowed with shifting color, each change bringing action, fingers tapping the keys, checking, moving again.
As he went to rise Zao said, "Continue."
He took a place behind the acolyte, watching, making his own assessments. For some it was necessary to isolate each facet, to evaluate it, to fit it into an overall pattern. One which changed under the impact of newly received data to form new probabilities. The computer Risan was using was an aid he must learn to do without; no man wishing to run should practice on crutches.
"Well?"
Risan leaned back as the lights steadied. "The situation shows the effect of the northern storms on three communes. They will all need importations of food and water and, if to regain viability, new deposits of soil. The mines in the Tanaya sector are hitting narrowing seams. The weed from three undersea farms has been spoiled and must be used as fertilizer instead of basic food."
"Three major influences," said Zao. "How many minor?" He nodded at the answer. "Fifteen-that is correct. Seven of them are relevant to the main situation and the others can be assessed at a low order of importance. Your summation?"
Risan said, "Master, events are moving toward a nexus in which it is possible the present Maximus could be seriously weakened. A cabal has formed against him and he underestimates the potential danger."
"Your recommendations?"
"It is not for me to recommend, master."
The correct answer; a cyber did not take sides, back causes, uphold falling rulers. To advise was the full extent of their duties-all else was for the Cyclan not for those employing their services. Risan was ready for the final step and he would propose it as soon as the present situation had been resolved. In the meantime he had reason to make his report.
"Private seal," he ordered. "Total seclusion."
As the acolyte bowed Zao made his way to his private room. It was stark, bleak in its Spartan simplicity, the cot the only item of relative luxury, but even so the soft mattress was for functional use not for personal comfort.
As the door closed behind him Zao activated the thick band he wore around his left wrist. Electronic emissions created a zone of privacy against any spying device and the locked door and acolyte protected him from physical intrusion. Twin safeguards used
when communicating with Central Intelligence. The rest was a matter of training and adaptation.
Lying supine on the cot, Zao relaxed, closing his eyes and concentrating on the Samatachazi formulae. Gradually he lost the use of his senses; had he opened his eyes he would have been blind. Locked in the prison of his skull his brain ceased to be irritated by external stimuli. It became a thing of pure intellect, its reasoning awareness the only thread of continued existence. Only then did the engrafted Homochon elements become active. Rapport followed.
Zao expanded with the sense of it.
Each cyber had a different experience; for him it was as if he had gained insight into every corner of the universe. He saw it and knew it and was of it as it was of him. Nodes of light bright with the shine of naked truth, marching in ordered array to the edges of infinity and, at the center, the massed intelligences of those who had served and continued to serve the Cyclan.
There was no verbal communication, only a mental communion, quick, near-instantaneous, organic transmission against which the speed of light was a crawl. Faster than ultra-radio. Faster even than thought.
Doubt
His verification.
Urgency
His understanding.
Insistence
His assurance.
Emphasis
The rest was euphoria.
It was always the same after rapport. A period in which the Homochon elements sank back into quiescence and the machinery of the body began to realign itself with mental processes. Zao hovered in an illuminated void filled with strange memories and alien concepts, dreamlike experiences and flashes of hallucination touched with disorienting vistas-scraps of overflow from other intelligences, the throw-away waste of other minds.
Opening his eyes he looked at the bare whiteness of the ceiling, assessing the information given even as his own had been sucked from his mind as if it had been water placed against a sponge. To capture Dumarest was a matter of prime urgency-Central Intelligence had left him in no doubt. The man must be taken and held at any cost. Against that directive the needs of Rham Kalova held little weight and he and his entire planet could be sacrificed should the need arise.
How best to obey?
The field was sealed and no ships were expected for at least a week, nor were any waiting to depart. Men in rafts watched the holding and reported on Dumarest's every movement. Soon Kalova would commence his plan to wrest sector D 18 from the woman's possession and with it Dumarest, who was resident. He would hand the man over to Zao as promised.
Or would he?
The ceiling was marred with small, almost invisible cracks, a tracery which spread in interwound convolutions like the distorted web of a spider. A mesh which resembled the problem and which Zao assessed even as he considered the variables open to those on whom he must rely. Dumarest was clever and shrewd as he had proven more than once. A man with a seemingly uncanny ability to escape from traps and snares as if sensing their presence; able to manipulate circumstances to his own advantage.
Against him the Maximus had nothing but the power bestowed by the peculiarities of this world's culture.
Already he had shown himself less than able to assess a given situation; the woman was not the dominant factor in her relationship with Dumarest no matter how it might appear. Kalova was basing his assumption on her reaction to men of his own culture but Dumarest was a stranger. She would be slow to tire of him if she tired at all and, long before that, Dumarest would have made his own arrangements to survive.
The pattern of cracks led nowhere, lines merging to meet and branch in an elaborate maze which held no meaning. Zao turned his attention from them, unwilling to spare even the little it had demanded. This time, as never before in his entire life, he must not fail.
What if Dumarest should confide his secret to Kalova? The man would be unable to resist the promise of what was offered, yet even to hint a warning against it would be to arouse his curiosity and turn him against further help to the Cyclan. To kill him would be easy but what would it gain? To replace him? To threaten him with ruin?
How to use what was to gain what needed to be?
A problem which Zao pondered as he lay staring at the ceiling, at the pattern of thin cracks which spread like the skeined threads of a person's life. Factors considered, assessed, evaluated. Others formulated and all woven into bars of metaphorical steel, forging a trap from which Dumarest could never escape.
Chapter Eleven
Between low ridges of agate the water was a pool of emerald held in tiled walls decorated with grotesque fish and writhing creatures, the floor itself a pattern of shells and weed laced in suggestive designs. Dumarest followed it, swimming low, traversing the length of the enclosure before rising, droplets flying as he jerked the hair from his eyes, more cascading as he gripped the wall and reared from the water to sit on the edge.
"You swim well, Earl." Lynne Oldrant stared at him with unabashed admiration. "Fiona is to be envied."
"Her holdings?"
"You."
A flat answer to a deliberate misunderstanding and one Dumarest had expected. The woman had made no secret of her desire, the bait she had offered in her body and eyes, her lips and her smile. A mature woman with generous proportions and a mouth too soft and eyes too wanton. Jaded, as they all were, bored, eager for the stimulation a stranger could bring.
Or one bribed to pretend just that.
Now she turned and gestured a serving girl to her side, taking her time as she studied the dainties offered on the tray, selecting with care two comfits formed of twisted sugar dusted with a powder of spices.
"Here!" She offered one to Dumarest. "You take it, bite it, swallow it down. The results could be-interesting."
An aphrodisiac or some form of hallucinogenic. From her tone the thing could be either or it could be just a harmless sweetmeat. Or something not so harmless-a drug to induce impotence; who knew what she carried beneath her nails?
Dumarest said, "Thank you, my lady, but I must refuse."
"What I offer?"
"Just the comfit." His smile brought warmth to her eyes. "Will you join me in the water?"
A chance to touch, to caress, to leave no doubt as to her extended invitation. An opportunity she used to the full. To win him from Fiona would be a sweet revenge for earlier rejection.
"Earl!" A tall, red-headed girl waved to him from where she stood at the edge of the pool. "Come and join us! We need your advice!"
Men had clustered in a group behind her, youngsters with faces usually masked with boredom now creased in a febrile interest.
"Chargel's man told me of the trick," said one. "He saw it done at a private fight on Emoolt. You feint-so! Then recovering you cut-so! If it hits, you gain a point. If you miss you backslash and thrust-so!" His hand made appropriate gestures, the knife he held glittering as it reflected the light from the ruby sun. "The man who used it had never been beaten."
"Or so he said." Shelia Fairfax, the tall girl with flaming hair, laughed her scorn. "Tell them, Earl. Put the fool wise."
Her tone held familiarity as did the hand she placed on his arm. Instant friendship gained in a matter of a few hours-or what passed for it in this too closely knit culture. Fiona had introduced him to the party-had left him at the pool while attending to a private matter. Lynne had been only one of the women to show more than a casual interest.
The man with the knife said, "Fool, Shelia? Care to back your judgment?"
"A week's allowance," she said. "No, make it a month's."
"That I can't score on Earl?"
"That's right." Her laughter was brittle. "You and your theories, Ivor! What chance would you have if faced with a real man?"
Dumarest saw the flush which rose to stain the sallow cheeks, the tension revealed in the hand gripping the knife. A young man, a minor son of some Orres family, trying to show off a little. A youth eager to command attention and to gain a little respect. The girl had been too spiteful, too cruel.<
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"May I see the knife?" Dumarest held out his hand, saw the other's hesitation, smiled as, finally, Ivor placed it in his fingers. It was what he had expected; a practice blade, the point and edges protruding a fraction of an inch from masking steel. Heavy, able to deliver bruising blows and shallow scratches, but relatively harmless. "A gift?"
"Not exactly. I'm interested in such things. At home I've a collection of knives each of which has killed a man," A boast quickly amended. "At least that's what I have been given to understand. They were part of an inheritance."
From whom was unimportant if the story was true. Dumarest hefted the blade, examined the edges and point, handed it back to the young man.
"Have you another?" He added, "Or do you want me to face you empty-handed?"
"You'll fight?"
"No, but we can try out that trick of yours." Dumarest looked at the girl. "A month's allowance, you said. And no blame on me if I should lose?"
"A month's allowance, Earl-and you won't lose!"
A confidence echoed by others as they made bets on the outcome. Dumarest took the second practice knife, hefted it, poised on the balls of his naked feet and adopted a fighter's stance, though he quickly rectified it as he saw the young man's awkward posture.
"Now," he said. "Come at me!"
The youth was too clumsy, too slow. He left himself wide open to a killing thrust or a crippling slash had the knives been true blades. Dumarest backed, matching the other's clumsiness, steel ringing as the blades touched, parted to touch again. Music to mask the farce the combat had become as his own movements gave the youth's a grace they lacked. The attack, when it came, was pathetic.
"A hit!" Dumarest stepped back, hand to his side, smears of red on the palm when he displayed it to those watching. "He scored!"
