by E. C. Tubb
He was tall, thin, robed as were the monks of the Universal Brotherhood, but there the similarity ended. He wore, not brown homespun, but scarlet fabric of fine weave, the Seal of the Cyclan prominent on his breast. His head was shaved, accentuating the skull-like appearance of the deep-set eyes, the skin drawn taut over bone. A living machine of flesh and bone and blood, all capacity for emotion eradicated by training and an operation performed during his youth, his only pleasure that of mental achievement.
A man who had dedicated his life to the pursuit of coldly logical reason. One to whom food was a tasteless fuel. A creature who could take a handful of facts and build a sequence of events from them culminating in a predicted eventuality.
He glanced up as the door opened, leaning back in his chair, his eyes watchful.
"Manager Nordkyn." The inclination of his head was perfunctory. "It is late. I had not thought to see you until tomorrow."
"I was curious," admitted the manager. "To to frank, I cannot understand why the company should have chosen to employ the services of the Cyclan. We have our own computers and the operation programs are proving successful."
"As yet, perhaps."
"A trend?" Nordkyn frowned. "I have run a complete series of analogues and have found nothing to pose any serious problems."
"And perhaps none will be found." Hsi touched the sheets before him, the reams of data, incidents, reports all compressed into symbolic language. "However, I notice that your progress per man-hour is falling."
"A seam of adamantine rock which delayed progress," said Nordkyn quickly. "It was anticipated and, now that we have penetrated it, lost time will be regained."
"Casualties seem to be high."
"Carelessness due to untrained labor. We are operating under a tight cost-schedule, as you must know. But is is unimportant, men are cheap." He added, incredulously, "Surely the Zur-Sekulich are not concerned over the loss of a few vagrants?"
"No."
"Then, with respect, I fail to see what you can achieve."
"You doubt the efficiency of the Cyclan?" Hsi's voice was a smoothly modulated monotone devoid of all irritant factors, yet Nordkyn was swift to refute the accusation.
"No! Of course not!"
"But you fail to see what can be gained by my advice." Hsi touched the sheets again, selected one. "Let me illustrate. Due to the price rise in basic staples, the food served at the canteens has fallen in terms of nutritional value to a factor of fifteen percent during the past eight weeks. This has resulted in a loss of physical energy and therefore, a lessening of productive effort put out by the workers. The financial gain is more than lost by reduced efficiency. If it is continued there will be an increase in accidents and deaths. There will also be a higher incidence of sickness and minor injury. Unless there is a change I predict that, within two months, you will be three and a half days behind schedule. This prediction is in the order of 89.6 percent of probability."
"I see." Nordkyn was thoughtful. "In that case you suggest-"
"I suggest nothing," said Hsi evenly. "I give no orders and insist on no change. I merely tell you what will be the most probable outcome of any series of events. What action you choose to take is entirely your own concern."
And, if he failed, his career would be over. Nordkyn didn't need to have it spelled out in detail. The Zur-Sekulich had no time for failure.
He said, "I will order the food to be changed at once. The expense will be high, but I'll manage somehow." Hesitating he added, "Is there anything else?"
"For the moment, no."
"Then I'll leave you, Cyber Hsi." Nordkyn backed toward the door, sweating. He was glad to leave the room.
Hsi turned again to the papers. Things were going as planned. The manager was a fool, concerned only with the job in hand. The Zur-Sekulich little better, thinking only of immediate profit, the wealth of the reclaimed metal, the subsidy they won from the Tradum authorities, dreaming of the constant stream of profits they would collect from tools once the passage was completed.
Later he would visit the Tradum Council, seek out those with the greatest powers, sow seeds of dissatisfaction in the minds of the landowners, those who now operated the sea and air transports.
Faced with ruin they would cooperate, forming a cabal to seize power, relying on the Cyclan to show them how to take and hold it. And then, once they were established, the pattern set, others would move in. Tools of the Cyclan, leaders willing to obey, men eager to be guided.
And yet another world would have fallen under the domination of the organization of which he was a part.
Already the hidden power of the Cyclan reached across the galaxy, worlds secretly manipulated by resident cybers, all living extensions of Central Intelligence, all working to a common end. The complete and total domination of all humanity everywhere.
Hsi turned a sheet, scanned it, his brain absorbing, assessing, collating the information it contained. A mass of trivia, yet each item could be part of something greater, each detail a step in a logical series of events.
"Master!" His acolyte entered the chamber at the touch of a bell. "Your orders?"
"Contact Chief Nyther at the workings. He reported a small gang of pilferers were captured. One was killed with a thrown knife. Find out who did it." A moment and it was done.
"Master, the man concerned was Earl Dumarest. He-"
Dumarest! Hsi rose and stepped towards the inner room. It was soft with unaccustomed luxury, the couch covered with silk, the mattress like a cloud.
"Total seal," he ordered. "I am not to be disturbed for any reason whatsoever."
As the door closed behind him, he touched the bracelet locked around his left wrist. From the device came an invisible field which ensured that no electronic eye or ear could focus on the vicinity. A precaution, nothing more, it would defy an electronic genius to probe the ability he possessed.
Relaxing on the couch, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the Samatachazi formulae. Gradually he lost sensory perception, the sense of touch, taste, smell and hearing, all dissolved into a formless blur. Had he opened his eyes he would have been blind. Locked in the confines of his skull his brain ceased to be irritated by external stimuli. It became a thing of reasoning, awareness, and untrammeled intellect. Only then did the grafted Homochon elements become active.
Rapport was established. Hsi became fully alive.
Each cyber had a different experience. For him, it was as if he drifted in an infinity of scintillant bubbles which burst to shower him with incredible effulgence. Spheres which touched to coalesce, to part, to veer in diverse paths, to meet again in an intricate complex of ever-changing patterns. Patterns of which he was an integral part, immersing himself in the effulgence and, by so doing, becoming both a part of and one with the whole.
Like a skein of dew the spheres stretched to all sides. Brilliant, shimmering, forming a moving, crystalline pattern, at the heart of which rested the headquarters of the Cyclan.
The Central Intelligence which made contact, touching, absorbing his knowledge as a sponge would suck water from a puddle. Mental communication of incredible swiftness.
"Dumarest?"
Agreement.
"Probability of error? Predictions low on possibility of his being on Tradum. Basis for assumption?"
Explanation.
"Probability high. Variable factor of deliberate random movement negates previous predictions. Take all steps to ensure that Dumarest is apprehended. Utmost priority. Of most urgent importance that he is not allowed to escape. Full protective measures to be employed at all times."
Understanding.
"Successful culmination will result in advancement. All previous instructions canceled. Find and hold Dumarest."
The rest was sheer mental intoxication. There was always a period after rapport, during which the Homochon elements sank back into quiescence. The physical machinery of the body began to realign itself with mental affinity, but the mind was assailed by ungoverned
impacts. Hsi floated in an ebon void, experiencing strange memories and unknown situations-fragments of overflow from other minds, the discard of a conglomerate of intelligences. The backwash of the tremendous cybernetic complex which was the heart of the Cyclan.
One day he would be a part of it. His body would weaken, his senses grow dull, but his mind would remain active. Then he would be taken, his brain removed from his skull, immersed in a nutrient vat, hooked in series to the countless others which formed Central Intelligence.
There he would rest, wait, and work to solve all the problems of the universe. Every cyber's idea of the ultimate paradise. Find and hold Dumarest and it would be his.
* * * * *
Leon stirred, sweating. "Earl! That hurts!"
"Not for long." The salve was a sticky paste which vanished into the skin beneath Dumarest's fingers. A numbing compound smelling of peat and containing the juice of various herbs. A crude anesthetic which would ease the pain of bruises and diminish the nagging agony of the broken rib. "Steady now."
"Earl?"
"Steady-move and you'll break the needle."
A hypogun would have been more efficient, blasting its charge through skin and fat and flesh, but the syringe would have to do. Dumarest rested his hands on the boy's side, feeling the ends of the broken rib, hearing the sudden inhalation, the barely stifled cry. Quickly he set the bone and, lifting the syringe, thrust the needle home. Leon convulsed as the tip hit bone.
"Hold still, damn you!"
Harsh words, but they did as intended. Pride held the boy still as Dumarest fed the hormone-rich compound from the syringe into the area around the broken rib. It would hold, seal and promote rapid healing. The thing done, Dumarest threw aside the empty syringe and rebound the slender torso.
"You do nothing for the next three days," he said flatly. "You lie there, you eat and you sleep, and that's all. Understand?"
Leon lifted a hand and wiped sweat from his eyes. In the dim light from the single bulb, he looked ghastly pale.
"And you?"
"Never mind me-we're talking about you. That rib will heal if left alone. Try and act the hero and you'll lacerate a lung and wind up dead, or in hospital." Dumarest picked up the third item which the package given him by Bic Wan had contained. A wrinkled pod which, squeezed, would release a puff of spores. A narcotic dust which would bring sleep and, he hoped, a loose and honest tongue.
"Earl, we're traveling on together, aren't we?"
"Maybe."
A lie, but a vague one. When he moved on, Dumarest intended to be alone. Crossing the room he looked through the window. The alley was in thick shadow, vagrant beams of illumination touching walls, a shuttered window, a can of garbage. From down the hall came the monotonous sound of coughing, as Chell Arlept waited for the panacea of sleep. Money could have cured him, given him fresh lungs grown from tissues of the old, but he had no money.
"Earl?"
"Your home world," said Dumarest slowly. "What made you say it was Nerth?"
"Because it is."
"You know how to get back there?"
"I don't want to go back." Leon eased himself on the bed. "I never want to see it again. I managed to get away and I'm staying away."
"Tell me," said Dumarest. "Does it have a large, silver moon? Is the sky blue at day and thin with stars at night?"
"It's got a moon," admitted the boy. "And, yes, a blue sky. The stars are thin too, but that's because it's a long way from the Center. Just like they are here. Why, Earl? What's your interest?"
Dumarest said, "Lean back. Make yourself comfortable. Close your eyes, that's it. Now breathe deeply, deeply, good." Lifting the pod he squeezed it, gusting a fine spray at the boy's mouth, seeing the minute spores enter the nostrils to be absorbed by the inner membranes.
Within seconds he was asleep.
"Leon, listen to me." Dumarest dropped to his knees beside the narrow bed. "Answer me truthfully-have you ever heard of the Cyclan?"
"No."
"Did anyone tell you to speak to me, to mention Nerth?"
"No."
"Is there such a place, or did you make up the name because you were afraid of something?"
"Nerth," murmured the boy. "No! I won't!"
"Steady!" He quieted beneath Dumarest's hand. "What made you run?"
"I-they, no! No, I won't do it!"
"Do what? Answer me, Leon, do what?"
The boy shifted on the bed, sweat shining on his face, his voice deepening, taking on the pulse of drums.
"From terror they fled to find new places on which to expiate their sins. Only when cleansed will the race of Man be united again."
The creed of the Original People. Dumarest rose, staring down at the bed, the figure it contained. A boy, too young to know what he was saying, or someone primed for just such an eventuality. The drug he'd used was primitive-any biological technician could have provided conditioning against it, primed the youngster with intriguing answers to appropriate questions.
Any information he could give would be valueless, and already he was convinced the boy had lied.
A knock and he spun as the door swung open.
"What-?" The woman was middle-aged, dowdy, her face seamed, relieved only by the luminosity of her eyes. Wide now as they stared at Dumarest's face, the glitter of the naked blade in his hand.
He spoke before she could scream. "What do you want?"
"The boy-I heard that he was ill. I wondered if I could help?"
"Are you a nurse?" Dumarest sheathed the knife.
"Yes, in a way. I work at the hospital and try to help others in my spare time. Chell Arlept, you know of him?"
"The dying man? Yes."
"I call sometimes. There's not much I can do, but at least I can help him to sleep. I wondered-"
"What I was doing with a knife in my hand?" Dumarest smiled, casually at ease. "You startled me, that's all."
"The boy?"
"Has been taken care of. All he needs now is to rest. Perhaps you could look in tomorrow?"
"I'm in no hurry." She moved towards the bed, smoothed back the hair from the pale face. "I could sit with him for a while." She added meaningfully, "I'm sure that you have other things to do."
To go downstairs, to find the woman who ran the hotel, to give her money for Leon's keep, more money to be given him when he woke. The cost of a Low passage which he would be a fool to use too soon, but Dumarest couldn't leave him stranded.
* * * * *
There was trouble at the field. Dumarest sensed it as he approached the gate, slowing as he studied the men standing around. Too many men and too many of them without apparent duties. Hard men with blank faces who needed no uniforms to betray their profession. Guards and agents, watchful and alert.
They stood in patches of shadow, scarcely moving, rigid with the patience which was part of their trade. A pair of them stepped forward as a man neared the gate, a tall figure wearing gray, the material scuffed, his feet unsteady.
"You there!" One of the guards shone a flashlight into a flushed and blinking face. "Name?"
"Connors. Why?"
"Just answer. You from the workings?"
"Say, what the hell is this all about?"
"Just answer. Rawf?"
"It could be," said his companion. "He fits the rough description. Mister, you'd better come with us."
"Me? What for? Like hell I will!"
"Suit yourself," said the first man. "You want it hard, you get it hard. Rawf!"
The sap made a flat, dull sound as it landed against the man's temple, knocking him into an unconscious heap.
Thoughtfully Dumarest turned away. The field sealed, a cyber landed-he felt the closing jaws of a trap. Soon the hospitals would be checked, the doctors, it wouldn't take long for Hsi to connect isolated incidents. Connect them and extrapolate and predict exactly where he was to be found. And, on Tradum, places were few in which he could hide. The city, the workings, the areas beyond the mountains impossi
ble to reach on foot. Even the Hyead couldn't live off the land here, between the mountains and the sea. And any attempt to hire transport would leave a trail.
The field-it had to be the field and the first ship to leave. But, already, he had left it too late.
"Man Dumarest!"
The voice came from the shadows, a slight figure in the darkness making a formless blur. One which became a stunted shape, horned, a hand extended for candy.
"Word, man Dumarest. One in scarlet has landed. You promised a high reward."
To a creature at the workings-another proof of the rudimentary telepathic ability Dumarest suspected the Hyead possessed.
"You are late with the word," he said gently. "But the reward will be given. Can you help me more?"
"How, man Dumarest?"
"I want to get on the field unseen. Can it be done?"
"By us, no."
"By others?"
"It is possible. The one known as Kiasong could help. He is to be found-"
"Thank you," said Dumarest. "I know where he is to be found."
Ayantel was closing down when he arrived, saying nothing as he took the heavy shutters from her hands, watching as he set them into position. The interior of the stall was hot, the air scented with spice and roasted meats. A single lamp threw a cone of brilliance over the counter and cooking apparatus, shadows clustering in the corners. Among them the Hyead bustled, cleaning, polishing skewers, setting cooked food to one side, piling the rest into containers of lambent fluid.
"I'm glad you came back," she said when the stall was sealed. "You know my name, what's yours?"
He told her, watching her eyes. If she recognized it she gave no sign.
"Earl," she mused. "Earl Dumarest. I like it, it has a good sound. I'm glad that you didn't lie."
"You would have known?"
"I knew that you were coming." Her hand lifted, gestured at the Hyead. "Kiasong told me. Don't ask me how he knew-sometimes I think they can pick up voices from the wind. He said you needed help. Is that right?"
"Yes. I-"
"Later." Turning she said, "Kiasong, that'll be all for now. Take the cooked food and give half to the monk. You've got the key?"
