by E. C. Tubb
"Earl!" In the shadows something stirred, took the shape of a man, came forward with a flash of white teeth in the ebon of a caste-marked face. "I wondered how long it would be before you came in."
"Jmombota!" Dumarest lifted a hand in greeting. "Anything new?"
"On Zakym?" The agent shrugged. "During the last period of delusia I saw my grandmother who told me that I was wasting my time here. A waste, don't you think? I hardly needed a visit from the dead to tell me that. As I hardly need you to tell me this world has compensations."
"Was I going to tell you that?"
"People do. All the time. But never, when I offer to allow them to take my place, do they show the slightest eagerness to take advantage of my generosity." The agent glanced at an ornate clock. "A drink?"
Dumarest said, ironically, "Have we the time?"
"I was checking. The suns are well apart now and we have hours before they close. Before delusia I'm going to take something to put me well asleep and to keep me in that state. I was never fond of my grandmother even when she was alive and now that she's dead I can't stand the sight of her." He laughed and produced a bottle. "To your health!"
"To yours!"
They drank and stood for a while in companionable silence. They had little in common either in race or creed but both were men, both alien to the culture of this world, and both knew the meaning of loneliness.
As he poured fresh drinks the agent said, "The ships will arrive when they come, Earl."
"Can you read my mind?"
"Do I have to? Each time you come into town you look at the field. I've seen your eyes and recognize what they hold. I've seen it in other men and, once I think, I had it myself. Once, but no longer-a wife and child took care of that. They provide strong anchors for a man with a tendency to roam."
Dumarest made no comment.
"Sweet traps, someone once called them," continued the agent. "Soft hands which cling and can never be shaken loose." And then, casually, he added, "I understand that you are selling your lands."
"So?"
"I wondered why. Things hard won should not be thrown away. And it is hard to estimate a fair price. You could be cheated, my friend."
"Or dead."
"That too, but we grow solemn." The agent smiled and lifted his glass in a question. The smile widened as Dumarest shook his head. "A wise man once said that happiness can never be found in a bottle, only truth. And truth, when found, can be painful."
"You know a lot of wise men," said Dumarest. "And have a lot of friends. Is Mbom Chelhar one of them?"
"No."
"But you know him?"
"As I know you, Earl. Less well and with less pleasure. He is away at the moment, a guest of someone, I think. Probably examining a herd of some kind. He is an agent for the purchase of beasts so I understand. You see? My knowledge is vague."
Dumarest doubted it. "Is he expected back soon?"
"Perhaps."
"When you see him give him a message. Or get one to him. He is invited to dine at the Castle Delamosk tonight." He added, blandly, "A matter of business. Can the man be trusted?"
For answer the agent picked up a dried fruit from an open container. "Look at this, Earl. When growing in its natural state it is a thing of beauty, apparently succulent and offering the promise of pleasant nourishment. But the show is a lie. Bite into it and you would find the taste of gall and the attributes of medication. A wise man does not trust what he sees."
A warning-and a Hausi did not lie. As he threw the fruit back into its box Dumarest said, "A most useful piece of information. And one which should be rewarded. It is obvious that the Lady Lavinia will need a shrewd agent to handle any business transaction which may arise from the selling of her beasts. It would be to her interest to deal through you and, naturally the usual commissions will be paid. That is if you are willing to accept the commission?"
A good arrangement and one offering mutual advantage. Smiling the agent reached for the bottle.
"I shall be happy to serve. With contacts like yourself, Earl, I may yet achieve my ambition to retire to a palace on Hitew. A small one, naturally, but large enough for the garden to be filled with the singing blooms of Zlethe. There I shall sit as the sun descends and merge with the music which the plants and I shall create. Who knows? I may even become a famous composer. You will join me in a toast to that?" His tone changed a little, became more meaningful. "Let us drink to the ambitions of us both, my friend. May we each achieve our heart's desire!"
Again they stood in silence each engrossed in his own private dream, then the agent, setting down his glass said, "An interesting item of news, Earl. A wrecked vessel was discovered drifting in the Rift. A small trader by the shape. Incredibly it still contained a living man. They took him to Fralde."
Chapter Six
The building was of stone, massive blocks fused together with the heat of lasers, windows shaped in tall, pointed arches, the stories rearing one above the other against a somber sky. Leaden stone set in leaden grounds against leaden clouds. On Fralde everything was grey.
Director Ningsia matched his environment. A short, blocky man with skin bearing creases as if it too were made of stone. Grey hair swept back from a high forehead. His mouth was thin, the lips bloodless, the eyes slanted ovoids beneath uprising brows. His uniform was grey; only the insignia of his rank riding high on his left bicep shone with luminous emerald.
A neatly precise man dedicated to the stern dictates of his culture. One who believed in the submergence of self to the good of the whole.
He said, "Cyber Ardoch the matter is being dealt with in the usual way. The man is beyond any aid we can give."
"But he is still alive?"
"Amazingly, yes. His continued existence is a contravention of all accepted standards of the survival-attributes of the human race. My own speculation is that he has certain mutant traits which has increased his defense mechanisms to an incredible extent. The condition of his epidermis and the internal decay alone would have killed any normal man. An interesting specimen which is, of course, the reason we have devoted so much time and material to his welfare."
An attitude the cyber could appreciate.
"You have information as to the original situation?"
"Of course. The rescue vessel was a small ship operating from this planet and engaged in plotting the energy-flows occurring in this region of the Rift. Its detectors spotted mass and an investigation was made. The wreck was little more than twisted metal as was to be expected but, incredibly, a portion of it remained intact. Apparently the sole occupant had sealed himself within and insulated the compartment with a pattern of meshed wires fed by battery-power. In effect he had, somehow, managed to heterodyne the destructive energies of the Rift. Naturally he had also a supply of food and water which, together with quick-time-but surely you have read the report?"
"I have."
"There is nothing more I can add." Ningsia made a small gesture, one of dismissal. "A full autopsy will be made after the man has died and the report completed. If you are interested I will see to it that a copy is sent to you."
Ardoch said, evenly, "That is not why I am here, Director. It is essential that I see the man."
"See him?" Ningsia frowned. "What purpose would that serve the patient? He is comatose."
"Even so, Director, I must insist."
The cyber didn't raise his voice, it continued to be the trained, even modulation carefully designed to eliminate all irritant factors, but the Director was under no illusion. The Cyclan was powerful and the cyber was a servant of the Cyclan.
As he hesitated the cyber continued, "It is a small matter, surely? It will not inconvenience the running of your hospital. All I require is access to the patient and the services of a medical practitioner who will obey my orders. That and privacy."
Privacy? Ningsia's frown deepened-what business could the cyber have with the near-dead survivor of a wrecked vessel? Yet how could he refuse to cooperate?
Fralde was on the verge of completing negotiations with a sister world-an alliance which held great promise. The Cyclan had been of tremendous help in gaining maximum advantage. To deny the request would be to risk his own advancement and to court punishment for his lack of discernment.
Stiffly he snapped to attention. "I am at your full disposal, Cyber Ardoch. The patient is in ward 87, bed 152, Doctor Wuhu will attend you." He added, bleakly, "He will do everything you ask."
Wuhu was a younger edition of the Director; a little less stiff, a little less tall. Following him through the hospital the cyber, by contrast, was a pillar of flame. His scarlet robe with the great seal of the Cyclan glowing on its breast reflected the light in a host of ruby shimmers. His shaven skull, rising above the thrown-back cowl, looked emaciated but was simply bone and muscle devoid of fat. As was the rest of his hard, lean body.
To a cyber food was something to fuel the metabolism and nothing else. Fat was a waste of both food and energy, unwanted tissue which slowed mental processes and physical function. Like emotion it was unessential to the working of the intellect.
And no cyber could feel emotion.
An operation performed at puberty on the thalamus reenforced earlier training and divorced the mind from the impulses of the body. Ardoch could feel no hate, no fear, no anger, no love. A flesh and blood robot he followed the doctor through the bleak corridors of the hospital, indifferent to the cries, the moans, the sounds of anguish coming from the beds ranked in the vast wards.
Indifferent also to the glimpses of doctors working in operating theaters, the machines, the attendants, the creatures on which they worked. People were basically machines; those who healed them were engineers repairing the biological fabrications. They were merciful in their fashion-but efficiency came first.
An attitude of which the cyber approved.
"In here," said Wuhu as they approached a door. "Far down on the left."
"You have mobile screens?"
"Of course."
"See they are placed in readiness. I understand the patient is comatose-have drugs on hand together with a hypogun. You use such a device?"
"We are not primitives," said the young man, stiffly. "May I ask what drugs you intend to use?" He blinked at the answer, his momentary hope of scoring a small victory over the other's ignorance vanishing as he realized the cyber knew as much about medicine as himself. Even so he uttered a warning. "They are potent compounds. Excessive use or certain combinations could result in convulsions and death."
Ardoch said, "Your orders were plain, were they not?"
"To obey you-yes, they were plain."
"Then do as you were directed. See to the screens, obtain the drugs and equipment but, first, show me the patient."
He lay on a narrow cot, a mass of decaying tissue, the face distorted, the cheeks sunken, the lids closed over the twitching eyes. Beneath the thin sheet, which was his only cover, the body seemed distorted, one leg ending in a stump, the hips swollen, asymmetrical. The skin was scaled, cracked and oozing a thin, odorous pus. A crust had formed at the edges of the mouth.
He was not alone.
Ardoch stiffened at the sight of the cowled figure which sat beside the cot, hands resting on the patient's arm, his voice a low, soothing murmur as he enhanced the hypnotic trance into which he had thrown the sick man.
"You are standing on a meadow bright with little flowers with a brook running along one end and trees giving shade at the other. There are friends with you, a girl whom you love and who loves you in return. Soon you are to be married but now you are young and filled with the joy of life. The sun is warm and together you will swim in the clear water. You can feel it now. You are touching it and your friends are laughing and your girl is smiling and you are content. From the trees come…"
The monk paid no attention as the cyber halted at his side, concentrating on the hypnotic suggestions he was implanting in the mind of the dying man so that, at least, he would know a brief if final happiness.
As Wuhu came to join him Ardoch said, "Does this man have permission to do what he is doing?"
"Brother Venn is known to the hospital. He comes and goes as he pleases."
"That is not what I asked."
"Yes, he has permission to tend the patients. When we have done all that we can do then he seems able to give added comfort. It costs nothing."
"I understand the patient was comatose."
"He was, brother." Verin rose to his feet to stand beside the cyber, his brown robe in sharp contrast to the scarlet, the homespun to the shimmering weave. "But there are ways to bring comfort even to a mind locked in on itself."
"You have used drugs?"
The monk shrugged aside the accusation. "I have used nothing but touch and words, brother. They are all that is needed for anyone wise in their application. Words and-" he let irony edge his tone "-a little understanding. Men are not machines no matter what those who would find it convenient for them to be may claim."
Watching them Wuhu sensed the mutual antagonism which wreathed them like an invisible cloud. Masked yet it was there as they faced each other. Like natural enemies, a cat and dog perhaps, or the opposing articles of differing faiths. The monk who believed in love and tolerance and the cyber who believed in nothing but the cold logic of emotionless reason which had no room for sentiment and no place for mercy. The Church and the Cyclan face to face over the dying.
If it came to a war between them who would win?
An academic question as the young doctor was quick to realize. Those who had dedicated their lives to the doctrine of peace would never seek to kill and those who followed reason would never yield to the final stupidity. Between them would be no bloody battles or corrosive wars in which planets would burn and men wither like flies in winter. And yet, even so, always between them there would be conflict.
But, if by some incredible twist of fate actual war should rise between them, Wuhu would back the Cyclan. They were not afraid to exterminate.
And yet who could assess the stubborn resolve of a crusade?
He shook his head, aware that such speculation had no place here at this time, if ever, and the moment of strain passed as Ardoch turned toward him.
"Where are the screens?"
They arrived as the monk, after a final glance at the dying man, moved quietly down the ward to where another patient was in need of his ministration. He and all the occupants of the neatly set rows of beds, vanished from sight as attendants set the screens into place and turned the area around the bed into an oasis of privacy.
"The drugs." Ardoch gestured at the physician. "This man is in a deep, hypnotic trance. I want him brought out of it and his mind placed in a state of conscious awareness. It would be as well if you recognized the urgency of the situation."
In other words kill him if it was necessary but wake him long enough to listen and answer. Wuhu was aware of the implication but, a physician of Fralde, he had no compunction at cutting short a life which was already lost. And it would be an act of mercy to shorten the dying man's anguish.
As he stepped forward to lift the charged hypogun and rest it against the flaccid throat of the patient the cyber caught his arm.
"A moment. I wish to check the medication." He twisted a knob and ejected the charge. "As I suspected. You were about to give far too high a dose of painkiller. Coupled with the rest it would have given him a momentary euphoria. You forget that he is experiencing subjective pleasure. Before he can be of use that must be eradicated. Here." He handed back the instrument. "I want him awake, aware and in pain. Commence!"
Silently the doctor obeyed. The hiss of the airblast carrying the drugs into the patient's bloodstream was followed, within seconds, by a groan.
It yielded to a scream.
"God! God the pain! The pain!"
The voice was thick, slobbering, the words almost lost in the liquid gurgle of phlegm, the dissolving tissue of decaying lungs. On the cover the hands clenched, fingers digging
into the fabric, pus thick at cracked joints.
"The pain!"
"It will be eased if you cooperate." Ardoch sat on the edge of the bed and leaned towards the contorted face. Reflected light from his robe gave the pasty flesh an unreal flush of artificial health. "Your name? Your name, man! Your name!"
"Fatshan. Fatshan of the Sleethan. The engineer. We got caught in the Rift. A generator-for God's sake do something about the pain."
The hypogun hissed as the cyber gestured. Wuhu stepped back, eyes and ears alert, Ningsia, for one, would be grateful for any information he could gain and convey. As if guessing his thoughts Ardoch held out his hand.
"Give me the hypogun and go."
"Leave my patient?"
"To me, yes. And I shall not remind you again of your instructions." As the man left the cyber stared at the dying engineer. "Look at me," he commanded. "At the robe I wear. You have seen others like it before I think. On Harald? On board the Sleethan?"
The only pleasure a cyber could experience was the glow of mental achievement and, as the dying man nodded, Ardoch knew it to the full. A prediction confirmed and his skill demonstrated without question. From a handful of facts, diverse data collected, correlated, woven into a pattern he had extrapolated the logical sequence of events. An attribute possessed by all cybers, the fruit of long and arduous training which enhanced natural talent, the thing which made them both desired and disliked by those who paid for their services.
Would a certain pattern gain favor in the markets? A manufacturer of clothing could find the answer-at a price, the predictions as to sales and shifts in fashion guiding him and ensuring the maximum protection against loss, the maximum anticipation of profit.
Should a proposed marriage be canceled or the original intention pursued? A cyber would point out the path such a union would take as appertaining to the shift and balance of power, the influence of possible children, the merging of interests, the alienation of potential enemies.
