by E. C. Tubb
Rhion said, "Renew attempts to contact. It could be a stray vessel unaware of our presence. Warn them of impending collision." He waited. "Well?"
"Message sent but no response."
"Try again."
"Result negative." The voice of the technician held strain.
"Flight path?" Volodya snapped the question. "Is it on a collision course?"
"Yes."
"Sound red alert! No! Wait!" In the projection the blue nimbus had flared to die, to wink out. "Check present position in relation to Zabul."
"Ship has moved into the seventh decant. Still on direct heading."
"Velocity?"
"One third of original and falling." A pause, then, "Contact established."
"An accident." Cade gusted his relief. "Some trader who plotted a bad flight pattern and has just realized it."
Dumarest said, "Are you equipped with warning beacons?"
"No." Volodya glanced at him then back at the depiction. "We don't advertise our presence," he explained. "Zabul is in a location well away from normal shipping routes and we aren't listed in any almanac. This is a private world and we want to keep it that way."
"The Huag-Chi-Tsacowa? Don't they know where you are?"
"No." Volodya saw Dumarest's frown. "You're thinking of deliveries," he said. "They send sealed cargo containers on given courses and we pick them up in space. The courses vary."
But could be plotted to a common point, given enough data and a sharp enough mind to evaluate it. Dumarest looked at the growing fleck on the screen, knowing what it had to be.
To Althea he said, "Zabul isn't a self-sufficient economy. You receive supplies, luxuries, imports, but produce nothing to sell. How do you manage?"
"We own world-based industries."
"Managed by the Vosburgh Consortium?"
"No." It was information she was reluctant to give or did not know. "The first Elders made the arrangements and they've been continued," she said. "Much was sold in order to build Zabul but enough was kept to maintain it. Why, Earl? Is it important?"
For him more than that. He looked at the others assembled in the chamber, all now united in the face of a common threat. Though they had yet to realize its strength, it was easy to predict how they would react. For them Zabul and the Terridae would come first. They would have no hesitation in handing him over.
The voice of the technician accompanied the blue haze, which now returned and brighter than before, drifted close.
"The vessel is the Saito and belongs to the Cyclan. It carries Cyber Lim who requests permission to land."
Chapter Twelve
He was tall and thin, his robe like flame, a scarlet envelope masking the gaunt lines of a body devoid of fat and unessential tissue. He kept himself at the height of metabolic efficiency by deliberate privation. The skull was smooth, hairless, the cheeks sunken, the eyes burning pits of intelligence beneath thrusting brows. The man had dedicated his life to the pursuit of logic and reason, had lost the capacity of emotion and had willingly become a living robot of flesh and blood.
Automatically he had been given the high place at the table and now, as he sat, light reflected from the sigil blazoned on the breast of his robe. The sigil was the Seal of the Cyclan and enriched the scarlet as, somehow, it diminished the man. A calculated effect: the organization was everything, those who served it merely cogs in the vast machine. Yet, even so, Lim was impressive.
"My apologies for having intruded on your privacy," he began. "And my congratulations at having hidden your world so well. I find it a place of intense interest and would appreciate the opportunity of a closer examination."
"Perhaps that could be arranged," said Logan.
"You are kind, my lady." The burning eyes held her own for a moment before moving on. A brief glance which had told Lim all he needed to know. She was vain, proud, afraid, eager to please one who could bolster her position. The product of emotional disorder which cursed all who did not wear the scarlet robe. "It may be that I could be of help."
"We have no need of help." Volodya was curt. "What is your business with us?"
"I want the man Dumarest." He heard the sharp intake of the woman's breath, a grunt, saw the looks passed one to the other and felt the glow of mental achievement, which was the only pleasure he could know. The prediction that Dumarest would be on Zabul had been high, but even so nothing was certain. "He is here?"
Volodya dodged the question. "Why do you want him?"
"For reasons which do not concern you."
"I think they do."
"I suggest that what you think need not be of importance." Lim turned to the others, to Logan and Vole. The smooth, even modulation of his voice did not change but they were aware of a subtle menace. "Supplies are delivered to you by the Huag-Chi-Tsacowa and you have arranged a novel form of handling. If, however, the carriers were to be persuaded to end their contract with you, the situation could be difficult." He continued without waiting for comment. "The lands to the south of the Great Water on Legault are devoted to the growing of piksen. The pods are of high medicinal value, yet their active ingredient could be synthesized in factories closer to their market. If that were done the income from the crop would fall drastically. The prediction that within three seasons the land would be more a liability than an asset is of eighty-nine percent probability."
Logan swallowed. "The lands he spoke of were a source of Zabul's income."
"There are also mines on Bruzac," said Lim. "They need water which is purchased from the Willcox-Linden Company. They depend on a dam. If that dam should be breached the mines would be bereft of water and would cease production. The prediction of total ruin is ninety-nine percent."
So close to certainty as to make no difference and the message was plain. Cooperate or suffer the consequences and he had made it plain what they would be.
"Threats," said Demich. "I had thought better of the Cyclan."
"We do not threaten," corrected Lim. "We do not take sides or give advice. For those who hire the service of the Cyclan we merely predict the logical outcome of events. Each action must have a reaction and to extrapolate the most probable sequence of events is the talent of every cyber. Have I threatened? I merely pointed out the logical outcome of certain actions if those actions should be taken. I could, with equal ease, illustrate the steps it would be wise to take to avoid those consequences."
"Which are?"
Lim glanced at Logan. "As yet you have not hired my services, my lady."
"But if we should? Can't you give us a clue?"
"If you apply and are accepted then a cyber will give you the use of his skill. If you do not then no help can be obtained. Of course," he added, "there is no obligation on you to make use of the predictions once they are given."
But they would be used, for to ignore them was to invite disaster and, once used, they would be impossible to reject. To have the knowledge of what would happen if certain actions were taken. To foresee difficulties. To be able to predict the future-a lure hard to withstand and, dazzled by the possibilities, few reckoned the price.
To hire the services of the Cyclan was to yield power to the organization. A fact rarely displayed and mostly unsuspected but which worked to meld each gained world into a part of the Great Plan. The aim and object of the Cyclan: to achieve total domination over all the galaxy.
Against that design Zabul was of no importance. An artificial world housing those lost in emotional dreams, it could contribute nothing of advantage. It held no financial influence, controlled no affiliated planets, was associated with no strong allies. A world alone that could be treated with disdain.
But Lim knew better than to voice the obvious. Devoid of pride himself, yet he could appreciate how the emotional poison affected others. Knew, also, how to manipulate those prone to longings of grandeur.
"One man," he said. "A single individual against the welfare of your world. Have the Terridae worked so hard and waited so long for one man to bring
them ruin?" He paused, waiting for the words to register. Then added the other half of the idea. "The Cyclan is generous to those aiding its servants. Help me and, in turn, you will be helped."
Volodya said, "The question is academic. We neither want nor need help from the Cyclan. I'm afraid, Cyber Lim, you have had a wasted journey."
"Are you saying that Dumarest is not here?"
"No," snapped Logan. "He is not saying that." She glared at Volodya. "He merely forgets who are the Elders of Zabul."
"The Council must decide," rumbled Vole. "These are matters to think about."
But not for long and Lim knew what the answer would be. Dumarest was a stranger but obviously had sown discord. The woman wanted to be rid of him and she had support. Against it Volodya could do little. Soon now, Dumarest would be in his hands.
Luck, he thought. The unpredictable workings of chance, which could work both ways. Now it was running for him and his future would be assured. A higher sphere of influence would place him closer to the summit of the Cyclan hierarchy. A step to the ultimate position in which he could be elected Cyber Prime. It was possible; proven merit was always rewarded but at the least he would have earned the right to join the massed brains which formed Central Intelligence. To rest among them, divorced from weak and hampering flesh, to spend endless millennia in the gestalt of freed intelligences.
If nothing else, the capture of Dumarest would give him that.
The place had an acrid smell: the stench of acids and chemicals and metallic substances together with the residue of vaporized alkaloids. Dumarest finished closing the box which lay before him on a bench and carefully wiped his hands. They quivered a little and his face was sticky with sweat. Before continuing he washed at a sink, letting water gush over his head and the nape of his neck. The muscles above his shoulders were knotted with strain.
"Earl?" Nubar Kusche called from outside the door as Dumarest made the final adjustment. "Can I come in?"
"A moment." Dumarest wiped the top of the bench, threw the swabs into a disposal bin, and checked the seals of the box. "Right!"
Kusche was suspicious, his eyes searching the room, halting as they rested on the box. "You crazy bastard!"
"Who told you?"
"No one, but I heard you'd asked to be provided with a test lab and some assorted chemicals. Medwin mentioned a couple and said something about a switch." He gestured at the box. "Is that it?"
Dumarest nodded.
"How the hell did you know how to make a bomb?" Kusche didn't wait for an answer. "You've been a miner, right? And a mercenary? Maybe an engineer? All get to know something about explosives. Man, you're crazy! Why not just wait it out? The youngsters are with you and will stand firm. Why risk your neck?"
"To save it," said Dumarest. "And it's yours, too, remember?"
"You don't have to remind me." Kusche scowled. "One way or the other my neck's on the block. But why not see what happens? The Council may refuse to let you go."
A chance Dumarest had assessed and one he couldn't rely on. To hand him over to the Cyclan would be good policy from the point of those who held power. Given more time he might have been able to command greater support but Lim had arrived too soon.
And he could guess at the threats the cyber would make.
He reached for the bomb and looked at Kusche as the man picked it up.
"You made it, Earl," he said. "At least I can carry it. Place it too if you tell me where."
"There's only one place."
"On the Cyclan ship?" Kusche nodded as if he'd already thought it out and was pleased at Dumarest's verifying his conclusion. "Now I know you're crazy. It's veered off, didn't you know?"
"I've been busy."
"Damned busy." Kusche hefted the box. "This thing's big enough to blow the top off a mountain and I'll bet every grain cost a gallon of sweat. Triggered?"
"Time and radio impulse."
"Safety?"
Dumarest said dryly, "I didn't intend committing suicide. It's safe until primed."
"This thing?" Kusche looked at a small, red knob. "Pull it and she's ready, is that it?"
"Why the questions?"
"I want to know what to do." Kusche touched the back. "Limpet-layer. Strip and apply. You make that too?"
"No." Dumarest headed toward the door. "It came from stock. And why do you want to know what to do?"
"We're partners, Earl. You made it and I'll fix it." Kusche was serious. He fell into step beside Dumarest as he headed down the outside passage. "Call it pride, if you like, but I've ridden on your back long enough. It's time I paid my way."
Dumarest said, "Have you worn a suit? Had experience in the void?"
"Have you?"
"I've done undersea work and held a job on a salvage team. If you want to help, give me a hand suiting up and stand by the lock."
It was at the summit of a pinnacle reached through triple doors and guarded by a combination lock. One Dumarest opened with the information given him by Althea. Beyond lay a chamber walled in screens which gave the impression they were of glass. Depicted in them, space was empty but for stars and a single, drifting mote.
"The ship," said Kusche. "Once the bomb is fixed we call the tune. Go home or go to hell! Now where's that suit?"
It rested in its slot and Dumarest checked it before donning the plastic envelope and sealing the helmet. Air whispered in his ears as he stepped into the orifice of the air lock, Kusche handing over the bomb before rotating the compartment into space. A step and Dumarest was on the slope of the pinnacle, held by the gravity zone of Zabul. Flexing his knees, he sprang upward and was suddenly spinning in free fall as he broke the attraction. A moment later he had corrected the spin to hang drifting while he searched for his target.
It hung against the background of burning stars more majestic now in their naked splendor. A tiny ovoid which occluded the brightness, and Dumarest moved toward it with the aid of the power-jets built into his suit. Against the bulk of Zabul he would be invisible to casual observation and he was moving to slowly to activate the vessel's alarms.
But if the vessel should move while he was within the zone of the Erhaft field he would die.
A real danger; ships moved at the dictates of computer directives and the system could have been set to maintain a constant distance from Zabul, to follow a random flight path as a security precaution, or even to twitch away from any object, no matter how small or slow-moving, heading toward it.
Or Lim, tired of waiting, could have decided to take more positive action.
Dumarest altered his course a little, aiming to reach the ship toward the rear section housing the drive mechanism. The hull slapped gently against the soles of his boots and he flexed his knees to cushion the impact. The bomb was clumsy in his gloved hands and he turned it, examining the fuse. In the starlight his face took on the savage ferocity of a primitive idol. For a long moment he worked on the device then stripped off the limpet-cover. A push and the mass was firm against the metal of the hull. A jump and he headed back toward Zabul.
Urich Volodya was waiting for him in the lock.
He stood very tall and determined, two of his guards at hand. Young men armed with clubs and guns firing gouts of stunning gas. Short-range weapons but effective in limited areas. Kusche was nowhere to be seen.
"I'm sorry," said Volodya when Dumarest had opened his helmet. "I must ask you to come with me."
"Ask? Have I a choice?"
"No." Volodya sounded regretful. "I could wish things were otherwise but circumstances leave no alternative. Please remove your suit. I must warn you that the guards have orders to restrain you if you are foolish enough to attempt resistance."
Words well chosen-he could resist but never escape.
As Dumarest returned the suit to its slot he said, "I assume that Cyber Lim has persuaded the Council to hand me over."
"That is correct."
"Did you agree with the decision?"
"I am not of the Elder
s."
"Which isn't answering my question," said Dumarest. "Or perhaps you did answer it after all. And the price? You surely aren't handing me over for nothing?" He turned as if to make a last inspection of the suit, then smiled at Volodya. "You didn't answer. If you sold me cheap you made a mistake. After all, with me goes your hope of ever living to see the Event."
"So you say."
"Why do you think I'm so important to the Cyclan?" Dumarest left the question hanging as he moved toward the door. Volodya stepped back, one of the guards following his example. The other, lingering, went down as Dumarest stunned him with a blow to the neck.
"You fool! Guard-"
Volodya's voice died as Dumarest jumped through the doorway and slammed the panel shut behind him. The combination lock spun uselessly beneath his hand. One of the triple doors opened as the guard came from behind, a writhing cloud of greenish vapor spouting from his gun. It reached Dumarest as, holding his breath, he flung open the door and dived through. Hitting the floor he rolled, sucking air, rising to lunge at the second door. Behind him Volodya snapped his impatience.
"Wait, you fool! Hit the gas and you'll be affected. Don't fire again until he is facing you!"
The guard's inexperience won Dumarest time and he put it to good advantage. The final door yielded and he raced down a passage, turned at a junction, ran on to turn again and lose himself in a complex maze. One stranger to him than to the residents of Zabul but even they would need time to isolate and corner him.
How to escape?
No-how to survive?
A woman stared at him as he rounded a corner calling after him as she recognized who he was.
"Earl! Wait! I want to ask you what the Shining Ones do when-"
The question broke off, unfinished, as he ran on.
Ahead he caught the flash of movement and veered down a nearby corridor, to emerge in a chamber set with arching beams and windows which gave onto a misty vastness apparently as spacious as the nave of a tremendous cathedral. Then he readjusted his orientation and knew the vision to be the product of illusion. The scenes were set behind lensed windows which expanded visual horizons and provided the stuff of endless yearnings.
