by E. C. Tubb
They must be very close.
Dumarest turned to the table, again searching, papers flying as he burrowed into the litter. If Armand had relaxed enough to yield to the lure of wine then he must have finished his task. Somewhere, in the mess, must be the final pattern of lines or a series of figures or a compacted code of some kind which other experts would recognize. He froze as voices came from outside.
"A scream, officer, I swear it. I thought nothing of it at the time but it's been worrying me. The old man could have had an accident. I tried the door but it's locked."
"And he had a visitor, you say?"
"Yes." The voice hesitated then, firmly, said, "A tough-looking character. From the field by the look of him. That's what got me to worrying. If he thought the old man had money hidden away-well, I thought I'd report it."
The jaws of the trap snapping fast. Obviously there had been a watcher, the assassin himself, perhaps. When Dumarest had shown no sign of calling the guards he had been forced to act.
Dumarest ran from the study into the bedroom. From a wardrobe he pulled cloaks, blankets, assorted clothing. All were old, frayed, thin with age. They ripped easily between his hands.
As a pounding came from the front door he stooped, wrapped swathes of material around his boots, more around his thighs, rough wadding which he held with knotted strands. A stained blouse over his tunic and a faded cloak over that and he was done. The rest of the disguise must lie in his stance and movements.
The front door shook beneath the impact of a boot. The voice of the watcher rose above the hammering.
"I'd better go around the back, officer. If I see him I'll call out."
Another mistake, the man should have had others watching, but it was one to Dumarest's advantage. He reached the back door, opened it, threw it wide then stepped back as footsteps pounded towards him. Outside the rain had increased to a steady downpour, the air misted with flying droplets, the wind spattering a moist hail. The figure which suddenly appeared was young, the hair roached and sparkling with wetness, the face smooth and innocent. He wore a dull green jacket with a high, flared collar and ornamented lapels. The buttons were discs of ebon traced with an amber design. One was missing, a loop of thread showing from where it had been torn.
A man dressed for a party who had been standing unprotected in the rain. A man who was not what he seemed.
His face changed as he saw the open door and he ran towards it, mouth opened to shout, a shout which died unborn as Dumarest lunged towards him. They met in the portal, the assassin grabbing at something beneath his jacket, Dumarest already in action. His right hand rose up and forward, the palm turned outwards, the fingers curved backwards. The heel of his hand skidded up over the mouth striking the nostrils with the full force of his arm, back and shoulder.
A blow which crushed cartilage, smashed delicate bone, drove the splinters upwards through the space between the eyes, shards which thrust like daggers through the thin point of the skull and into the brain.
An old hat had been among Armand Ramhed's effects. Dumarest pulled it over his face as the assassin fell, jumping over the body which had slumped in the doorway and walking without hesitation across the untidy garden. An alley lay beyond a fence, deserted aside from a scavenger.
The man didn't bother to look up from the heap of garbage he was examining for items of worth. Ramhed had been poor, the area reflected his poverty, it was enough for a man to take care of himself. And it was raining with a wind which drove stinging droplets into the eyes.
Head down, shoulders stooped, trudging like a man on the edge of exhaustion, Dumarest headed into the city.
Chapter Five
As a boy Cyber Broge had been taught that to be impatient was to be unwise; a lesson emphasized with the coldly efficient skill of the Cyclan long before he was permitted to wear the scarlet robe which now clothed his sparse figure. The lesson, like all the others which had been taught, like all the things which had been done to make him what he now was, had served its intent. But, even so, he wished that the work in which he was now involved could be less than it was.
A wish which died as soon as it was formed; to long for the unattainable was an insult to intelligence and to chafe against necessity a mental irritation.
"Cyber Broge?" The man before him was a merchant dealing in grain, furs, oils and rare perfumes. A native of Harald and a wealthy representative of his class. He had paid for the interview and intended to make the most of it.
"Well?"
"Should I concentrate on accumulating grain or would it be better to sell what I have and invest the money in furs?" He fumbled with some papers, a little uneasy beneath the cyber's unwavering stare. "Or should I increase my stock of perfumes?"
"They come from where?"
"Vandalia. Essences of emphrige, olten and plenia."
"The primary of Vandalia has shown increased turbulence of the photosphere and this will, inevitably, disturb the normal tranquility of local space. There could be an emission of unusual radiation which could affect the plants producing the oils you mention. The probability of that happening is seventy-three per cent."
"High?"
"As stated." The cyber's voice was an even modulation devoid of irritant factors. "The fashionable preference for the wearing of furs will fade as a result of a singer now achieving fame who has stated her dislike of wearing the skins of slaughtered beasts."
"Is that a fact?"
"It is a probability of ninety-two percent."
"High?"
"As stated."
"Almost a certainty?" The merchant hesitated, wanting to press then, remembering the fee he had paid, went ahead. "It is certain the market for fashion-furs will fall?"
"Nothing is certain," said the cyber evenly. "My prediction is based on an assessment of known data and the probability is as stated."
"Then you advise me to-"
"I do not advise." The tones remained as even as before but, even so the rebuke was plain. "I do not guide. As a servant of the Cyclan I merely inform you of the logical development of events. What action you choose to take is up to you." Reaching out a hand he touched a bell and, as an acolyte appeared, gestured towards the door.
The interview was over and another followed at once, this time a man who represented a consortium manufacturing small electronic components who was eager to know market trends on the world which took their exports. He was followed by a woman interested in discovering which of three suitors would be the best match for her only daughter. Then two others also interested in business, a matron seeking investment advice, an old man worried about his health.
He was followed by a politician.
Guy Herylin was smooth, shrewd, ambitious. An election was to be held in a northern sector and he wanted to win it. He also wanted to know what path he should take to gain the greatest advantage. Money would help-but who to bribe?
The cyber heard him out, his face expressionless, his mind working as he assessed the facts presented to him, extrapolated from them, gauged the man and set him against what he knew of his opponents. They too were ambitious but a little less ruthless. Pressure could be applied against them, their influence would wane, Herylin would take over and, the higher he climbed, the more he would come to rely on the services of the Cyclan.
An old, old pattern and one which every cyber helped to weave. Men and women of influence, coming for help and guidance, listening to the predictions and being subtly maneuvered by them. A blight discovered in a distant region which would pass to the estates of a highly placed politician which would, in turn, present a financial disaster. One which could be aggravated by a clever buying of stock in advance, of selling it high, of ruining an opponent by an apparent use of coincidental good fortune.
A system which had proved its worth on a scatter of worlds throughout the galaxy. Planets which were ruled in fact if not in name by the servants of the organization to which Broge belonged. Scarlet-robed cybers, always ready to make thei
r predictions, to take a handful of facts and from them to extrapolate the most logical sequence of events. Almost, to those who used them, it seemed they could predict the future and actions, based on those predictions, made them actualities.
Now, to Guy Herylin, he said, "The representative of your region has suffered from a heart condition within the past two weeks. He is addicted to hunting and, if he should continue his sport the possibility is that he will suffer another attack shortly after commencing the chase. Should that happen the prediction of you being elected to take his place is eighty-four per cent." Pausing he added, "Assuming the attack is fatal, naturally."
"And if it isn't?"
"There are too many variables at this time for a firm prediction. He could linger for months and his party take steps to lift another of their choosing to his place."
"So, at the present time, the key to my advancement lies in the possibility of my opponent having a second attack? A fatal one?"
"Exactly."
"I see." Herylin rose from where he had been sitting. "You couldn't advise how such a thing could be accomplished, I suppose?"
"We of the Cyclan do not advise. We-"
"Do not take sides." Herylin was curt in his interruption. "I know. You don't have to spell it out for me. You are neutral observers and only give predictions of varying orders of probability. Well, thanks anyway."
He had been rude and would later have time to realize how foolish he had been. The services of the Cyclan were not cheap and not to be had on demand. After he had managed to dispose of his opponent, Herylin would become a tried and tested weapon to be used in the domination of his world.
The man would have no choice. Ringed as he would be by others as ambitious as himself Guy Herylin had to rely on the predictions of a cyber. What course would this particular piece of legislation follow? What would be the outcome of such and such introduction to the laws? How best to raise taxation? How else to discover weaknesses and trends? To be apparently in advance of public opinion? To always seem to be leading while others followed, always too late with too little?
Slowly he would be broken, slowly bent to the will of his masters as an animal to the desires of its owner. Then he would learn that it did not pay to be rude to any cyber. That it could be fatal to defy the power of the Cyclan.
Broge felt the glow of mental satisfaction.
He was young, sent to this small and isolated world to help the Great Design, a cog yet to prove himself. But already the work had begun and soon he could dispense with the minor irritations; the women who sought advice despite his denial of giving it, those who had small problems of only personal importance, the interviews with those who only wanted to gain wealth.
"Master!" The acolyte was standing before him. "The anteroom is empty. Only Captain Kregor waits."
The police chief of the city and the cyber could guess what his report would be. Again he felt the glow of mental satisfaction and realized, even as he felt it, that he had lacked the right to earn it. Circumstances and the shrewd predictions of others had brought it about. He merely happened to be at the right place at the right time, and yet, small though his part had been, it set the seal on the work of others and would not be forgotten.
"Send him in."
Kregor had been kept waiting for an hour and was far from pleased. He strode towards the desk, a thick-set, burly man with a shock of reddish hair and a face seamed and creased with weather and time. His uniform, the cyber noted, was rumpled and his boots stained by water and dirt. True it had been raining again but was the man so careless as to personal appearances?
In return the captain stared his dislike at the figure robed in scarlet.
Kregor didn't like the cyber. He didn't like any of the breed. Men should look like men, not gaunt, skeletal shapes with faces like skulls, shaven, the eyes alone burning with life. A man should enjoy his food and wine and the weaknesses of the flesh; those who could feel no pain or pleasure, who used food as fuel and could neither hate nor fear were something other than human. Robots, living machines, creatures who had been operated on at puberty and who could feel nothing but the pleasure of mental achievement.
Slaves to the organization the seal of which was emblazoned on the crest of the scarlet robe.
Cybers!
Yet he had no choice but to cooperate and, if he was wise, to be polite.
"Captain?" Broge was waiting. "You have something to report?"
"Yes."
"The man Dumarest is safe in custody?" The cyber rose, guessing the answer from the captain's expression. "He isn't? What happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"Don't be too precise with me, Captain. Not if you value your rank and employment." The tones were as evenly modulated as always but there was no mistaking the implication. Not a threat, the Cyclan never threatened, simply a statement of the obvious. A prediction with an order of probability verging on certainty. "All that was needed was to take the man into custody and hold him. Why was that not done?"
"No reason was given."
"The request, surely, was enough?"
"On any other world, perhaps." Kregor squared his shoulders; once he had killed a wild beast with his bare hands while out hunting, why should he fear a machine clad in scarlet? "A general awareness was maintained as a matter of courtesy and you were notified when he landed."
"And?"
"Nothing. We knew of the man, he couldn't leave without our knowledge and, if he had tried to leave, he would have been held. Again," he added, stiffly, "as a matter of courtesy."
A barrier and one which the cyber had expected. The influence of the Cyclan was small as yet on this world, yet strong enough to ensure that Dumarest, once held, would be quietly handed over without fuss or trial. The agent he had used should have seen to it that the man had been held. What had gone wrong?
He listened as the captain told him, his face remaining impassive, his thoughts a flickering, darting turmoil. The agent had failed, that was obvious, and had died as a result of his inadequacy. But where was Dumarest now?
Kregor shrugged as he put the question. "I don't know as yet."
"But you've been looking? A murderer, surely, can't be allowed to escape."
"Did I say he was a murderer?"
"A man was dead, you say."
"True, but we lack proof that Dumarest intended to kill him. It could have been an accident. The man was armed and may have threatened Dumarest who struck out in self-defense. It was a most unusual blow. It-"
"Take me to see him," ordered the cyber. "I want to see them both."
It was cold in the mortuary but Broge didn't feel the chill. He stood, impassively waiting, the cowl lifted to frame his gaunt features as an attendant slid the long, narrow table from the wall. The agent was difficult to recognize with his destroyed face.
"Bram Jolpen," said Kregor. "His father owns a mill to the south. Rich, spoiled, a bit of a playboy. He'd taken a young girl home-or so he told an officer, when he heard a scream. It worried him-or so he claimed, and he went to find someone to investigate."
"You seem doubtful that he was telling the truth."
"It seems odd. A young man in a poor area who stood in the rain for no apparent reason. We haven't been able to find the girl. We can't find anyone who drove him to the spot. He was armed."
"So?"
"If armed then why wait to find an officer if he was so concerned? When he heard the scream he could have gone to investigate. At least he could have banged on the door."
Broge said, "But you are certain Dumarest killed him."
"No." Kregor was emphatic. "I'm not certain at all. There were no witnesses and think of that blow! Well, look at it. He could have aimed a punch at the jaw and Jolpen stepped back so that it caught his nose. An accident."
"Then why not stay?"
"He could have been afraid. Maybe he thought there were others after him like Jolpen. How do I know why he ran?" Kregor scowled as he looked at the dead man. "An accide
nt," he rumbled. "We'd never be able to convict on evidence like that."
It had been no accident and the cyber knew it. The angle of the blow for one thing and the tremendous force with which it had been delivered. If it came to it medical testimony could be called in to question the captain's assumption of accident, but that shouldn't be necessary. "And the other man?"
"Armand Ramhed?" Kregor gestured at the attendant.
Jolpen had done his work too well.
Lying on the slab the old man looked at peace. They had folded his hands and combed his hair and he seemed more asleep than dead.
"We found him sitting in a chair," explained Kregor. "My guess it that he had just felt tired, sat for a moment then fell asleep. He just didn't wake up."
"The other man reported he heard a scream."
"So?"
"Dumarest was staying with the old man. He could have tortured him."
"Why? Money?" Kregor frowned and shook his head. "The man had nothing and any fool would have known it. Why torture an old man for nothing?"
"Need a criminal have logical explanations for what he does?" The cyber glanced at the attendant. "What did the autopsy show?"
Glancing at the captain the man said, "There hasn't been one."
"Don't you know how he died?"
"Natural causes, I guess." The man was defiant. "And he wasn't tortured-there isn't a mark on him."
"But the scream-"
"We have only Jolpen's word for that," said the captain. He sounded impatient. "There's no point in making work, Cyber Broge. I've my men out looking for Dumarest and when we find him he will tell us what really happened."
"If you find him."
"We will." The captain was brusk. "I've men at all points. He might even give himself up once he's had time to think it over. Why not? An unlucky blow struck in fear-who could blame him?"
It was pointless to argue and could even be awkward. If he mentioned how the old man had been killed then Kregor would be curious as to how he knew. Also once an association had been formed between his knowledge and the assassin, details best left hidden might be exposed.
