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  And Dumarest had survived.

  The depiction changed to show a new sector of the galaxy; a region of close-set suns and a host of worlds. The Zaragoza Cluster into which Dumarest had fled, there to move in a random pattern from world to world. A needle in a haystack but from which he had been lured.

  And would soon be captured, the secret stolen from the Cyclan recovered, the man himself rendered into dust. Elge felt the warm glow of mental achievement as he predicted the immediate future. Once the affinity twin was in his hands the problem of the deranged brains would be solved if his suspicions were correct. Given host bodies the question of sensory deprivation would cease to exist. Would the brain have destroyed itself had it inhabited the body of a man?

  A part of the whole; with the affinity twin every ruler and person of influence would become a puppet of a dominant cyber. World after world would fall beneath the domination of the Cyclan and the Great Plan would mature within decades instead of millennia.

  Dumarest held the key to that vista.

  Again the depiction changed to show a mote of light against a background of starred emptiness. Not a world but a man-made structure insignificant against the bulk of planets.

  "Zabul." Jarvet echoed his confidence. "The home of the Terridae. A place from which Dumarest cannot escape. Cyber Lim reported him as good as captured."

  "Not taken?"

  "A preliminary report. The prediction was that he would be on the Saito within the hour."

  Yet Lim had not reported the actual capture. Was he waiting until the vessel had left the vicinity? Had there been an unforeseen complication?

  "Contact the Saito. Check with Central Intelligence to see that there has been no further rapport with Lim. Have all data appertaining to Zabul and the Terridae on my desk as soon as possible."

  "Master?" Jarvet was puzzled. "You suspect something could have gone wrong?"

  Elge remained silent. He was thinking of Okos.

  CHAPTER TWO

  In the dream a woman was laughing, a girl with a helmet of golden hair which hugged a face with strong bones, jaw and cheeks and eyebrows all denoting a stubborn strength. The eyes were blue and the mouth thinner than it should have been but the hands she held up before her were those of an artist.

  "Look at this, Earl!" The hands moved to pick up a painting and he stared at the depiction of a young boy with thick curly hair and a mouth like a pouting rosebud. A mute he had once known.

  "And this!" A portrait of a man sitting at a window staring at distant hills. He was dressed all in grey with the hilt of a knife riding above his right boot and the mark of a killer stamped in the set of mouth and eyes.

  "And this!" An old crone seated on a box adorned with esoteric symbols.

  "And these! These, damn you! These!"

  She thrust out hands that were crushed and broken, blood oozing from ripped nails, more from ruptured ligaments, wrists puckered with gaping mouths of agony.

  "Earl! Earl!"

  The voice faded, ending in a blaze of white then returning again in a tone not belonging to the woman standing at his side.

  "Earl! What is wrong? You were screaming, crying out." Pausing, Althea Hesford added, "You sounded almost like a woman."

  The dream woman had been Carina Davaranch whom he had taken and used with the magic of the affinity twin. To send her to torture and final death. Did a ghost remember? Could the dead mourn the broken hands which made it impossible to paint?

  "Earl?"

  "It's nothing." Dumarest reared to sit upright in the bed. "A dream. A nightmare. It isn't important."

  "Are you sure?"

  He nodded, closing his eyes, seeing again the face framed in the helmet of golden hair. He had dominated her mind and she had died and he had returned to his own body-had a part of her returned with him?

  "The Council is meeting," said Althea. "I came to warn you. I thought you'd need time to prepare. And I thought you'd like this."

  She had brought a tray containing a pot of tisane together with small cakes, some spiced, others with the flavor and consistency of ground nuts. Dumarest poured a cup of tisane and sat nursing it, inhaling the fragrant steam as he waited for it to cool.

  Sitting down beside him, Althea said, "It isn't going to be easy, Earl. The young want you to lead them but the Elders are against it. If we could force a vote I think you'd win, but a full referendum will take time to arrange and delay could cost you the advantage."

  Politics-the curse of civilization. Dumarest tasted the tisane and found it cool enough to swallow. It filled his mouth and stomach with a scented warmness and, rising, he headed into the bathroom to shower. Dried, he returned to the bedroom and dressed. Althea watched him with wide-spaced, luminous green eyes, the copper mane of her hair accentuating the delicate pallor of her face. She wore gold, a high-necked gown which fell to below her knees and was caught at the waist with a belt of heavy links. Against the fabric the contours of breasts and hips were sharply delineated. The skirt, slit at one side, revealed the long curves of her thigh at every second step.

  A lovely woman but she had never known the tribulations of a normal world.

  "Earl!" She barred his passage as he headed toward the door. "Good luck, darling."

  Her kiss held a smoldering passion, which he had shared in the past and would share again, but now Dumarest had more urgent matters to attend to. Outside he turned left and moved down a spacious corridor to a flight of stairs. At its foot a group of young people saluted him. Some he recognized. One, Medwin, he knew well.

  "We're with you, Earl," Medwin said. "If you want help just ask for it. If it needs force to kick the Council into action we can provide it."

  "Guide us to the Event, Earl!" called another. "Lead us to Earth!"

  Earth was the paradise they dreamed of, the world of eternal peace and happiness where all things would be given for the asking, the place of floating cities and soaring towers of crystal and benign Shining Ones, of pools into which the old and ugly could bathe to become young and beautiful. A planet of fantasy, fabricated by dreams, composed of eternal longings; it had never existed but they would never believe that. They, all of the Terridae, longed for the Event-the time when they would find Earth, the imagined heaven.

  And they were convinced Dumarest could take them to it.

  A conviction he'd helped to foster, for here, in the Archives and in the minds of those now dreaming in their caskets, must surely lie the clues he needed to find the planet of his birth.

  There was no day in Zabul, no night; the collection of empty hulls and constructed spaces all united into an airtight whole circled no sun. Illumination came from artificial sources; a blue-white glow rich in ultraviolet coupled with warm reds and oranges which gave the illusion of sunrises and sunsets. Only in private chambers was it ever wholly dark. And, everywhere, on walls and ceilings and inset into floors, was the depiction of life in all its forms.

  Those in the council chamber were of fish; the denizens of watery deeps together with rocks and weed and convoluted shells. The walls themselves, carefully shaped and painted, resembled an undersea dome. Those sitting at the table seemed as cold as the water itself; old, sere, bitter with eyes like fragments of yellowed ice. These were the Elders of the Terridae, the Council of Zabul, and studying them, Dumarest was aware of a change. The last time he had stood before them they had been his judges-now they had been judged, weighed in the balance and found wanting.

  Urich Volodya had held the scales.

  He stepped forward as Dumarest glanced toward him, tall, conscious of his power but knowing better than to display it. Volodya had recognized his opportunity and seized it, using Dumarest and his claim to gain the support of the young. He now made his position clear.

  "Earl Dumarest, given the opportunity will you guide the Terridae to Earth?"

  "The opportunity and the means-yes."

  "Your needs?"

  "Access to all records. The power to question all of the Terridae
. The right to requisition all necessary labor and material."

  Volodya said dryly, "Is that all? It seems you ask to become a dictator."

  "If you want a man to do a task it is pointless to deny him the means to do it. I suggest you make that clear to the Council."

  "There is no longer a Council of Zabul. Those forming it have agreed to retire to their caskets. Instead there will be a committee of seven with myself at the head. These changes have been forced on us by various pressures," he explained. "To resist them would have been to invite disaster. In their wisdom the retiring Council recognized that."

  Aided by the persuasion of the guards under Volodya's command. As the only organized force in Zabul their arguments would have been irresistible.

  Dumarest said, "A wise move. I commend it. The committee, naturally, will be formed to represent the whole. Two of the young, two of the old and two from the middle-age group. The sexes equally divided. Is Althea Hesford one of the committee?"

  "Yes. Why do you ask?"

  "She's deserved the appointment." Dumarest met Volodya's eyes. "Do you agree to my conditions?"

  "As long as you do not endanger Zabul or the Terridae you will have a free hand. Althea Hesford will provide liaison." Volodya added, "I suggest you avoid all unnecessary delay."

  Do it quickly-it would have to be that.

  Like a city, Zabul had grown. The original concept bore additions which had overlaid the smooth ovoid dotted with spires into the bizarre assembly it now was: a compilation which held elements of lunacy.

  Why did this passage turn to twist in on itself like a corkscrew? What had dictated the placement of this chamber? From where did this installation draw its power? How did this compartment harmonize with its twin?

  Such details filled endless charts, maps, intricate schematics over which Dumarest pored for hours on end.

  Althea grew impatient.

  "Why do it. Earl?" she demanded. "What is the point? All you need do is issue orders and others will see they are carried out. There's no need for you to know every detail of Zabul."

  She stood against one wall of the chamber he had made his office, the copper sheen of her hair bright against a scene of muted storm. The emerald of her gown matched the hue of her eyes.

  Dumarest said, "How long have you waited for the Event?"

  "All my life. Why?"

  "And others?"

  "As long-longer." She frowned, understanding his meaning. "You're telling me not to be impatient, is that it?"

  "Yes."

  "All right, I'll be patient, but I still can't see the need for all this." Her gesture embraced the papers lying thick on the long table at which he sat. "What are you looking for?"

  The answers to questions she hadn't even imagined and Dumarest was cautious in his explanations. To tell her he was familiarizing himself with a potential battleground would be to strain her new-formed loyalty, and even if she said nothing Volodya was too shrewd not to scent a mystery. Once alerted he would move to safeguard his position and, from then, it would be a logical step to remove the source of potential danger.

  That confrontation Dumarest hoped to avoid but he wanted to be ready to meet it if it came.

  Now he said, "I was hoping to find an easy way to reach Earth. In the old days Zabul could be moved as an entire unit." He reached for a schematic and tapped various points with a finger. "See? These are the generators and this was the original navigation room and here would have been the computer installation. The captain would have operated from here. You see?"

  "I think so." She bit her lip as she tried to visualize familiar installations with their prime intention. "Could it still be done?"

  "I don't think so. Who should I ask to be certain?"

  His name was Ivan Quiley; he was no longer young but was too interested in machines to idle away his life in casket-given dreams. He shook his head as Dumarest asked the question.

  "No, Earl, it can't be done."

  "Too many extensions?"

  "You've hit it. The scope of the Erhaft field will no longer embrace all of Zabul. Even if we adjusted the conduits to feed maximum power into the generators the damage would be too great."

  "And if the generators should be resited?"

  "In theory almost anything will work," said Quiley dryly. "Move the generators, establish coordinated control systems and boost the power. Yes, it could be done, but it would need time and labor and material. Say the full efforts of all technicians for a couple of years at the very least."

  Time he didn't have. Dumarest said, "Would it be possible to reach a compromise? I'm thinking of a field-jump effect."

  Althea said, "What's that? I don't understand."

  "A temporary application of the Erhaft field." Quiley didn't look at her. "Use it and you can move a short distance in space before the synchronization fails. It's possible, yes. As I said, most things are possible."

  "I'm talking of days," said Dumarest. "A few weeks at the most. Supposing Zabul ran into danger-what then?"

  "We're in a selected drift node," explained Quiley. "There's no gravitation drag to draw us to any world or sun. We could stay in this position until the universe ran down. Once it was established and proved there was no need for us to move." He added, almost as an afterthought, "Of course we have defenses."

  Installations which could send missiles to vaporize any threatening scrap of debris. Men trained to working in void conditions. Teams which could disperse to defend Zabul from unwanted visitors.

  That was the best Dumarest could hope for. Rising, he said, "Check on all equipment and keep it on operational alert. Double the observers and arrange for alternative sources of power to all essential installations."

  Quiley grunted as he made notes. Without looking up from his memo pad he said, "I'll recheck the possibility of locating the generators in more favorable positions. Maybe, if we cut down some of the extensions and ran wave-grids down passages 27 through to 92, the field could be extended for a short-term use at least. I'll see to it."

  As he left Althea said, "He's on your side, Earl. Most of the technicians are."

  "Most?"

  "Some want to hang on to the old ways. They think you threaten their importance. Once we reach Earth what will they have to do?"

  Dumarest left the question unanswered; the anxieties of potentially redundant technicians were the least of his worries.

  Always Zabul held sound; the muted susurration of trapped vibrations echoing and harmonizing to form a medley which could be translated by the imagination into subtle music, mathematical sequences or abstract resonances. A noise not even noticed by those accustomed to it, but now it held something new. A harsh, martial sound which grew as Dumarest neared the gymnasium, to flower into cries, the clash of metal and stamp of feet, the harsh yells of command from the instructors he had trained.

  "In! Get in there! Attack! Delay could cost you victory!"

  On the cleared floor two dozen men faced each other in a dozen pairs. Each was naked aside from shorts, all armed with a short bar of metal; dummy knives held sword-fashion, thumb to the blade and point held upward. Many carried ugly weals and dark bruises. One had a broken nose; dried blood masking mouth and chin. Several bore trails of blood from lacerated scalps.

  "Horrible!" At his side Althea voiced her disgust. "Earl, is this necessary? To turn men into beasts?"

  "You would rather they died?"

  "Who is to hurt them? Earth is a haven of peace. They have no need to train as butchers."

  Dumarest said patiently, "I've explained all that. Before we can enjoy your haven of peace we have to get there. Others might object." He lifted his voice as the men prepared to reengage. "Erik! Hold the action!"

  Medwin came toward him, smiling, face and torso beaded with sweat. A long scrape ran over his ribs and a bruise rested over his navel.

  "Earl! Glad you could drop in. What do you think of our progress?"

  The truth would have been cruel and they were not to
blame for their ignorance. Even Volodya's guards knew little of martial arts, relying on acceptance of their authority more than their skill with club and gas-gun.

  Reaching out Dumarest touched the long scrape, the mottled bruise.

  "If you'd fought for real you'd be dead by now. And so would most of those others down there. Here, let me show you."

  Stripped, Dumarest joined the others and, watching, Althea noted the differences. Not just his superior height or the hard musculature of his body but his stance, the feral determination which dictated every move. Beneath the lights the tracery of cicatrices on his torso made a lacelike pattern, scars earned during the early days of his youth when he had learned the skill he was now trying to pass on.

  "You!" He pointed to a man with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, who was as yet unmarked. "Ready? Attack!"

  Kirek was confident, proud of his physical development, eager to score. He blinked as his thrust met no resistance, grunted as metal slammed against his side, backed as the bar darted toward him to halt with the point touching his throat.

  "Let's do it again," said Dumarest.

  This time he stood, waiting arms outstretched at his sides. A tempting target and, smarting with his recent defeat, Kirek rushed in.

  To stumble as Dumarest moved deftly aside, to fall as, pushed, he tripped over an outthrust foot.

  "You've got a choice," said Dumarest as the man climbed to his feet. "You can make excuses or you can admit you need to learn. If you want to make excuses then you've no place here."

  "You were fast," muttered Kirek. "So damned fast I didn't see you move."

  "Well?"

  "I-" Kirek swallowed, then threw back his shoulders. "I guess I need to learn."

  "Good. The first thing to bear in mind is that this isn't a game. When you face a man, armed or not, recognize the fact that he wants to kill you. It's your life or his. If you want to stay alive you have to hit first, hit hard and make the blow tell. To hesitate is to give your opponent an advantage. To aim to hurt and not to kill, the same. To do either is to invite death." To Kirek he said, "What did you do wrong?"