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  "Money." Vardoon closed a hand into a fist. "That and someone I could trust. Just one would be enough. A man to watch my back, to stand his turn, to stand at my side. A friend. Earl-"

  "No."

  "You don't believe me. Well, I can't blame you for that. But what if I can show you proof? Give it to you? Girl!" Vardoon's hand rose with his voice to summon the waitress. "Water," he ordered. "A jug and two clean glasses." As she moved off he dug at his throat, fingers slipping beneath his collar, reappearing locked beneath the links of a chain. It supported a small, flat box two inches long, and half as wide, half again as thick. The surface was smooth, polished to a dull sheen. Vardoon held it in his hand, waiting until the water had been delivered and they were again alone. "Look," he said. The lid of the box opened beneath the pressure of his thumb. "Look, Earl. Look!"

  Dumarest saw a golden pearl.

  It rested in a niche smoothed and polished to a mirror finish, a round globule of effulgent material which reflected the light in glints and sparkles. A thing far too small for its container, rolling as Vardoon moved it, reaching the end to roll back again as if made of steel. Yet the surface looked soft, yielding, a substance resembling a jelly.

  "I had three," whispered Vardoon. "One I sold. One I gave to a companion. The other lies before you. Wealth, Earl. Worth a hundred times its weight in precious metal. Worth more than the wealth of a world to a dying man."

  "Ardeel," said Dumarest.

  "Ardeel," agreed Vardoon. "The nectar of heaven. You know of it?"

  "By repute. Talk among mercenaries. Some claimed to have seen it, a few even to own it."

  "Fools-they invited assassination."

  "So a couple of them discovered," said Dumarest. "As did a trader who claimed to have it for sale. A high price, naturally, but worth it. Some believed him and one proved him a liar."

  "And?"

  "The rest gave him a chance. They made sure he had a supply then burned off his legs. They watched as he lay screaming, waiting, urging him to take his anodyne. They waited two days before losing patience and finishing him off."

  "Hard men," said Vardoon. "Hard justice. Your kind, Earl?"

  "I don't like being cheated."

  "I'd be a fool to try it." Vardoon reached for the jug and slopped water into a glass. With a straw he fashioned a crude pair of tweezers and held the golden pearl within its jaws. "A little," he said. "Only a little." With a steady hand he dunked the golden substance into the water, counted to three, lifted it and replaced it within the box. Snapping the lid shut he tucked it back beneath his tunic. "And now, Earl, for the proof."

  Dumarest looked at the proffered glass, at the man who extended it. He had made his decision regarding Vardoon and had no reason to doubt him, yet old habits remained.

  "You don't trust me," said Vardoon. "Well, you are not to be blamed for that. After me, then."

  He drank and there was no doubt he was genuine. Taking the glass, Dumarest lifted it to his lips, sniffed, smelled nothing and drank.

  Waiting, he stared at a clock set into a pillar of onyx; a gilt-figured thing with female shapes wreathing the edge in wild abandon. Its second hand was a luminous streak of scarlet, a color as bright and warm as the woman who had worn it in a cascade of silken tresses.

  "Darling! Earl, my darling!"

  She came toward him as he turned, smiling, arms outstretched, the rich, full curves of her body taut against the golden material of her garment, belted at the waist to hug the neatness of her figure. Green eyes sparkled as the full lips parted. Hair swirled as if formed of living flame.

  Kalin!

  A ghost which lingered and would always linger as long as he drew breath. The woman who had given him so much and left him with a burden he could have done without-which had made him a target for those claiming it as their own.

  "My darling! My own wonderful darling!"

  Her voice was as he remembered, her hands, the smile showing the teeth, the eyes. Eyes which once had become empty windows. Which had remained that way when the woman, the real woman, had deserted the magnificent shell she had chosen to wear. The shell he would always remember.

  As he could never forget the gift she had bequeathed him; the secret which made him a hunted man.

  "I'm so lucky to have found you, Earl," she whispered, and now he could smell her perfume, the seductive scents which accentuated her femininity. "And in such an interesting place. Shall we win a fortune? Go hunting? Have fun in the snow? Hurry, darling! Hurry!"

  And they were up and out, the snow crisp beneath his boots, the sky a cold vista of scintillant glory. To run and slide over endless, undulating dunes of glinting crystal with a fresh breeze caressing his cheeks. To plunge into a steaming pool and there to sport with darting fish amid which her nudity gleamed with alabaster temptation. To rise and feel the demanding heat of her body, to see the eyes of lambent emerald widening in satiation, to be aware of his achievement, his dominance, his bursting health and vitality.

  To soar above the ice-bound terrain like a god with his face turned toward the stars.

  To the flame of scarlet which slashed like a sword across the universe.

  One which became the second hand of an ornate clock.

  Dumarest looked at his hand, at the glass it held, then again at the clock. The red pointer had moved barely ten seconds around the dial. He frowned, recalling the things he had done, the space he had covered-all in so short a time?

  "A trick." Vardoon sighed, breathing deeply, rubbing his hands over his face. His eyes held a haunting regret. "It's just a trick."

  An illusion born of association-if the hand had been silver would Derai have come to him? If black, would Lallia have risen from the dead? Lavinia come to laugh and sport at his side?

  "Dreams," said Vardoon softly. "Hallucinations so strong they seem more than real. The body metabolism slowed as if you'd taken quick time while the mind spins fantasies. In seconds you live hours of subjective experience. Can you guess what it means to a dying man?"

  He rubbed his face again as if dispelling ghosts.

  "The old," he said. "The diseased and incurable. A friend to every mercenary caught up in a war. The thing you need when you've been hit and are lying burned, broken, your stomach ripped open and your guts spilled in the mud. Take it and die-but you'll die smiling."

  Tasting paradise before the final darkness.

  Dumarest said, "You had three?"

  "As I told you."

  "And sold one?"

  "To a mercenary captain in return for certain favors. The other went to a woman and I sleep easier because of it. The last I keep."

  His tone brooked no argument and Dumarest gave him none. The thing could be sold but Vardoon needed it more than money. It was his weapon against his heritage; the fear of pain and death.

  "Come in with me," he urged. "A full share in return for the stake-all the money you could ever use."

  If they lived to collect it-Dumarest had no illusions of easy wealth.

  He said, "Where?"

  "Sacaweena-the rest I'll tell you when we're on our way. We could leave on the Chendis and transship at Telge. I'll get the necessary equipment after we land and then-" Vardoon broke off, breathing deeply, sweat shining on his ravaged face. "Freedom," he said. "An end to slaving my guts out for keep. Of getting shot at for pay. Of living cheap and counting the cost and never knowing what the next world will bring. All life's a gamble but sometimes the odds are too great. Money will change that. With money a man can do what he wants."

  "Sacaweena?"

  "That's right, Earl, but without me you'd find nothing. Sacaweena-once they called it Erce."

  Erce! An ancient name for Earth!

  Chapter Four

  Waking, Rham Kalova looked at the groined roof of the bedchamber, seeing the lights which ran across the stones, the central orb now brightly cerulean. The wind from the sea, the skies clear, the temperature rising, humidity low, the time three hours after dawn, details abso
rbed even as he turned to examine more signals, feeling the same warm satisfaction he had felt when he checked the weather. The twenty highest stockholders had altered their holdings little during the night, but Arment had plunged heavily in mining while Barracola had shed his offshore investments. Fools, the pair of them, and he felt the snug comfort of continued security. While they acted in such a wild manner his major holding was safe but, he knew, even as he warmed to the safety indicated by the signals, the wolves would be gathering. Sharper now, hungrier, eager for the kill-but again he would outwit them all. He and Cyber Zao.

  Musing, he felt a sharp envy at the other's ability even while recognizing his own dependency. To be able to predict the course of events from a bare handful of data, to extrapolate the most probable path any act would incur and so both to anticipate and guard against the inevitable reaction was tantamount to having the ability to manipulate the future. But Zao was quick to deny this ability, insisting that he could do no more than advise, to use trained logic and skill to make his predictions, and yet that same logic and skill had bested savage attacks on his holdings and maintained him as the Maximus, the acknowledged ruler of Sacaweena.

  Yet he could be bested given the right opportunity, the right combination of circumstances despite the advice of the cyber. When greed grew too strong, and so did the hunger for power and the envy in which he was held, then they would strike and it would take all his skill and cunning to forestall the attack. Only their mutual hate and antagonism had saved him since that time, years ago now, when he had taken the greatest risk of his life and had, incredibly, won.

  Won to rule the world and to lie in an uneasy bed.

  The lights changed as he watched, showing the flow of holdings; Lobel had gained at Prador's expense, Chargel was edging upwards as was Traske. A combination? It was most probable and the threat, though small, could not be ignored. He would monitor the increase and take steps to negate it should it rise too high. An alliance with Veden? One with Macari? Both were lacking in ambition and neither had love for the others. Well, he would see-for now it was enough simply to watch.

  A bell chimed and a soft voice whispered from the air. "Maximus, the hour has come for your waking. Do you wish to continue your repose?"

  "No." He softened the snap of his voice. "I am awake. Instruct Cyber Zao to attend me."

  An unnecessary precaution, but having paid the fee to the Cyclan there was no reason why he should not make use of the service provided. He halted the movement of his hand; to summon aid was to admit, if only to himself, the growing weakness of his body, yet to refuse it was to act without calculated logic. Would Zao refuse?

  The answer caused him to throw back the covers and rise from the bed, to stand with one hand clutching the ornate headboard. A cyber did not admit to physical weakness; to Zao his body was a machine, an artifact of flesh and blood to be fueled and maintained in a state of optimum condition but never to be pampered lest it develop ingrained weakness of its own. An odd concept-could a body have a will and desire not of the brain? Appetites and passions divorced from conscious decision?

  A question to be mulled over later but now other work had to be done. He released his grip on the board, thankful the expected dizziness had not materialized-further proof of Zao's skill. The new medication he had suggested seemed to be working. His mind, too, held a new brilliance-the thought, as to the individual life of the body, for example, and things seemed to be sharper, clearer than before. Or it could be the result of contrast-a man with repaired vision often thought he saw better than before when the truth was that he had forgotten the power of his sight when young.

  These musings had no place and he moved toward the bathroom, the mirrors fogging as they reacted to his presence, water streaming from above as he stepped into the shower. A gentle rain of soothing warmth, strengthening to a driving storm, a blast of stinging droplets. A torment he endured for moments only then the pressure eased and again he stood in a warm and soothing rain as lather graced his body to be washed away, replaced with more, followed by effulgent lotions and delicate perfume.

  A trace, no more, he had no liking for the prevailing fashion, but even so he wrinkled his nose as he stepped toward the mirrors. Fernesh, he guessed, with some rose and a touch of musk. A blend suitable for his years and dignity and an armor against any unsuspected exudation. A ruler should be sweet to the nostrils of his people in more ways than one.

  Sweet and strong, but as the mirrors cleared to his command he saw his failure.

  Still tall, his shoulders wide, the face still with a stern, patrician grace, yet the flesh of chest and stomach betrayed their weakness, the wasting of muscle in arms and thighs, the shrinkage of calves, the ugly protrusions of the bones of feet and knees. Surgical art could only do so much and to hope for more was to yearn for the impossible. Patching and grafting, toning, regrowths, transplanting of hair, replacements- all were but delaying tactics against the relentless pressure of age. And, each day it seemed, the battle was a little more lost, the victory of the grave a little closer.

  Why did men have to die?

  Why did he-when he had so much?

  The chime broke his introspection, the soft voice a velvet caress. "Maximus, Cyber Zao awaits your pleasure."

  "Let him wait-no!" The Cyclan was not to be flouted. "Let him be admitted."

  An honor he wouldn't recognize or, if he did, would fail to appreciate. To him as to all cybers such things were of little value; demonstrations of the emotional sickness from which they did not suffer. Had he ordered, Zao would have waited his pleasure and felt no anger or irritation as now he would feel no pleasure or satisfaction. The only joy any cyber could experience was that of mental achievement.

  He rose as Kalova entered the lounge from the bathroom, a robe covering his nakedness. An ornate thing of fine weave blazoned with intricate designs in a variety of colors with glitter at sleeves and throat. A robe which seemed cheap and gaudy in contrast to the cyber's own; one of scarlet, the Seal of the Cyclan proud on its breast.

  "My Lord!" A salutation accompanied by a slight inclination of the shaven head. "I trust you are well?"

  "Well enough."

  "Your orders, my lord?"

  Kalova gestured to the wall, the blaze of signals matching those in his bedroom. "What do you think?" He waited, one hand smoothing back the still-damp mane of his hair. Thick locks streaked with gray which hung low over the nape of his neck, trimmed and shaped to accentuate the clean lines of his profile. "Well?"

  "Normal movement, my lord." Zao was, always, calm, his tone a smooth modulation divorced of all irritating qualities. "There was a storm during the night, and a rise in the ion count usually results in heightened emotions. The trading, while at a time frantic, leveled out an hour before dawn. My prediction is that by noon the situation will be much the same as yesterday with the exception of the holdings of Arment and Barracola. The former will rise and the latter fall."

  "And later?"

  "Each trend will reverse."

  "The rest?" Kalova was asking too much and he knew it. "Never mind. Can you assess Chargel and Traske?"

  A stupid question and he had betrayed his concern by asking it. Given the data, Zao could provide the probable outcome. To have phrased the request in the way he had smacked of doubt as to the cyber's ability. Better to have given a straight order. Better still to have remained silent. The day he was unable to check the situation for himself would be the day he would be bested. That day was not yet.

  "They are planning something, right? Uniting to achieve a common goal. But what? They don't have the power to threaten me and aren't popular enough to gain the support of many others. A kill, you think? Against whom?"

  Zao didn't hesitate. "Their target is Prador, my lord."

  "Prador?" The lights shifted, blinked, settled to tell the man's holdings. "Prador!" Kalova studied the signals. "Holdings in mining, offshore installations, refining, property, land to the north-what can they hope to gain
from him?"

  "A new vein of copper has been discovered in the Tamplin mine," said Zao. "Major control will determine the extent of production and the acquiring of Prador's shares will give Arment that control. Chargel and Traske have united to prevent that from happening. They will bring pressure to bear with other interested parties and force Prador to yield the stock to them."

  And, once the pressure was on, the man would have his back to the wall.

  "If I back Arment to gain control what will be the outcome?"

  "That depends on your decision as to the production. Limited, it will force the price up and lead to inflation. Expanded, it will cheapen the product but at the same time increase the value of the shares because of gained turnover. Continued, the trend will negate all its beneficial qualities by creating a glut. Workers will be discharged, consumption be lowered, recession induced. The trend will reverse itself, naturally, but not for a number of years." Zao added, "The prediction is in the order of 99.5 probability."

  "Not certainty?"

  "There can be no such thing as absolute certainty, my lord." Zao was patient. "Always there remains the unknown factor which must be taken into account. Events of astronomical improbability which yet could occur."

  Such as a man living forever? A possibility the Cyclan must accept. Did cybers fear death? Would Zao, for example, fight to the last to retain his individual identity?

  A question the cyber could have answered but never would. When old he would be taken, his brain freed of its hampering prison of flesh, placed in a vat of nutrient fluid and added to the other brains forming the tremendous complex of Central Intelligence. To live for endless millennia, conscious and aware, safely buried beneath miles of rock on a bleak and lonely world. His destiny and reward-if he did not fail.

  Carmodyne had built the church, hiring the best architects and designers, using the best of materials to construct a soaring edifice of arches and gables, of peaks and a soaring tower in which he had set a sonorous bell.

  Brother Tobol had objected.

  "Why the bell, my lord?"