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  For a long moment Chan Parect sat without speaking, toying with the knife, his eyes veiled. Then he reached for wine and poured and sat sipping until the glass was empty.

  "Murdered," he said at last. "By whom? Lisa Conenda?"

  "I don't know."

  "But you don't deny the possibility?"

  "No."

  "I warned you of her and the others. They are all the same. Warped, twisted, mad with ambition. Did she ask you to kill me and to share her seat of power?" Chan Parect leaned forward a little, his eyes intent. "Did she do that?"

  "Yes, my lord." It was a time to tread carefully, to be polite. And it was obvious the man knew what had happened in the room. How else could he have known that the knife had been thrown? Monitors, perhaps, or a reported conversation.

  "Of course. She would. And you were clever in your answers, Earl. You did not agree, yet you did not refuse her. Instead, you were ambiguous. The trait of a cautious man. Some wine?"

  The goblet was of crystal, carved and hued with the tints of a rainbow. The wine held the taste of mint.

  "The last time we spoke in this room, I told you of a problem," said Chan Parect. "I also said something else. You remember what it was?"

  "You intended to make it mine also."

  "You have a good memory. If you had the choice, whom would you marry, Lisa or Zenya? You can be frank."

  Dumarest pondered, trying to follow the abrupt shift in conversation, wondering what devious path the man now trod. Wondering too why he was here at all. A question yet to be answered.

  "Zenya is the younger," mused Parect. "A little more vivacious, but perhaps the more tiring because of that. Lisa is older, and so more mature. And, as we both know, she has ambition. You wonder why I mention the subject? I will be plain. The house needs new blood. You could provide it. Work with me, do as I say, and you will be rewarded. One of the women as your wife. An estate. The right to wear the serpent. Comfort and a degree of command. All this can be yours if you will willingly do as I say."

  "And that is, my lord?"

  "I spoke to you of a man who held a dream and who beggared himself looking for it. I said that he died on some lonely world. I lied, in part if not in all. I did know such a man-he is my son. He has beggared himself in the terms we use. But he is not dead. I want you to find him and bring him back to where he belongs."

  Dumarest sipped at his wine. Another lie? More deviousness? But why should there be need of lies, and what could deviousness hope to gain?

  He said quietly, "Do you know where he is?"

  "Yes."

  "Then why not just send for him? Tell him of your need?"

  "The obvious, Earl, is not always the answer. For example, take yourself. You have a dream of finding a mythical world. You claim to have been there. I know little of such matters, but one thing to me is obvious. What you have seen you always remember. There are men skilled in probing into the deepest recesses of the brain. Submit to them, and who knows what they could find? The coordinates, perhaps? The reading of the instruments on the ship in which you left? A fragment of conversation overheard but not understood because of your youth? The monk who was here could, perhaps, have done it. Yet you are not a member of the church. Beneath their benediction light you could find what you seek. And yet you will not sit beneath it."

  Because if he did, he would be instilled with the conditioning imposed by the monks. The command never to kill. It was a handicap Dumarest could not afford.

  "I have wondered why, Earl," continued Chan Parect softly. "And I have thought of a reason. Perhaps you carry something else held deep within your mind. Or something not so deep. It doesn't matter. A secret you dare not divulge. You cannot do the one because you fear the other. And so the obvious no longer applies." He poured himself more wine. "My son refuses to answer my summons. He must be taken by force. That requires a very special type of man."

  Dumarest said dryly, "One interested in ancient records?"

  "In part, yes. Salek has a similar interest. I do not believe in the existence of this planet you call Earth. And neither do I believe in other myths. It was one of the reasons we quarreled and why he left. For years he searched for something he hoped to find. These books,"-he gestured at the walls, the faded maps-"are a part of his collection. There was a legend which intrigued him. Earth, perhaps? I will be honest with you, I cannot be certain. But I do know that he desperately wanted to find the Original People. I think that, perhaps, he found them."

  And perhaps not. The whole fabrication could be another lie designed to force him into a particular course of action. Yet it was a chance he could not ignore. And if Chan Parect had a hidden motivation, Dumarest could not guess what it was.

  He said, "You just want me to go and bring back your son, my lord. Is that it?"

  "On the face of it, a simple matter, Earl, but I will not delude you, it will not be easy. You forget who he is and why he is needed. I am surrounded by enemies who will kill me if they can, and those same enemies will kill my son if allowed the opportunity. And there are other things." Chan Parect paused, his lips moving as if he spoke to himself, the words too secret to be uttered. "I can trust no one," he blurted. "No one!"

  "My lord!"

  "Hold! Do not move! There are guards watching, and they will kill you if you stir!" Convulsively Chan Parect gripped the knife, locked in the grip of an intense fear. With his free hand he delved into a drawer and produced a vial of tablets. Swallowing two, he sat, waiting, sweat beading his forehead, tiny rivulets running down the graven lines.

  Dumarest sat, watching a man at war with himself, sensing the explosive emotion barely held in check. A wrong word, a sudden gesture, and he would bring about his own death. And the paradox baffled him. Chan Parect was unable to trust anyone, yet he was willing to allow a stranger to fetch his son. The thing made no sense, and then, suddenly, it did.

  * * *

  From behind the desk, Chan Parect sighed, seeming to relax, the muscles of his face sagging, so that he looked suddenly old. It lasted a moment, and then he was himself again, still old, but with the craggy strength of a tree, a weathered mountain. He said abruptly, "You seem disturbed, Earl."

  "With reason, my lord."

  "You fear me? You should. As I told you, I intend to make this a personal matter as far as you are concerned. In fact, I leave you no choice but to do as I ask. You see, I am plain."

  Dumarest doubted if he could ever be that. Quietly he said, "As a matter of interest, what would you do should I refuse?"

  "Nothing." Chan Parect was bland. "Of course, there is the matter of the debt you mentioned. Ten thousand cran, which you gave to the monks. And there is the question of payment for the treatment you received. Even when deducting the sum which Zenya and I owe you, there is a residue of fifty thousand cran. Need I remind you of what will happen if you cannot pay?"

  Sold into bondage at the public auction. Doomed to spend the rest of his life in abject slavery. With the Aihult owning the field, there could be no escape.

  A neat plan, cunningly devised, bearing the stamp of an elaborate madness. Zenya, of course, had been primed and given permission to pledge her jewelry. The monks had deliberately been attacked in order to force his hand. But how had the man known he would be generous? And the guard who had shot him-had he also followed orders?

  Chan Parect shrugged as he asked the question. "Does it matter, Earl? The thing is over and done with. A mistake, I assure you, but a fortunate one, as it turned out."

  Too fortunate. And how had the guards known when to arrive? Zavor had made no sound, no cry for help, yet they must have been waiting. Monitors, perhaps, but there must have been anticipation. And who had adjusted the laser?

  Who had wanted him dead?

  No, not dead, thought Dumarest. The beam had seared but not killed. Whoever had adjusted it had seen to that. And if that someone had known of his protective clothing, it would have been a fair gamble that even though hurt, he would have survived. Had
the whole plan been designed simply to get him into debt, or was there another, deeper reason?

  Chan Parect reached again for his wine. "Let us leave unpleasant matters, Earl. I have made you a part of my design, and you will not refuse to obey. You cannot. You have no choice."

  Dumarest said harshly, "There is always a choice, my lord."

  "There is an unpleasant alternative, I agree. Shall we discuss it?" Chan Parect paused, looking at the goblet, the rainbow hues. "I do not believe in fate, but at times it seems as if destiny shapes our ends. Or call it pure coincidence, the end is the same. Of all the worlds you could have landed on, you chose to reach Paiyar. A lucky accident, Earl, for you and me. Have you never wondered how I knew your name? Why the order was placed at the archives? The reason is obvious when you think about it. You were expected."

  Dumarest had no need to answer by whom; he knew. The Cyclan, of course; it could be nothing else. A similar order must have been placed at every library, museum, and archive on every world in this sector. Traps baited and set for him to make an appearance. His movements predicted from fragments of information painstakingly gathered and extrapolated with the skill of which each cyber was a master. All they had to do was to make arrangements, to wait and then to reach out their hand. And, once it closed around him, it would never let go.

  "You spoke of luck, my lord," he said tightly. "Yours and mine."

  "Yes." Chan Parect was bland, a man confident in his supremacy. "Luck that you chose to come here, that I was immediately notified, that you followed Zenya. A simple girl-who would note such an incident? To those outside, you simply vanished. And more luck," he added. "The greatest of all. The fact that I needed such a man as you appeared to be. A hard man, desperate, ruthless, skilled in evasion, trained to kill."

  The unknown, thought Dumarest. The one factor no cyber could wholly control, and which made it impossible for them ever to predict with a hundred percent probability. The tortuous workings of an insane mind that had negated their plan.

  But the Cyclan was not easily deluded. Dumarest thought of the silhouette he had seen, the cowled figure bathed in ruby light.

  "Tell me, my lord, have you a cyber in the citadel?"

  "One came; he has gone."

  "And he said?"

  "Little. To be frank, Earl, I have no love for those who wear the scarlet robe. They are too much like machines, unfeeling, always calculating, manipulating, offering advice, but advice which benefits their organization, not those whom they pretend to serve." Chan Parect sipped at his wine. "I was, however, a little intrigued at the value they set on you. Their services offered free for ten years if I should deliver you into their charge."

  And cheap at the price if they could obtain the secret he had been given, the one stolen from their secret laboratory by a man now long dead. Dumarest leaned back, remembering a mane of flame-red hair, a woman who had loved him and who had given him her dying gift. Kalin- he would never forget her.

  And the Cyclan would never cease trying to regain the secret, the correct sequence of the fifteen molecular units which comprised the affinity twin. A chain of biological fragments which would give them the universe. Reversing the end of the chain would cause it to become either subjective or dominant. Inject the dominant part into the cortex, the subjective into a host, and complete unity was achieved. The dominant factor would see, feel, sense, and experience everything applying to the host. He would have a new body, with all that implied. A temptation no aging ruler could resist, a bribe no woman could refuse.

  And with a cyber mind dominating a ruling host, the Cyclan would rule the galaxy within a lifetime.

  "The cyber," said Dumarest. "He will come again?"

  "Perhaps." Chan Parect was casual. "What does it matter if he does? Obey me, and you have nothing to fear."

  The blind arrogance of a tiny despot unable to comprehend the power he defied. The Cyclan stretched throughout the galaxy; cybers wherever influence was to be obtained. And, all unknowingly, he had missed the greatest opportunity he would ever know. Renewed life itself, his old body resting while his mind dominated that of a young and virile man.

  Luck, thought Dumarest. He had walked into a trap and been saved despite his own lack of caution. Luck that had saved him so often before. How long would it last?

  He said formally, "I am willing to serve you, my lord. Where is your son?"

  "On Chard."

  The name meant nothing, a world among countless others, but it would need a ship to get there and a means of escape from Paiyar.

  "And when will I be able to leave?"

  "A ship is waiting at the field-the arrangements were made while you were under treatment."

  Dumarest relaxed a little. At least there would be no delay, no time for his host to change his mind or the Cyclan to offer a higher bribe.

  He said, "There is no point in waiting. I would like to leave at once."

  "You are eager, Earl, and I am glad. Natural enough, when you think of the alternative. I do not think the Cyclan would be gentle with you, should you fall into their hands. Now, you are quite clear as to your duty? You are to find Salek and bring him to me."

  "I understand."

  "Yes." Chan Parect picked up the knife and turned the blade, so that it caught and reflected the light. "I am sure that you do. As you understand the penalties and rewards. Find and deliver my son, and you could learn where Earth is to be found. If not, a wife and all that I have mentioned. You see, I am fair, and you will not blame me for having taken a small precaution. An insurance in case your natural desire for escape should be stronger than your given word. If you fail me in any way, I shall inform the Cyclan exactly where you are to be found. You understand?"

  Dumarest nodded, unworried. He had run before, and could do so again if the necessity arose.

  "Zenya will accompany you."

  "That is not necessary."

  "That is for me to decide." Chan Parect set down the knife, point toward his guest, and leaned forward over the desk. "And there is one other thing, Earl," he said blandly. "Something was done to you while you were under treatment. A little device which I am sure you will appreciate. Should you break your word, or try to run or disobey me in any way, it will be activated. And then, no matter how you hide, the Cyclan will be able to find you. You will signal your presence like a star in the sky."

  Chapter Five

  Chard was at war.

  The officer who came aboard as soon as they landed was young, brilliant in a gaudy uniform, arrogant with the consciousness of power. He made no attempt to hide his disgust at the state of the vessel.

  "It stinks," he snapped. "Only beasts would ride in such filth."

  Dumarest was inclined to agree. The Topheir was far from being a luxury vessel. It was small, battered, the plating worn and grimed with dirt. Little more than a hold fitted with cramped quarters and driven by engines unusually powerful for a vessel of its size. A scavenger of the spaceways, a hit-and-run ship used to carry suspicious cargoes, slaves, contraband, illegal imports to restricted worlds. A rover, fast, ideal for the job.

  Aihult Chan Parect had chosen well.

  Captain Branchard matched his command. A squat, powerful man with a ruff of beard and hands which could bend iron bars. Scowling, he said, "Look, pretty boy, what's this all about?"

  "Routine port examination. I am Lieutenant Hein, and I advise you to be civil. Your manifest?"

  "Two passengers," snapped Branchard. "Some items of cargo, furs, tanned hides, perfume, ingots of rare metals." He made no effort to produce papers.

  "Crew?"

  "Myself, an engineer, a navigator."

  Hein frowned. "Is that all? No handler? No steward?"

  "This is a free trader. We go where there are cargoes to be taken. The larger the crew, the smaller the share. Now, look, if you want to play at soldiers, do it somewhere else. I've work to get on with."

  He was being unwise. For a moment the officer stared at him and then said col
dly, "For your information, we are in a state of war. There is every possibility that this ship will be commandeered. Until a decision is made, you had best remember your position."

  "Commandeered?" Branchard glared his anger. "Stolen, you mean. Listen, you young fool, start anything like that, and before you know it, this planet will be avoided as if it had the plague. No ships will land and none return. If you hope to maintain contact with other worlds, you'd best forget all about throwing your weight in the wrong direction."

  He was compounding his indiscretion. Dumarest said quickly, "Captain, I think you misunderstood. The lieutenant did not exactly mean that he would take over your ship. He means that you might be asked to fetch a specific cargo."

  "I meant what I said," Hein snapped. "Who are you?"

  "This is Lord Dumarest, who is traveling with his lady, Zenya." Branchard spoke before Dumarest could answer. "From Samalle," he added meaningfully. "One of the Warrior Worlds."

  A facile lie, but a convenient one. The officer was impressed, but even so he could not restrain his curiosity.

  "From Samalle? In such a vessel?"

  Dumarest was curt. "How long have you been a soldier?"

  Hein reddened. "Not long, my lord, but-"

  "Surely long enough to have learned that comfort is not a part of the military creed. This vessel took us where we wanted to go-that is the end of it. Have you men with you?"

  "Five, sir. They wait outside."

  "And what use would they be to you out there if this was an enemy ship?" Dumarest gave him no time to answer. "You are armed, I see, but your holster is fastened. You stand too close when questioning a subject. There is dirt on your sleeve. If a man is not proud of his uniform, he cannot be proud of his service. Now, straighten, call your men, have them search the ship."

  "Sir!" The lieutenant snapped a salute.

  "And be courteous with my lady."

  "Is she in the cabin, sir? She will not be disturbed."

  "Thank you, lieutenant."

  Branchard chuckled as the young man moved away. "You did it well, Earl. If I didn't know better, I'd swear you'd been born on Samalle. You had the tone, the stance, everything. That young fool didn't know what had hit him."