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  But Dumarest had to be found.

  Broge stood thinking, assembling facts, assessing known data. A man on the run, a stranger in the city, where would he go to hide?

  He said, "Captain, was anything taken from the house?"

  "Not as far as we know."

  "Nothing disturbed?"

  "Papers on the desk. And some clothing. It was scattered before a wardrobe; old stuff not worth a beggar's notice. As I told you the old man was poor."

  "But-"

  "What now?" With an effort Kregor mastered his irritation. He was tired and cold and was more worried than he cared to admit. The failure to find Dumarest was evidence of inefficiency, a fact the dead youth's father would make the most of at the inquiry. Bram Jolpen had been a wastrel, but his family would be thirsting for revenge and would be vicious if denied it. He must give them no grounds for complaint and it was no time to make powerful enemies. He had gone too far and knew it. "My apologies, Cyber Broge, I did not mean to be discourteous. But I assure you that I have done, and am doing, all I can to find the missing man. It is only a matter of time."

  "What if he should manage to gain passage on a ship?"

  "He can't. The field is secured. Only one vessel has left since the incident and that was two hours after the dead were found. He couldn't have obtained passage on the Accaus. We'll get him, Cyber Broge. I promise you." He looked at the old man lying on his slab. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  "Thank you, no, Captain. We both have other matters claiming our attention."

  From the mortuary Broge returned directly to his quarters. A small room opened from his office, bleak, containing little more than a narrow couch. A cyber needed little else. He wasted no energy carrying a load of useless, waterlogged tissue and had no time for emotionally stimulating art work. Intellectually he could appreciate the beauty of functional design but, that a thing served its purpose, was all that was required. A bed did not have to be too wide, too soft, too ornate. That it provided support and the room in which it rested privacy, was all a cyber could demand.

  "Master!" His acolyte bowed as he was summoned. "Has the man been found?"

  "No."

  "Your orders?"

  "Check with the men watching Hilda Benson. Have them search her home. It is barely possible she is aiding him."

  "Dumarest? But, master, she informed us where he was to be found."

  "Which means nothing. Women are difficult to predict with any high degree of accuracy. The death of her old friend could have created a state of aberration."

  "It will be done, master. And?"

  "Total seal."

  Broge touched the heavy band locked around his left wrist as, bowing, the acolyte left the small room and closed the door. Protection enough against invasion, but the mechanism incorporated into the band gave more. A flood of invisible energy streamed from it creating a field which provided a barrier against any prying electronic eye or ear.

  Lying supine on the couch Broge closed his eyes and concentrated on the Samatachazi formulae. The initial state was difficult to achieve and he forced himself to relax, remembering his instructions, the guides he had been given during early training. Later, he knew, the act would become second-nature and, always, it was a mistake to let urgency intrude.

  There was no need for haste… no need… no need…

  Gradually he lost sensory perception; the senses of touch, of hearing, of smell, of taste. Had he opened his eyes he would have been blind. Reality ceased to exist as the part of an external universe and his brain, locked within the boney protection of his skull, ceased to be irritated by external stimuli. It turned in on itself, became a world of its own, a new sphere of existence concerned only with reason and untrammeled intellect. A state of nirvana in which nothing existed or could exist but the egotistical self. And then, like tiny fires burning on a nighted horizon, the grafted Homochon elements became active.

  Rapport was established.

  Broge became something more than human.

  His brain expanded, his awareness swelling like a colossal balloon to encompass all of time and creation. Sheets and planes of scintillant brilliance were all around and he could see them all in perfect, over-all vision. Each cyber, he knew, had a different experience and none could reduce to words the ecstasy of the unfolding. For him it was as if he moved bodiless through showers of broken rainbows; splinters of unsuspected color woven as if in a fantastic tapestry of unimaginable complexity, a three-dimensional web of translucent hues, intangible yet each strand containing a fragment of the space-time continuum in a series of ever-multiplying, ever-changing relationships.

  An incredible maze of which he was an integral part, immersed in the radiance so that it became an extension of his being and he became a manifestation of its complexity, the part merging with and transmuted into the whole.

  Like a shimmer of brilliant rain, shards and sparkles of scintillant hue, curtains of gossamer laced and riven with an infinity of strands the fabric of intermeshed rainbows turned and curved and led to a common center at the heart of which lay the headquarters of the Cyclan.

  It blazed with the cold, clear light of pure intelligence. The complex which dominated the entire organization, correlating it, synchronizing effort, plotting the devious moves and counter moves strung over a multitude of worlds. The Central Intelligence which, even as he grew aware of it, made contact: merging, touching, assimilating his knowledge and making it its own. Mental communication of incredible swiftness.

  "Dumarest on Harold?"

  Affirmation.

  "But not in your custody. Explain the failure."

  Reasons.

  "The use of an inefficient agent is a fault. You are to be blamed for that. The probability that Dumarest managed to escape on the Accaus is low. The time element was against this. Another fault."

  Protestation.

  "Agreed. The distance could have been covered by an agile man in the time specified and a heavy bribe could have gained both entrance to the field and a passage, yet the probability is a mere eight per cent. Even so steps will be taken. Men will be waiting at the world of destination. Future intent?"

  Explanation.

  "Accepted. The probability of Dumarest still being within the city is high. He must be captured at all costs. All precautions must be taken to ensure his protection. Under no circumstances must he be killed. Give this matter your personal attention. Dumarest must be taken. Failure will not be tolerated."

  Understanding.

  "Find and capture Dumarest and immediate preference will be yours. Fail and you know the penalty. Do not fail!"

  The rest was euphoria.

  Always, after rapport, there was a period during which the grafted Homochon elements sank again into quiescence and the physical machinery of the body began to realign itself with the dictates of the brain and, during that time, the mind was assailed by a storm of ungoverned impressions.

  Broge drifted in a sightless void, detached, a pure brain in an environment in which only the cold light of reason could prevail. He experienced a host of exotic stimuli, memories of places he had never seen, knowledge he had not gained, new situations alien to his frames of reference-all the over-spill from other minds, fragments, the discard of a conglomerate of assembled intelligences. The waste, in a sense, of the tremendous cybernetic complex which was the hidden power of the Cyclan.

  One day he would become a part of it. His body would age and grow rebellious, senses would dull and reactions slow but his mind would remain the keen instrument training and use had made it. Then he would be summoned, taken on the final journey to a secret place where his brain would be removed from his skull, placed in a vat of nutrients, connected in series to the other brains previously assembled. A countless host of intelligences which, working in harmony, formed the Central Intelligence.

  There he would remain for eternity, maintained, supported, working to the common end, the prime directive of the Cyclan. All the problems
of the universe to be solved, all Mankind to be united into an efficient whole, all waste eliminated, harmony to be achieved beneath the dictates of the Cyclan. The Great Design of which he was a living part.

  Chapter Six

  Dumarest woke feeling the touch of fingers, questing, probing like a predatory spider. He lay still, eyes slitted as they peered into darkness. He could hear the soft breathing of someone close and then, as gentle as a landing butterfly, the chill impact of something like ice at his throat.

  Not ice and not a butterfly but a jagged sliver of glass held by the man who searched him, resting, poised ready to rip into his flesh, to slash the great arteries and release his life in a fountain of blood should he move.

  Lowtown was not a gentle place.

  He could smell the stench of it around him; the stink of unwashed flesh pressed too close, bodies huddled together for the sake of warmth, vapors rising from damp clothing. The whole compounded with the odors of sickness and running sores, of disease, of grime and rancid oil, of scraps of mouldering food.

  Of the poverty which ruled here in this place on this world.

  The searching hand grew more bold, the fingers tugging at the fastening of the cloak, slipping inside to fumble at the blouse, the wadded belt beneath. Dumarest felt the touch of breath on his cheek, air carrying a fetid odor which caught at his nostrils. The sharp fragment resting on his throat lifted a little as the man, growing careless, concentrated on the bulk his fingers had found.

  A little more and it would be time to act yet to wait too long would be to betray too much. Dumarest gently drew in his breath, tensed his muscles and, with a blur of movement, had rolled away from the threatening shard, had turned, caught the searching hand, squeezing it as the man reared back like a startled beast.

  "You-"

  The glass had driven its point into the dirt. The glass shattered as Dumarest slammed the heel of his free hand against it, lifting the fingers to snatch at the other wrist. Trapped, body arched back from the hands which held it fast, the man glared his hate and fear.

  "My hand; My wrist! Don't!"

  "You were robbing me!"

  "No! I-" The man swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing in his scrawny throat, his face pale in the dim light cast by the external lights. "I thought you were a friend."

  "Liar!" Dumarest closed his hands a little. "Thief!"

  "No!" The man sweated with pain. "For God's sake, kill me if you want but don't break my bones!"

  He was starving, desperate, driven to act the wolf. It would be charity to give him money for food to thrust into his empty belly but to do that would be to commit suicide. Even if he didn't talk others would notice and, like vicious wasps, they would be eager for their share of what was going. And the man himself would never be satisfied. It was better policy to kill him-a thief had no right to expect mercy.

  "Do it," said the man. He had the courage of a cornered rat. "If you're going to kill me make it fast and clean but, before you strike ask yourself if you're in any position to judge. Haven't you ever turned thief when you had no other choice?"

  Thief and killer; money stolen from purses when he'd been a boy, other things when, older, he'd grown delirious with hunger. Men killed for the sake of gain. Butchered in the arena for the enjoyment of a crowd. Had Galbrio deserved to die? Had any of the others who had wagered themselves against his skill and lost?

  And there had been others-the law of life was simple.

  Survive!

  Live no matter what the cost for, without life, there is nothing. Live!

  Kill or be killed!

  "Mister?"

  "Go to hell!" Dumarest pushed the man away so that he fell to sprawl in the mud. "Come near me again and I'll break your neck!"

  "You were a fool," said the huddled shape at his side when he settled down again beneath the scrap of fabric which formed the roof of a crude shelter. "You should have killed him. His boots would have been worth a bowl of soup, his clothes another." The man began to cough, liquid gurglings rising from fluid-filled lungs. "The bastard! I've no time for thieves."

  "That makes two of us."

  "Yet you let him go. That shows you're new here. Come in on the last ship?" He coughed again as Dumarest grunted. "I've been here most of a year now. Arrived after traveling Low. I had money, enough for another passage once I'd got my fat back, but they wouldn't let me leave the field. A High passage or nothing-you know the system. Well, I wasn't all that worried, a few days and there'd be another ship, a month, say, and I'd get fit for the journey. Then some bastard stole my money."

  He fell silent, thinking, remembering the awful bleakness of the discovery. The regret at not having spent the cash while he'd had the chance. Of buying himself some small luxuries, some decent clothes, enjoying the pleasures of a woman, maybe.

  "I never found who stole it," he continued after another fit of coughing. "But it was summer and the harvest was due and workers were needed. Given time, I figured, I could build another stake. And the rest would do me good." His laugh was ugly. "Rest! They worked the tail off me for little more than the price of a day's food. Out before dawn and back after dark. We lived in tents way out past the city. There were overseers with whips and, if you slacked, they docked your pay." He added, dully, "I guess you know the rest."

  A familiar pattern. Cheap labor kept that way by the lack of choice. A strong man would last especially in summer and autumn, then would come winter and the wastage of precious tissue, the sapping of strength, energy lost merely to keep warm. By spring only the strongest would be able to work. The rest would lie, faces becoming little more than eyes, bodies shrunken to less than the weight of a child. Disease would be kind then, robbing life with merciful swiftness.

  Rising, Dumarest stepped from the shelter and looked around. It was close to dawn, the sky beginning to pale, the only light coming from the standards ringing the field and from where a fire threw a patch of warmth and brilliance to one side. Around and above stretched a cage of thick wire mesh, a hemisphere pierced by a single opening which led to the field. It was barred now but an hour after dawn the barrier would be opened and vendors coming from the city would offer scraps of food to any who could pay.

  Those who couldn't could only beg, thrusting fingers and hands through the mesh to those who came strolling past during the afternoon and evening. Sightseers out to look at the animals. Those who brought food with them were kind.

  It wasn't their fault Lowtown existed. No one had forced these within the cage to come to their world. They had no duty to support the uninvited guests. Why should they deny themselves so that others, who had done nothing to earn the largess, should gain?

  So let them work if they could or leave if they had the money or die if they couldn't.

  No one in the whole wide galaxy had the right to charity. Only the strong deserved to survive.

  A man sat at the edge of the fire playing a solitary game with a stained decks of cards. The warm glow shone on a hard face set with cold, deep-set eyes and a thin-lipped mouth. The chin was cleft. The hands were broad, the fingers spatulate, the nails blunt but neatly rounded.

  He turned a card then looked up as Dumarest approached. "Sit," he invited. "Care for a game?"

  "No."

  "Anything you want." He turned a card and set it on another. "Starsmash, spectrum, high, low, man-in-between. Poker, khano, hunt-the-lady. Name the game and it's yours. You gamble?"

  Dumarest said, dryly, "At times."

  "But not now. Well, it was worth trying." The man picked up the cards, shuffled them, began to set them out for a game of solitaire. "Just arrived?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you must know the score. Sometimes it pays to string along. Sometimes it's suicide not to." He dropped the knave of swords on the lady of diamonds. "It took me a while to learn. Here it's dog eat dog, but I guess you know that. Have you money?"

  Dumarest said, "The ten of swords on the knave of hearts."

  "So you're cautious, th
at's good. And I'd guess you know how to take care of yourself. Here there are only two kinds of people: sheep and wolves." He turned another card and set it into place. "I don't take you for a sheep."

  "So?"

  "There are ways to get along. Given time you'll find them and, if you were greedy, you'd want to take over. That would be a mistake." A card dropped from his fingers. "A man can get away from here if he puts his mind to it. It takes time but it can be done. I guess you know how."

  A system as old as time. A strong and ruthless man taking over, arranging to hire out men and taking a cut from employers to avoid trouble, taking another from those they permitted to work. Small sums but they would accumulate. In time they would grow into the price of a passage-but Dumarest had no time.

  He said, flatly, "I'm not ambitious."

  "But you want to get away, right?" The man lifted his head, firelight gleaming from his eyes. In a shelter to one side, a man cried out in his sleep, falling silent with a fretful muttering. "To do that you've got to get out on the field. I can arrange it. Men will be wanted to load the ships. You'll have a chance to talk to the handlers and maybe pick up something. You know how it is, a bale or crate can split open by accident and only a fool would waste an opportunity." He riffled his cards. "I take a fifth of all you get."

  Three ships waited on the field. "The Ergun was carrying a cargo of grain to a mining world and the handler smiled as Dumarest straightened after dumping the last sack into the hold.

  "It wouldn't work," he said, quietly.

  "What?"

  "We fill the hold with prophane-X ten minutes after take-off. It's to kill any bugs but it'll take care of a man just as well. I mention it in case you know of anyone hoping to stowaway. He could do it-hell, who can check every sack, but he'd never make it alive."

  "How about buying a passage?"

  "Low?" The handler shook his head. "We've no caskets. It isn't worth keeping them on the run we do. Load up here, go to Zwen, move on to Cresh then back to here. Short trips."

  Dumarest was blunt. "How much to let me ride? I'll pay what I can now, and give you a note so as you can collect from my earnings on Zwen. They take contract-workers, don't they? Well, it'll be just like money in the bank."