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Like a skein of dew the spheres stretched to all sides. Brilliant, shimmering, forming a moving, crystalline pattern, at the heart of which rested the headquarters of the Cyclan.
The Central Intelligence which made contact, touching, absorbing his knowledge as a sponge would suck water from a puddle. Mental communication of incredible swiftness.
"Dumarest?"
Agreement.
"Probability of error? Predictions low on possibility of his being on Tradum. Basis for assumption?"
Explanation.
"Probability high. Variable factor of deliberate random movement negates previous predictions. Take all steps to ensure that Dumarest is apprehended. Utmost priority. Of most urgent importance that he is not allowed to escape. Full protective measures to be employed at all times."
Understanding.
"Successful culmination will result in advancement. All previous instructions canceled. Find and hold Dumarest."
The rest was sheer mental intoxication. There was always a period after rapport, during which the Homochon elements sank back into quiescence. The physical machinery of the body began to realign itself with mental affinity, but the mind was assailed by ungoverned impacts. Hsi floated in an ebon void, experiencing strange memories and unknown situations-fragments of overflow from other minds, the discard of a conglomerate of intelligences. The backwash of the tremendous cybernetic complex which was the heart of the Cyclan.
One day he would be a part of it. His body would weaken, his senses grow dull, but his mind would remain active. Then he would be taken, his brain removed from his skull, immersed in a nutrient vat, hooked in series to the countless others which formed Central Intelligence.
There he would rest, wait, and work to solve all the problems of the universe. Every cyber's idea of the ultimate paradise. Find and hold Dumarest and it would be his.
* * * * *
Leon stirred, sweating. "Earl! That hurts!"
"Not for long." The salve was a sticky paste which vanished into the skin beneath Dumarest's fingers. A numbing compound smelling of peat and containing the juice of various herbs. A crude anesthetic which would ease the pain of bruises and diminish the nagging agony of the broken rib. "Steady now."
"Earl?"
"Steady-move and you'll break the needle."
A hypogun would have been more efficient, blasting its charge through skin and fat and flesh, but the syringe would have to do. Dumarest rested his hands on the boy's side, feeling the ends of the broken rib, hearing the sudden inhalation, the barely stifled cry. Quickly he set the bone and, lifting the syringe, thrust the needle home. Leon convulsed as the tip hit bone.
"Hold still, damn you!"
Harsh words, but they did as intended. Pride held the boy still as Dumarest fed the hormone-rich compound from the syringe into the area around the broken rib. It would hold, seal and promote rapid healing. The thing done, Dumarest threw aside the empty syringe and rebound the slender torso.
"You do nothing for the next three days," he said flatly. "You lie there, you eat and you sleep, and that's all. Understand?"
Leon lifted a hand and wiped sweat from his eyes. In the dim light from the single bulb, he looked ghastly pale.
"And you?"
"Never mind me-we're talking about you. That rib will heal if left alone. Try and act the hero and you'll lacerate a lung and wind up dead, or in hospital." Dumarest picked up the third item which the package given him by Bic Wan had contained. A wrinkled pod which, squeezed, would release a puff of spores. A narcotic dust which would bring sleep and, he hoped, a loose and honest tongue.
"Earl, we're traveling on together, aren't we?"
"Maybe."
A lie, but a vague one. When he moved on, Dumarest intended to be alone. Crossing the room he looked through the window. The alley was in thick shadow, vagrant beams of illumination touching walls, a shuttered window, a can of garbage. From down the hall came the monotonous sound of coughing, as Chell Arlept waited for the panacea of sleep. Money could have cured him, given him fresh lungs grown from tissues of the old, but he had no money.
"Earl?"
"Your home world," said Dumarest slowly. "What made you say it was Nerth?"
"Because it is."
"You know how to get back there?"
"I don't want to go back." Leon eased himself on the bed. "I never want to see it again. I managed to get away and I'm staying away."
"Tell me," said Dumarest. "Does it have a large, silver moon? Is the sky blue at day and thin with stars at night?"
"It's got a moon," admitted the boy. "And, yes, a blue sky. The stars are thin too, but that's because it's a long way from the Center. Just like they are here. Why, Earl? What's your interest?"
Dumarest said, "Lean back. Make yourself comfortable. Close your eyes, that's it. Now breathe deeply, deeply, good." Lifting the pod he squeezed it, gusting a fine spray at the boy's mouth, seeing the minute spores enter the nostrils to be absorbed by the inner membranes.
Within seconds he was asleep.
"Leon, listen to me." Dumarest dropped to his knees beside the narrow bed. "Answer me truthfully-have you ever heard of the Cyclan?"
"No."
"Did anyone tell you to speak to me, to mention Nerth?"
"No."
"Is there such a place, or did you make up the name because you were afraid of something?"
"Nerth," murmured the boy. "No! I won't!"
"Steady!" He quieted beneath Dumarest's hand. "What made you run?"
"I-they, no! No, I won't do it!"
"Do what? Answer me, Leon, do what?"
The boy shifted on the bed, sweat shining on his face, his voice deepening, taking on the pulse of drums.
"From terror they fled to find new places on which to expiate their sins. Only when cleansed will the race of Man be united again."
The creed of the Original People. Dumarest rose, staring down at the bed, the figure it contained. A boy, too young to know what he was saying, or someone primed for just such an eventuality. The drug he'd used was primitive-any biological technician could have provided conditioning against it, primed the youngster with intriguing answers to appropriate questions.
Any information he could give would be valueless, and already he was convinced the boy had lied.
A knock and he spun as the door swung open.
"What-?" The woman was middle-aged, dowdy, her face seamed, relieved only by the luminosity of her eyes. Wide now as they stared at Dumarest's face, the glitter of the naked blade in his hand.
He spoke before she could scream. "What do you want?"
"The boy-I heard that he was ill. I wondered if I could help?"
"Are you a nurse?" Dumarest sheathed the knife.
"Yes, in a way. I work at the hospital and try to help others in my spare time. Chell Arlept, you know of him?"
"The dying man? Yes."
"I call sometimes. There's not much I can do, but at least I can help him to sleep. I wondered-"
"What I was doing with a knife in my hand?" Dumarest smiled, casually at ease. "You startled me, that's all."
"The boy?"
"Has been taken care of. All he needs now is to rest. Perhaps you could look in tomorrow?"
"I'm in no hurry." She moved towards the bed, smoothed back the hair from the pale face. "I could sit with him for a while." She added meaningfully, "I'm sure that you have other things to do."
To go downstairs, to find the woman who ran the hotel, to give her money for Leon's keep, more money to be given him when he woke. The cost of a Low passage which he would be a fool to use too soon, but Dumarest couldn't leave him stranded.
* * * * *
There was trouble at the field. Dumarest sensed it as he approached the gate, slowing as he studied the men standing around. Too many men and too many of them without apparent duties. Hard men with blank faces who needed no uniforms to betray their profession. Guards and agents, watchful and alert.
They stood in patches of shadow, scarcely moving, rigid with the patience which was part of their trade. A pair of them stepped forward as a man neared the gate, a tall figure wearing gray, the material scuffed, his feet unsteady.
"You there!" One of the guards shone a flashlight into a flushed and blinking face. "Name?"
"Connors. Why?"
"Just answer. You from the workings?"
"Say, what the hell is this all about?"
"Just answer. Rawf?"
"It could be," said his companion. "He fits the rough description. Mister, you'd better come with us."
"Me? What for? Like hell I will!"
"Suit yourself," said the first man. "You want it hard, you get it hard. Rawf!"
The sap made a flat, dull sound as it landed against the man's temple, knocking him into an unconscious heap.
Thoughtfully Dumarest turned away. The field sealed, a cyber landed-he felt the closing jaws of a trap. Soon the hospitals would be checked, the doctors, it wouldn't take long for Hsi to connect isolated incidents. Connect them and extrapolate and predict exactly where he was to be found. And, on Tradum, places were few in which he could hide. The city, the workings, the areas beyond the mountains impossible to reach on foot. Even the Hyead couldn't live off the land here, between the mountains and the sea. And any attempt to hire transport would leave a trail.
The field-it had to be the field and the first ship to leave. But, already, he had left it too late.
"Man Dumarest!"
The voice came from the shadows, a slight figure in the darkness making a formless blur. One which became a stunted shape, horned, a hand extended for candy.
"Word, man Dumarest. One in scarlet has landed. You promised a high reward."
To a creature at the workings-another proof of the rudimentary telepathic ability Dumarest suspected the Hyead possessed.
"You are late with the word," he said gently. "But the reward will be given. Can you help me more?"
"How, man Dumarest?"
"I want to get on the field unseen. Can it be done?"
"By us, no."
"By others?"
"It is possible. The one known as Kiasong could help. He is to be found-"
"Thank you," said Dumarest. "I know where he is to be found."
Ayantel was closing down when he arrived, saying nothing as he took the heavy shutters from her hands, watching as he set them into position. The interior of the stall was hot, the air scented with spice and roasted meats. A single lamp threw a cone of brilliance over the counter and cooking apparatus, shadows clustering in the corners. Among them the Hyead bustled, cleaning, polishing skewers, setting cooked food to one side, piling the rest into containers of lambent fluid.
"I'm glad you came back," she said when the stall was sealed. "You know my name, what's yours?"
He told her, watching her eyes. If she recognized it she gave no sign.
"Earl," she mused. "Earl Dumarest. I like it, it has a good sound. I'm glad that you didn't lie."
"You would have known?"
"I knew that you were coming." Her hand lifted, gestured at the Hyead. "Kiasong told me. Don't ask me how he knew-sometimes I think they can pick up voices from the wind. He said you needed help. Is that right?"
"Yes. I-"
"Later." Turning she said, "Kiasong, that'll be all for now. Take the cooked food and give half to the monk. You've got the key?"
"Yes, woman Ayantel."
"Then get on your way."
"Wait." Dumarest handed the creature a coin. "For candy-and for silence."
"It is understood, man Dumarest."
"Odd," she said as Kiasong left. "They creep about like ghosts, work for scraps, and yet at times they make me feel like an ignorant savage. Why is that, Earl?"
"A different culture, Ayantel. A different set of values. As far as we are concerned, they have no ambition. They live for the moment-or perhaps they live in the past. Or, again, they could regard this life as merely a stepping stone to another."
"Or, maybe they're just practical," she said. "We all have to die so why fight against the inevitable? Why wear yourself out trying to get rich when the worms will win in the end anyway?"
"You're a philosopher."
"No, just a woman who thinks too much at times."
"And generous."
"Because I give Kiasong a few scraps and a place to sleep? No, I'm practical. The food will go to waste anyway, and with him sleeping in here I've got a cheap watchman." Shrugging she added, "To hell with that. Let's talk about you. You need help-trouble?"
"Yes."
"I figured it might be something like that. What did you do, kill a man?"
"A pilferer called Brad. I don't know his other name but he had friends."
"Brad." She frowned. "Did you have to kill him?"
"He had a gun. It was him or me."
"A gun? Muld Evron arms his scavengers. Brad," she said again. "Medium build, dark hair, scarred cheek? Operates with a runt called Elvach?" She thinned her lips at his nod. "One of Evron's boys. You were smart to pull out. You'd be smarter to get the hell off this world before they catch up with you. Is that what you're after?"
Dumarest nodded, letting her make the natural assumption. "I can pay," he said. "If you can fix it I can pay."
"That helps," she admitted. "But it'll take time. In the meanwhile you'd better stay out of sight. Got a place to stay?"
"I can find one."
"And bump into one of Evron's scavengers? No, Earl, I've go a better idea. You can stay with me." She stepped towards him, light glinting from her eyes, her hair. Her flesh held the warm scent of spice, the odor of femininity. She lifted her arms to his shoulders, aware of the movement of her breasts, the temptation they presented. "You've no objection?"
"No," he said. "I've no objection."
Chapter Five
The room was small, warmly intimate, filled with trifles and soft furnishings; a stuffed animal with glassy eyes, a faded bunch of flowers, a box which chimed when opened. The bed was a frilled oasis of hedonistic comfort, the pillows edged with lace, the sheets scented with floral perfumes. A carved idol nodded over a plume of incense, a gilded clock registered the passing hours.
Dumarest stretched, remembering the night, the warm, demanding heat of the woman, the almost savage intensity of her embrace. A thing of need, not affection, though he suspected that affection could come and turn into love. On her side, not his. He could afford no hampering chains.
"Earl, awake yet?"
She came from the bathroom, smiling, radiant. The thin material of the robe she wore did nothing to hide the swell of hips and thighs, the liquid movement of her breasts. She stooped and kissed him, her lips lingering, his own body responding to her proximity. A hunger as pressing as her own, a need as intense.
Later, lying side by side, they talked.
"You're nice," she said. "Gentle. A lot of men think they have to be rough. I guess they reckon they have to prove something, but not you." The tip of her finger traced the scars on his chest. "Knives?"
"Yes."
"In the ring?" She didn't wait for his nod. "A fighter. I guessed as much. You have the look, the walk. Why do men do it, Earl? For kicks? For money? To stand and slash at someone with a naked blade, to get cut in turn, crippled or killed. And for what?"
For the titivation of a jaded crowd, men and women hungry for the sight of blood and pain, reveling in the vicarious danger. Lying back on the scented pillows, Dumarest could see them as he had too often before. A ring of faces, more animal than human, leaning forward from the gilded balconies of arenas, edging the square of a ring, shouting, screaming, filling the air with the scent of feral anticipation.
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