Angado

"No, it was dark."

"How many were there?"

"About six."

"Four attacking two others?" Vernajean didn't wait for an answer. "In a way you were lucky to be caught. The patrol disturbed men who had been waiting for you. Scum of Lowtown who had broken curfew as had the others. Does the name Birkut mean anything to you?"

"I've seen him."

"And Yuli?"

"No."

"Gengiz's brother. He's sworn to kill you but you know that. He's taken over and maybe he's getting impatient. That attack could be repeated and the next time you needn't be so fortunate. You appreciate my position?"

Angado said, "We were attacked and had to fight for our lives and all you worry about is your position? How about doing your duty? If you know who was responsible then go after them and make them answer. Why are-"

"Shut up!" Dumarest didn't look at his companion. "He's young," he said to the inspector. "Still learning. He doesn't realize that Lowtown is what it is because you want it to be that way."

"What other way can it be?" Vernajean shrugged. "Men without money, without hope, growing more and more desperate. An abscess ready to burst and spread infection all over the city. It has to be drained."

By using men like Yuli to rule and bleed malcontents into the mines. A ready source of cheap labor for the installations which provided the wealth of the planet. But, for Yuli, the price of cooperation was the death of those who had killed his brother.

"The monks have spoken for you," said the inspector. "We have no wish to antagonize the Church but-" His gesture completed the sentence. "And there is another thing. Without a job or funds you are not allowed within the city during curfew. If you should be picked up by a patrol and found to be deficient then you can be fined or sentenced to the mines. I tell you this so as to make you aware of your position."

"Thank you," said Dumarest.

"Position?" Angado was less gracious. "What position? If it hadn't been for your damned men we wouldn't be here now!"

"If it hadn't been for them we could be dead." Dumarest rose to his feet, facing the inspector. "Can we go now?"

"Yes. Your property will be returned at the desk outside." Vernajean rose in turn. "A last word to the pair of you-do not stay on Yuanka too long."

Outside Angado swore with savage bitterness.

"They robbed us! The bastards took half our cash!"

"But left half."

"We should complain. Go back and make a formal accusation."

Dumarest said, "You heard what the inspector said. He was warning us. Leave Yuanka or wind up in the mines or dead. Maybe some of those officers in there want to see us that way."

"So they robbed us to force us to the brink and over." Angado looked bleak. "How do we get out of this hell-hole? Steal? Gamble? Try our luck at the wheel? Put all of our money on a single turn?" His laugh was brittle. "What have we to lose?"

Everything, but that was the nature of a true gamble. To risk life itself on the throw of dice or the flip of a coin and yet, as Dumarest knew, the need to win was often the surest way to lose.

Yet there was more than one way to gamble.

* * *

The place had the familiarity of home; the smell, the sounds, the sight of the ring, the tiered seats, the cubicles in which men sat with blank faces or sported with artificial gaiety. The environs of the arena in which men faced each other with naked steel to maim and kill for the sake of gain.

The promoter was curt. "It's fifty for show, as much if he lasts five minutes, a hundred more if he wins." He looked at Dumarest standing black-faced, vacuous, a seeming moron. "Does he know what it's all about?"

"He knows." Angado primed, acted the part of an entrepreneur eager for a profit, uncaring how he got it. A cynic who shrugged as he added, "You won't be disappointed. He's good and has scars to prove it. Fifty, you said?"

"When he's due to climb into the ring." The promoter ignored the outstretched hand. "Gives you a chance to place your bet," he explained. "Of course, if your man doesn't make good, you do."

"Medicals?"

"We've a doctor but you pay his fees." The promoter glanced at his watch. "The prelims are all arranged; first and third blood stuff. Your man'll feed a main event."

"For fifty?"

"You can double it if you bet right." The promoter sharpened his tone. "You want it or not?"

"I'll take it." Angado obeyed Dumarest's signal. "Doubled, eh?"

"Sure, if he makes a good entry. That's settled then. He'll face a prime contender."

To be hacked, slashed, maimed and slaughtered to provide a bloody spectacle. Dumarest had seen such too often; men driven to the ring by desperation, unskilled, untrained, trusting to luck and the mercy of their opponents. Ending as things of carmined horror, dying to the frenzied yelling of the crowd.

Dumarest could hear them from where he sat, imagine their faces, avid, feral, features taut with sadistic pleasure. Men and women converted by their blood-lust into mindless, reactive beasts. Thrilling to the sight of blood, of pain, the stink of fear.

"Earl?" Angado had heard the shouts and seen some of the men coming from the ring. Youngsters, mostly, many with gaping wounds. Some having to be supported, others making their own way to where the doctor worked on a bench covered by a stained, plastic sheet. "Earl, are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"We've no choice."

"To hell with the money. We can work in the mines, try hunting, anything. This is butchery."

Sport seen from a different angle and he no longer felt the vicarious pleasure he had when seated in a place close to the ring. Enjoying the combat, the near misses, the cuts, the hits and scores, the deaths while comforted by the knowledge that he would remain unharmed.

Dumarest said, "Make sure the odds are right. I'll stumble when entering the ring, look vague, act stupid. Easy meat to anyone who knows his stuff. I might even take a cut. Give me a couple of minutes to decide then make the bets."

"You're good," said Angado. "You have to be. And fast, I know that. But I still don't like it."

"Do your part and I'll do mine."

"Yes, but-" Angado broke off as someone screamed from the medical bench. A hoarse, animal-like sound of sheer agony. "God!"

The scream came again, the doctor's voice rising above it, harsh, commanding.

"Help me, someone! Hold this man still! Hold him, damn you!"

Angado gripped sweat-slimed shoulders, fighting the explosion of muscles as he forced them back on the bench as others gripped threshing arms and legs. The man was young, face contorted with pain, intestines bulging through the slit abdomen. Blueish, greasy coils stained with blood and lymph, one slashed to show a gaping mouth.

"Keep him still!" Air blasted as the doctor used a hypogun to drive anesthetic into the bloodstream directly through the skin. He'd aimed at the throat and the effect was immediate. As the patient slumped into merciful unconsciousness the doctor sewed the slashed intestine, coated it, sprayed it, thrust it and the others back into place. More sewing, spraying and sealing and the job was done. "Next?"

"Will he live?" Angado lingered as a couple of porters carried the man away.

"He should." The doctor was middle-aged, hard, coldly proficient. "Thanks for your help. You running a contender?"

"Yes."

"Tell him not to be heroic. It's better to drop and grandstand than to end up cut all to hell. Cheaper too." The doctor raised his voice. "Who's next?"

A man with a slashed face, an eye gone, the nose and lips slit. He was followed by another clutching at the ripped fabric of his shorts, thick streams of blood running between his fingers and staining his thighs. A third had a small hole on his torso and coughed and spat blood from a punctured lung.

A winner-in the clash and flurry of edged and pointed steel the one who stayed longest on his feet gained the prize. But even winners could be hurt.

Angado moved back to Dumarest, his facade cracking, sweat dewing his face. The smells were making him gag and the cold indifference of others to pain made him feel alien and vulnerable. In this madness Dumarest was a consolation. A rock of security.

One who seemed asleep.

He leaned back against the wall, muscles relaxed, eyes closed, his breathing deep and even. A man devoid of tension, sitting easily, resting so as to conserve his energy. To Angado it seemed incredible, then he realized that Dumarest was not asleep at all but had deliberately thrown himself into a trance-like state of detachment. One which suited the pose he had adopted, that of a moronic intelligence unable to imagine the consequences of failure and willing to be guided by a sharper mind.

"It won't be long now." The promoter paused, taking time during the interval to check on the next events. Known contenders were safe enough but ring-fodder sometimes grew apprehensive and needed encouragement. "I've picked an easy one-old, slow, too gentle for his own good. Abo hates to see a man hurt. A fault, but one in your favor." He glanced at Dumarest. "He need anything? A pill, maybe?"

"I can handle it."

"See that you do." The promoter jerked his head as a roar came from the crowd. Naked women, fighting with clubs, had given rise to yelled appreciation. "Better get him ready."

He bustled away and Dumarest rose, stretching. As always he felt the tension, the anticipation which crawled over his skin like multi-legged insects. Warnings of danger which even the shower could not wash away. Cleaned, oiled to prevent a grasping hand gaining a hold, he donned shorts and reached for his knife.

"Not that one!" An attendant called from where he stood before the passage leading to the ring. "We provide the weapons. Hurry up if you're ready!"

Sound exploded from the crowd as they reached the passage, a shrill, yammering roar which caused the partition to quiver.

"That was a killing!" The attendant sucked in his cheeks. "The crowd always like to see a man go down. Right. You're next!"

"The money." Angado was insistent. "I get paid or he doesn't show."

"It's here." The attendant handed over the cash. "Happy now?" He didn't bother to hide his contempt. "Damned leech!" Then, to Dumarest, "Right, friend. Off you go."

To the head of the passage, the open space, the watching crowd, the ring, the man who waited to kill him.

* * *

Dumarest tripped as he entered the auditorium, clumsy as he climbed into the ring to stand beneath the glare of overhead lights, the knife they had given him hanging loosely in his hand. One an inch longer than his own, not as well honed, not as well balanced, but the ten inches of edged and pointed metal could do its job. It glittered as it caught and reflected the light, a flash which caught the eye and attention of a woman in the third row. One aging beneath her paint, her costume designed to accentuate her charms. The jewels she wore were no harder than her eyes.

"That man," she said. "What do you know about him?"

"Nothing." Her companion was indifferent. "Just fodder for the ring. Forget him."

A thing not easy for her to do. Narrowly she watched as Dumarest moved, noting his build, the scars, the lean suppleness of his body. A man who was more than he seemed to be and her own experience doubted his artifice. Too often she had acted the innocent in order to gain an advantage and such maneuvers were not restricted to women.

"A thousand," she said. "I want to back him for a thousand."

"To win?"

"Please don't be tiresome. Just do as I ask."

"No." He was definite. "It would be a waste of money. Abo isn't due to go down yet. Another few bouts and then, when his reputation is at its peak, the odds will be right for a killing."

"You could make one now. That man will win."

"He won't be given the chance." The man ended all argument. "Here's Abo now."

He bounced into the ring, the idol of the crowd, a winner who seemed set to go on winning. He smiled with a flash of white teeth, brown skin oiled, glistening beneath the lights.

The tight mat of his hair was thick against his skull, the arms long, corded with muscle. He moved like a cat, restless, poised and balanced on the balls of his feet. An animal, fast, quick, dangerous, he basked in the shouted adulation of women, their screamed invitations.

Promises of their beds and bodies if he would only kill… kill… kill!

And kill he would despite the rules which stated that a man down should be left alone and given the chance to yield.

"Attention!" The voice over the speakers was flat, emotionless. "A fight to the finish between the defender Abo and the challenger Earl. To your corners." A pause during which tension mounted. "Ready?" Another long, dragging wait then, like a cracking whip, "Go!"

And the third man entered the ring.

He was always there, always waiting, an invisible shape dressed in sere habiliments with bony hands ready to collect his due. Death who could never be avoided, now present by invitation.

A presence Dumarest ignored as he did the crowd, the lights, the ring itself. They blurred into a background framing the object of his concentration. The tall, lithe, man before him. One armed with a knife. One intending to kill.

And the killing would not be merciful.

Dumarest could tell it from the sadistic grin, the stance, the feline movements, the twitch of the eyes. A man playing cat and mouse in order to please the crowd. Eager to give them what they wanted; blood, pain, fear, the long-drawn agony of the final end.

A man who knew he could deliver. Success had augmented his natural skill; easy kills rubbing away the edges of hesitation. Now he moved slowly forward, blade extended before him, point out, edge upward, light glinting from the honed steel. His free hand made inviting gestures.

"Come closer," he said. "A shallow cut and you go down. Scream a little and writhe as if you're in pain and then it's over. Easy money for a scratch. Why make it hard, eh?"

Dumarest said, "I've got to last five minutes. I need the fifty."

"A cut you go down, get up and hit my blade. Plenty of noise and movement. Then another little cut and down you go again, this time to stay. A good deal, eh?" The purring voice hardened a little. "Take it while you've got the chance."

A gamble in more ways than one. A cut would enhance the odds against him and so up the take, but Abo could cut too deep; to trust him would be suicide. A risk Dumarest would never normally have taken but the man wanted to gain popularity, a quick and easy win would work against that and, to cooperate now, would be to gain a later advantage.

"Right," he said. "But be careful."

They closed, blades flashing, ringing, darting like the tongues of serpents, Dumarest saw the lance of Abo's knife, its slashing, backhand sweep, and moved sideways away from its edge as it sliced into his side. A shallow gash barely more than a scratch and far less serious than Abo had intended. Dumarest clapped his free hand over the wound, masking it, enhancing the flow of blood with the pressure of his fingers. Staggering, he retreated to a halt, gasping, at the far side of the ring.

A pretense to gain time, to allow Angado to place his bets, but looking at Abo he knew he had made a mistake.

The man had more than luck and skill to help him win.

Knives were not always what they seemed. A blade could have inbuilt weaknesses and snap under pressure. Or the hilt could be hollowed to contain various vapors which could be spurted through holes in the guard. Abo's blade held indentations which held a numbing paste.

Dumarest cursed his stupidity but he was trapped in a game over which he had no control. There had been no chance to examine the weapons. None to take elementary precautions and, had he fought to avoid being cut, the odds would have fallen too low.

Now only speed could save him.

He met Abo's rush with a flick of his hand, the blood it had held flying to spatter on the smiling face, the cruel eyes. An attack followed by his own rush and the air shook to the thin, harsh ring of steel, the crowd roaring as Dumarest sent his blade home in a vicious slash which would have spilled Abo's guts had he not twisted to take the edge on his hip.

A cut followed by another, a third, deep gashes which laced the torso and marred the smooth brown skin with a patina of blood.

Backing, Abo fought back. He was quick, skillful, alert now to the real danger. The smile gone now, replaced by a snarl as he turned into an animal fighting for its life. Matching the one Dumarest had already become.

Time became meaningless, the universe itself diminishing to a matter of cuts, parries, dodges, feints, thrusts, attacks, ripostes. As life became a matter of crippling cuts, weakening blood loss, of speed and instinctive action unhampered by the slowing need for thought.

Abo lunged, missed, received a slash which crippled his left arm. Spinning, he brought up his edge, the blade halting as Dumarest blocked the motion with the barrier of his forearm against the other's wrist. A moment of strain then they parted, Dumarest seeing his target, aiming for it against the growing numbness.

Feeling the jar of metal against bone as a sun burst in his eyes.

It was a flare of light so intense as to be a physical pain and Dumarest stepped backward, hands lifted, feeling the ice-burn as steel cut into his body. A blow repeated as he moved blindly to one side and he tasted blood in his mouth and the pain as metal scraped over bone. A thrust which had penetrated a lung, another searing into his bowels, a third tearing at his liver in a storm of edge and point to send him down.

To lie blinking on the floor of the ring as vague images replaced the blackness-the lights, a shadow standing tall against them, one smeared with blood, grinning in the rictus of impending death, but still standing, still upright.

Abo enjoying his victory.

"Earl!" Angado was at his side. "You're hurt! How badly- God!" His voice rose as he called for help. "Get him to the doctor! Fast!"

Dumarest sagged in the rough hands which grasped and carried him. Pain was something not to be ignored, an agony which filled every crevice of his being. The pain and the knowledge that, at last, he had reached the end.

It happened and, in the arena, it could happen to anyone at any time. A slip, a moment of carelessness, a touch of overconfidence and, when least expected, death would reach out its waiting hand. He had seen it happen to others and now it had happened to him. The luck which had served him for so long had at last run out.

"Earl!" Angado was pleading. "For God's sake-Earl!"

A voice like a whisper in the darkness echoed by others, one stronger than the rest.

"… internal injuries and there is profuse hemorrhaging… needs extensive medical care but it'll be costly… cryogenic sac… move to the institute… need to waste no… must hurry… hurry… hurry…"

The doctor pronouncing the sentence of death, his voice becoming ragged, lost in the encroaching gloom. Death by inaction. Death from reasons of poverty. Death because he couldn't pay for the treatment necessary. Death, smiling wider now as he always smiled, coming closer… closer…

"No!" Dumarest forced open his eyes fired by the spark deep inside of him, the urge to survive which gave him a transitory strength. Darkness still clouded his vision and obscured shapes but one, close to his face, had to be Angado.

"Earl! Those bastards fired a strobe-laser into your eyes. There was almost a riot from the crowd. All bets are off."

Which is why he was lying on the bench with the doctor treating him with basic remedies. Stanching wounds and killing pain while knowing he could only stave off the inevitable.

"My arm!" Dumarest lifted his left forearm. "Get a banker-machine. Money, you understand? I've money."

"… hang on and and maybe I can get something arranged. A loan or-"

"Money!" Dumarest snarled in impatient anger. "Listen to me! Get a banking machine and do what's necessary. Do it." He sank back, blood welling to gurgle in his throat, to drown him with his life's fluid. To spray in a carmine fountain as he coughed and spat and said, while he was able, "I've money, damn you! Credit! Use it and…"He felt himself beginning to fall into an eternal oblivion. "Angado-I'm relying on you!"

Then there was nothing but the endless spinning tunnel of darkness and, at the end, the single point of a glowing star.

Chapter Eleven

Avro screamed; a shout which illuminated the shadows of his sleeping mind. A challenge hurled at the wind, the sky, the male hovering before him on spread wings. An aggressor, young, ambitious, fired by the biological need to perpetuate his genes. One screaming his intent as Avro screamed his warning but knowing, even as he screamed, that this time it wouldn't be enough. And to strike first was half the victory.

Wind gusted around him as he launched himself from the peak with a thrum of wings. Pinions which threshed the air as he fought to gain height, to turn, to hurl himself at the challenger, arms extended, fingers spread, feet lifted to deal a devastating kick. One which missed as the other twirled aside, to kick in turn, to register a blow which sent Avro spinning.

Whirling as he was attacked again with feet and hands, toes and fingers ripping at his wings, adding to the strain they already fought to overcome.

The penalty of age when the body grew too gross and the great pectorals, the deltoids, began to weaken. A time when lift was slower, agility less, vulnerability a growing menace.

The moment of truth for an angel who refused to yield his nest, his women, his position in the community.

A thing Avro knew from the instinct buried in the body and brain of the host he dominated as he knew that to fold his wings and fall would be to signal his peaceful withdrawal from the conflict. An act which would save his life and leave him to fly alone as long as his wings would carry him. To join the flock of other aging males who had been forced to yield to younger blood. Tolerated and even cared for as long as they recognized the victor's right.

But Avro was too new to this body and its way of life. Too entranced by the novelty of emotion and conditioned by the subtle knowledge that, for him, death in this body would not mean extinction. So he fought until the blood ran from a dozen wounds and his wings were in tatters. Fighting on until he began to fall, to continue to fall despite his struggles, wheeling in circles to the rocks below, the wheeling becoming a tumble, a drop, a sickening plunge to the jagged teeth waiting to smash out his life.

An impact which was the hammer-blow of extinction, filling his eyes with a flash of vivid light.

One which lingered as he jerked upright on his bed to sit, fighting for air, hands clasped over his eyes.

"Master!" Byrne calling from beyond the door attracted by his screaming. Concerned by it also; it was becoming too frequent. "Master?"

"All is well." Avro lowered his hands. "Enter."

He stood upright as the acolyte came into the room his face masked, hands steady. The chamber was as it had been when he'd retired for the sleep which should have refreshed him but had not. And the pressure at the back of his skull seemed to have grown worse.

To the aide he said, "You have something to report?"

"Nothing positive, Master."

"Have the electroencephalograph scans arrived from the ship?"

"They are on your desk, Master."

"That will be all."

"Yes, Master."

Avro stared after the aide as Byrne bowed and made his way through the door. Insubordination was out of the question: an aide was trained to obey, but obedience could be tinged with more than a desire to please. Had his use of the title been all it seemed? Normally to address a cyber as "Master" was a recognition of superiority and an admission of dependency but overuse could make its own point. One of accusation or even of contempt. Had Byrne, by what could be regarded as zealous courtesy, shown his disquiet?

He was a spy, of course, as Tupou was a spy, as all acolytes were spies. Eyes and ears to see and listen and a mouth to report. Had he told Ishaq of the screaming? Had the cyber reported the incidents to Central Intelligence? Had he received secret orders in turn to watch and assess and, if necessary, to restrain his nominal superior?

Avro lifted his hands and pressed them against the back of his skull. Why had Marie ordered Ishaq to join him? Why had rapport altered so strangely? Why did he so constantly dream of his life as an angel?

What was happening to him?

Part of the answer was in the electroencephalograph scans sent from the ship.

Seated at the desk Avro studied them, checking one against the other with quick efficiency. The variations were minor but unmistakable and when combined with other records from other examinations left no doubt. Even so he double-checked before leaning back to stare at the tinted panes of the window.

They were diamond-shaped, made of various hues, the sunlight streaming through them forming a tessellation of mauve, orange, red, blue, amber, emerald which flowed over the floor, the desk, the scattered papers on the surface. A transient beauty which Avro ignored as he stared at the window, the sun, the endless expanse of the dried sea bed beneath it. On it men and machines crawled in a constant search for nodules of manganese and other valuable minerals. The only source of wealth on the world and one controlled by a combine who had reason to be generous to the Cyclan.

Janda, a world as hostile as Velor, was set in the mathematical center of a sphere in which Dumarest would be found if he was still alive.

Closing his eyes Avro saw it again; the open grave, the metallic sheen which broke into rippling motion, the fretted bone revealed as the insects scuttled from their feeding place. Dumarest or some other? How to be sure?

Yet on the answer depended his life.

Avro glanced at the scans, again conscious of the pressure within his skull. One not born of imagination but of harsh reality. The Homochon elements grafted within his brain showed unmistakable signs of change. Normally quiescent until stimulated by the Samatachazi formulae they lay incorporated in the cranial tissue; a sub-species of reactive life akin to a beneficent growth which enhanced telepathic contact and made rapport possible. Now, those within his brain were growing.

Swelling like a bomb which would rip his skull wide open.

He would be dead long before that could happen and insane long before he was dead. His only hope was to have his brain removed from its bony casing and placed in a vat forming part of Central Intelligence. There the Homochon elements could grow as they normally did once the transfer had been made and his intelligence would not be affected. But, to gain the final reward, he must redeem his past failure and capture Dumarest.

Find him, capture him and deliver him to Marie. And do it before it was too late.

* * *

Angado said, "Home, Earl. Lychen where I was born. Now I'm back I wondered why I ever left."

He wore soft fabrics touched with vibrant color; reds overlaid with green trimmed with gold piping. A costume which once had suited the languid dilettante he had been but which now no longer belonged to the lean body and hard face. Something he spotted in the reflection carried by the window before which he stood and he turned, smiling, arms lifted in a gesture of greeting.

"Cousin! How wonderful to see you! In truth there were times when I thought we should never meet again. I was desolate as I am sure you would have been at the concept. Have you wine? A comfit? Something to ease the endless burden of this tiresome round?" His arms fell, his tone hardening as he looked at Dumarest. "Well?"

"Is that how you used to talk?"

"To Perotto and his cronies? At times, yes. It amused me to see their contempt."

"Is that all?"

"No," admitted Angado. "The spoiled sons of rich families tend to act the fool until it is no longer acting. To go into raptures over a trifle, to swear vengeance on a slight, to vow undying fealty to a friend-" He shook his head in disgust. "How little they know of real values. You've taught me a lot, Earl."

Dumarest said, dryly, "I hope enough for you to stay alive."

"I'll be careful." Angado spun in an elaborate pirouette. "A fool left Lychen and a fool has returned. One concerned about his finances and for no other reason. He'll be apologetic, gracious, swearing it's all a mistake and promising retribution- but I'll remember Yuanka."

"And remember a man can smile and murder as he smiles."

"I shan't forget." Angado hesitated then said, "There's a lot I shan't forget, Earl. I-"

"You don't owe me."

"I can't agree. If it hadn't been for you I'd be stuck on Yuanka."

"If it hadn't been for you I'd be dead." Dumarest rose from the deep chair in which he'd been sitting. "We each helped the other. The slate's clean."

"But your money!"

"What good is money to a dead man?"

Dumarest moved from the chair and crossed the room to stand as Angado had done before the window. It gave on a wild and rugged scene; bleak rocks, cracks, slimed stone the whole dominated by the sheet of water which dropped from above so close it seemed it could be touched. A waterfall of stupendous proportions falling to the floor of the chasm far below. Mist filled the crevice, hiding the upthrust teeth of stone with shifting rainbows, clouds of drifting spume. The roar of the impact was the deep, prolonged note of an organ.

One muted by the treble glazing, absorbent padding, the very shape of the rocks molded with cunning skill to reflect and minimize the noise.

"My grandfather built this, Earl." Angado had come to stand at Dumarest's side, his voice quiet, brooding. "I think he wanted to leave his mark and chose to build a challenge against nature itself. Beauty turned on beauty to enhance the total effect. At times, standing on the balcony, I've felt what he must have done. The utter insignificance of a man when compared to the universe. How futile all our striving seems. We're like rats fighting to garner corn we'll never be able to eat. Denying others for the sake of greed and, in the end, what does it all amount to?"

Dumarest said, "How many know that I'm here?"

"Does it matter?"

"How many?"

"A few. Servants, of course, and some others. Those of the ship would have talked and to deny your existence would have been stupid. You're a friend. Someone I met while traveling." Angado's eyes were direct. "In my circles it is considered impolite to be too curious about such associations. You'll be safe here, Earl."

"Why do you say that?"

"You talked. Back on Yuanka when you'd been sedated prior to treatment you said enough for me to know you were looking for something and something was looking for you. My guess is you're afraid of the Cyclan." Angado paused then, when Dumarest made no comment, added, "It's your business, Earl, but as I said you're safe here. Just eat and sleep and laze around and leave the worrying to me."

"Thanks."

"Forget it. We're friends, aren't we?" Angado frowned as he noticed the time. "It's getting late and I don't want to offend my hostess. Wynne is a wonderful person but can be too punctilious at times. I'd like to take you with me, Earl, but it's better left for another time. I can learn more from her if we're alone."

"She might think the same."

"She might," Angado agreed. "But I'm no longer the man she used to know."

He left with a lift of his arm, smiling, his step light as if already he was fitting into his part. One which might delude those who had known him if they didn't look too close. Alone Dumarest roamed the apartment. It was large, a collection of rooms adorned with various works of art; carved blocks of crystal, vases shaped in erotic patterns, tapestries depicting scenes of bizarre fantasy. Decoration reflecting the imagination of the man who had built a cave in the side of a cliff simply to stare at a moving sheet of water.

Seen from the balcony it was awesome. Dumarest felt the wind of its passing, the moisture from it which dewed his face, heard the deep, sonorous note from its impact against the rocks far below. A hypnotic sound as the water itself held a dangerous attraction. The fall seemed static; a curtain made of shimmering crystal, adorned with transient gleams of reflected light. Beauty which masked the power of it, the crushing, destroying force born of relentless gravitation.

Leaning against the rail Dumarest looked below. A master-mason had cut away the rock to leave the balcony suspended over the chasm and he stared at the roiling mist rising from the depths. At night the mist was illuminated with colored glows but was now a mass of white and gray, twisting, turning, rising like innumerable fountains. Hands which reached and arms which invited and he felt the attraction of it, the urge to throw himself over the rail into its embrace.

An impulse he resisted, stepping back to lean his shoulders against the wall as he looked upward at the summit of the fall. No rock had been allowed to remain to break the smooth outward curve, one enhanced by skilled adaptation, and Dumarest appreciated the artistry behind the concept. Here was nature as it should be, complete, perfect, a living example of a poem or a piece of music. Art in its purest form with all irritations carefully erased. An ideal-nature was not and could never be like that. As no life could be all harmony. As no death could be a gentle release.

Dumarest had met death too often; the small death when he had ridden Low, lying doped, frozen and ninety percent dead in caskets designed for the transportation of beasts. Risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel. Another kind of death, more traumatic, when the host-bodies he had occupied when using the affinity-twin had ceased to exist. Real, physical death softened only by the knowledge that it was only the body which was dying and not himself. Yet the pain had been real, the fear, the helpless terror of an organism that struggled to survive.

And he had met death beneath Abo's knife.

A death as real as any he would ever know for the agony had been present, the bleak realization of final extinction, the oblivion into which he had fallen. A darkness which had encompassed the universe and no death, no matter how exotic, could do more. Only the prelude could be extended but when death came, it came, and for him it had come on a small world in a dirty ring circled by avid, hungry faces eager for the spectacle he provided.

But did the dead ever dream?

Looking at the waterfall Dumarest remembered the dream he had had, or had it been a vision? A sea as wide and vast as any ocean could ever be. A sun which had drawn vapor from it, to condense into droplets, to fall as scattered rain on hills and plains and mountains. To be lifted again, to fall, to end in rivers which returned to the sea. A cycle repeated endlessly for all time.

Did the ocean care what happened to its substance? Did the drop of rain know from where it had come and to where it must go?

Was conscious life nothing but a temporary awareness of individuality?

A shadow touched Dumarest and he felt a sudden chill, one vanishing as the cloud which had covered the sun moved on beneath the pressure of wind. An incident which broke his introspection and he straightened with a sudden resolve. There had been too much thought of dying-now he needed to find life.

And it was time to look for the person on Lychen he most wanted to find.

* * *

An elevator rose from the apartment to the upper surface, one circled by spiral stairs which he used for the sake of exercise. A long climb which sapped at his weakened reserves and Dumarest sat on a bench as he surveyed the area. To one side sprawled a hotel holiday complex; something of recent construction that, he guessed, would never have been allowed by Angado's grandfather. Lawns surrounded it dotted with flower beds set in a riot of vivid colors. A long observation walk reached out over the head of the falls invisible from below. The body of massive timbers supported a mesh of lighter beams forming a protective barrier. Rags surmounting the structure streamed in the wind.

A breeze which carried a fluttering scrap of paper to rest against his boot.

"Please, sir, may I have my drawing?"

She was about eleven, tall, well-made, with strong white teeth showing between generous lips. A girl now solemn though the hazel eyes held the hint of laughter, her round face stamped with determination. She wore a long striped dress bound with a wide sash at the waist, the ends falling on her left side to a point below the knee. In her left hand she held a sketching pad and a sheaf of pens.

"My drawing, please."

"May I look at it?" Dumarest stooped to grasp it, holding it until she nodded. "Did you do this all by yourself?"

"Yes."

It was an animal, brightly colored as no real beast could ever be; the body red, the snout green, the tail blue to match the paws. A creature of fantasy yet in true proportion, the colors blending to form a pleasing whole.

"That's Ven," she said. "He's a sort of mole but I like Ert better, he's a bear."

Dumarest looked at the pad she held out for his inspection. Again the creature was colored in bright hues and was standing upright like a man. Another creature of fantasy and, like the first, it bore the stamp of a real talent.

"May I?" Taking the pad he turned the sheets, pausing as he saw a round, pitted, silver disc. One in close proximity to a circle bearing a cross, A drawing which could have depicted a moon-and the crossed circle was a symbol of Earth. "Did you think of this all by yourself?"

"Of course. I intend to be an artist when I grow up and an artist must be able to compose a picture."

"I'm sorry." Dumarest forced himself to be casual. "I meant did you see these designs anywhere? In an old book, perhaps? A painting?" Hope died as she shook her head. "Are you sure?"

"We haven't any old books. Mummy says they smell. Grandfather has some but he keeps them locked away." She held out her hand. "May I have my pad now, please."

"Of course." Dumarest closed it and looked at the cover. "No name?"

"Of course I have a name. Everyone has a name. I am Claire Jane Harbottle. My pad, please." Taking it she said, "You don't look well. You should walk around and get the air. My nanny says it is very healthy on the platform. Goodbye, now."

She ran off with a rustle of fabric, a girl oddly demure in formal garments, yet full of life and vitality. She would make her mark if her talent was allowed to flower and, if nothing else, she had given him good advice.

Dumarest rose and wandered between the flower beds as he followed a sweeping path which would bring him back to the observation platform. The wind stung his eyes, gusting, the flags streaming to fall and hang in limp abandon, to flutter again in varied hues, to droop and hang again. An odd pattern for such a place and Dumarest wondered at the vagary. A thought swallowed by another of far greater importance.

Had the girl merely dreamed up the notion of a pitted sphere and a circle barred by a cross or had she actually seen them somewhere? A decoration of a nursery wall, a painting, an illustration in a book-something seen and forgotten to rise to the forefront of her mind when triggered by the need of artistic expression. If so her grandfather could be of help- but would Lychen hold two people who could solve his problem? Did both know how to find Earth?

A stone turned beneath his foot and he stumbled, catching his balance, annoyed at his lack of attention. He had wandered among a collection of statues, tall figures simply clad and wearing haughty and disdainful expressions. Some had been adorned with flowers, others with cruder additions many displaying a ribald sense of humor. They fell behind as Dumarest lengthened his stride and headed toward the platform. If the girl was still around he wanted to learn more from her. Or from the person she would be with.

He heard the scream as he reached the foot of the ramp, a high shriek followed by words.

"Claire! Come back, Claire! For God's sake, child, come back!"

Wind had caught a picture, wafting it to catch against an upper timber and with grim determination she was going after it. Dumarest saw the small shape climbing doggedly up the framework, to grab at the paper, to miss as it blew to a farther point. To grab again as the flags stirred and wind blasted in a sudden gust.

One which thrust at the exposed shape, catching the striped dress, billowing it, using it as a sail to push the small figure off its perch.

To send it toppling from the framework into the air, the sweep of the waterfall, the long drop to the rocks below.

Dumarest moved as the woman screamed again, this time in horror, not warning. He stooped, hand lifting weighted with his knife, eyes judging time and distance, the movement of the sash over the timbers. His arm swept in a wide circle, steel glittering as it left his hand, thudding broadwise through the sash and into the wood beneath. A spike which held her suspended, twisting in the wind which caught her hair, her dress, the sash around her waist. Before it could slip free Dumarest had the girl cradled in his arms.

Chapter Twelve

Edelman Pryor was seventy years old and looked it. He wore drab garments and walked with a shuffle but still had a sharp mind and intelligence. His home matched the man, old, decaying, full of dust and forgotten corners yet retaining a staid dignity-demonstrated by the decanter, the wine, the courtesy with which it was served.

"Your health!" He lifted his glass to Dumarest. "And my thanks for what you did. If I had money you could take it all. The girl is precious to me." He sipped and added, "We are not related in blood, you understand, but she is kind enough to call me her grandfather. When young she used to stay here with her mother."

"Her father?"

"At the time was busy on other worlds. Now he is home where he belongs. Why didn't you want him to know what happened?"

"Would it help if he did?"

"No. He would give you his thanks and anything you might ask but-"

"It would be a memory he can do without." Dumarest tasted his wine not surprised to find it thin and acid. "The governess will say nothing for her own protection and the girl is wise beyond her years. Even her mother needn't be told."

"The dress?"

"Only the sash was damaged. An accident." Dumarest shrugged. "To the young such things happen all the time."

But the incident had been of value, giving him an introduction to the old man, one arranged by the governess who had been too relieved to argue. Now, sitting in the dim chamber, sipping the weak and acid wine, Dumarest waited for the courtesies to end.

"You're a friend of young Angado," said Pryor. "I heard of his return. I hope for his sake he has learned caution during his travels. Are you close?"

"We traveled together."

"And are staying with him?" Pryor sipped his wine as Dumarest nodded. "Well, he could do worse. And your own reason for coming to Lychen?" He blinked when he heard it. "An interest in antiquities? Books, maps, old logs? What appeal could such things have for a man like you?"

"The same as they have for yourself." Dumarest set down his glass. "I learned something today and saw items of interest. A drawing of a moon and a symbol I recognized. Things which could have been seen here in your house. Perhaps in the books you keep locked away."

"From a curious little child who was into everything she saw." Pryor chuckled and finished his wine. "There's no mystery about it. I collected the books for a client and the things you mention could be found within them. One at least held symbols and pictures and charts of some kind. I must confess they held little appeal but they did represent a profit. As did the maps and logs and other items I bought for later resale. As a dealer, you understand, specializing in the abstruse and rare. In fact one of my acquisitions is to be seen in the museum; a plaque inscribed with what must be a hymn of praise to an ancient god. One called Apollo. You have heard the name?"

"No."

"A pity." Pryor was disappointed. "I loaned it to the museum for the duration of my life but I expect it'll stay there for as long as they want it. Or until someone is willing to pay the demanded price. But if you are really interested in ancient things then I may have something which could interest you." Rising, he went to a corner and rummaged in a cabinet, returning with an object in his hand. "Here."

It was squat, grotesque, a female figure with swollen belly and huge, sagging breasts. The face was blurred, the nose a rounded knob, the eyes deep-set pits of blankness. Three inches high the depiction was wholly engrossed with female sexual attributes.

"I've had it for most of my life," said Pryor. "It's very old and must have been an object of veneration at one time. Some say it is a fertility symbol but I'm certain it must be more than that. The representation is that of the mother-figure and so could have associations with the very source of human life. If so it is an ideal depicted in stone. Primitive, crude, but unmistakable."

And to him of high value-why else should he have kept it so long? Dumarest studied the figurine, sensing the raw power of it. A woman. A mother. A female born to breed. Naked, unashamed of the attributes which made her what she was. The epitome of every male consumed with the desire to gain the only immortality he could ever know-the children which would carry his genes.

"Erce," whispered Pryor. "Once a man told me she was called Erce."

Mother Earth, a name Dumarest had heard before. One appropriate to the figure; turned, it would be Earth Mother.

Earth Mother?

"The man who told me that told me more," Pryor reached for his glass, found it empty, refilled it with a hand which created small chimes from the impact of the decanter with the rim. A quiver which sent ripples over the surface of the wine. "It's nonsense, of course, as anyone can see, but an interesting concept in its way. You may have heard of it. Some profess to believe that all life originated on one planet. All the divergent races on one small world. Logic is against it. The numbers are of no importance, natural increase would account for that, but how to account for the diversity of color? How, under one sun, could people be white, black, brown, yellow and all the shades between? They would be affected by the same climatic conditions, the same radiation, water, air, food. How to account for the different germ plasm?" He drank and wiped droplets from his lips. "As I said it's just an interesting concept. The image itself yields a certain tactile pleasure which you may enjoy. The story, of course, is nothing. An exercise in logic, you might say. No intelligent man would give it a moment's credence."

And only a fool would have mentioned something he took such pains to deny.

Pryor was old but no fool and the figure meant more to him than he admitted despite his protestations. A gift for a service rendered, the most he could offer, and yet one it hurt to lose. The talk had been a cover for his emotions, the code by which he lived enforcing the gift as a matter of honor. As it would regard rejection as an insult. Dumarest must accept it or make an enemy and, on Lychen, he had only one friend.

Quietly he said, "I am honored. I have seen an object like this once before. On a far world in a commune of those who claimed a common heritage and held a belief close to that you spoke of. They call themselves the Original People." He saw the clenching of a thin hand, the sudden spatter of spilled wine. Without pause he continued, "To them the figure was sacred. They kept it in a shrine."

"So?"

"I think it a pleasant custom." The hand and the spilled wine had been enough but if Pryor knew of the Original People or subscribed to their beliefs the secrecy shrouding them would block his tongue. A thing Dumarest knew and accepted. "I receive this figure from you as a valued gift," he said. "But gifts should be shared and I return it into your keeping. To be guarded until such time as I choose to send for it. It is agreed?"

"I don't understand." Pryor frowned, cheeks flushing with a dawning anger. "Are you refusing-"

"No!" Dumarest was sharp. "That is the last thing I intend. Let me explain. The plaque in the museum is yours, agreed? They are displaying it for you. Safeguarding it. I am asking that you do the same with my figure. I have reason for the request which I am sure you will appreciate." His voice deepened, took on the echo of drums as he said, "From terror they fled to find new places on which to expiate their sins. Only when cleansed will the race of Man be again united."

The creed of the Original People and Pryor gulped, his eyes startled, veiling as he stared at Dumarest's enigmatic face.

"I see," he said. "I-yes, we understand each other. It will be an honor to do as you ask. But I feel at a loss. It is not right that you should leave this house without some token of my appreciation." Pryor gestured with a thin hand. "Look around. Choose. Anything you wish will be yours."

"This." Dumarest rose and picked up his wine. "I choose what this glass contains." He drank and added, "The wine- and the name of the man for whom you collected old books."

* * *

It was late when Dumarest returned to Angado's cavelike home and the apartment was deserted aside from servants who remained discreetly invisible. One answered his summons, a man who stood with quiet deference, eyes widening as Dumarest asked his question.

"A study, sir?"

"Something like that. A room with books and maps. Surely there are maps?"

"I can't be certain, sir. There was a clearance when the old owner died and the present master has been long absent. Also changes have been made." A lift of his hands emphasized his inability to be precise. "But if maps are present, sir, they could be in the desk."

"And that is where?"

In a room barren of windows lit by lamps shielded by decorated plates of tinted transparency. One with a soft carpet on the floor and erotic paintings on the ceiling to match those writhing on the walls. A library of a kind but one which would have held a bed rather than books. Now it held neither- just a chair, a display cabinet holding small artifacts, a desk which dominated the room with its massively carved and ornamented bulk. The top remained closed beneath Dumarest's hands, the maps it may have contained beyond his reach.

A small irritation and one he ignored as he returned to the main salon and stood before the wide window watching the play of colored illumination streaming upward from the mist at the foot of the waterfall. In it the curtain of water became an artist's palette alive with vibrant hues; reds and greens, blues, oranges, dusty browns and limpid violets, shards of gold and streamers of silver, changing, blending, forming transient images which dissolved as soon as recognized. A magic reflected by the rock wall facing him across the chasm, the stone taking on a strangely disturbing aspect as if the stubborn material had softened and become the door to new and alien dimensions.

From behind him a woman said, "It's beautiful, isn't it, Earl?"

She was tall, slim, wide shoulders adding to the hint of masculinity accentuated by the close-cropped silver hair which framed a broad face and deep-set eyes of vivid blue. A woman who moved with a boyish grace, no longer a girl, the maturity of near middle-age giving her a calm assurance. Her mouth, wide, the upper lip thin, curved into a smile, revealed neat and even teeth. She wore a masculine garb of pants and blouse, her femininity displayed in the fine weave, the intricate pattern of complex embroidery. Her voice was deep, resonant and Dumarest thought of the sound of fuming water.

"My lady?"

"So formal," she said. "So cautiously polite. Lhank said you were that."

"Lhank?"

"Lord Hedren Angado Nossak Karroum. When there are so many names it helps to use initials." Her laughter rose in genuine amusement. "Don't look so startled. I have a key, see?" She lifted it swinging from her fingers. "You were busy when I arrived. What did you think of the den? Lhank Five had some peculiar attributes and had a liking for the bizarre. Lhank Six was something of a prude and Lhank Seven-well, you know about him."

"And nothing about you."

"Nothing? He didn't mention me? His old and trusted friend?" Again her laughter drowned the murmur of the waterfall. "Wynne Tewson. At times I like to think that he left Lychen because of unrequited love. Now he has returned and with a new friend. A hero." Her eyes narrowed, became appraising. "There are many who will envy him."

Dumarest said, "The key you have in your hand-will it fit the desk?"

"What?" She frowned as he explained. "The desk in the den? What the hell is it doing there? Now if it was a bed maybe we could use it. Did you know that as the lights change color the paintings take on new and various forms? Speed the illumination and you get a kind of stroboscopic effect; one minute the walls are full of coupling shapes, the next a crowd of goggling voyeurs. Old Lhank certainly had imagination."

"The desk?"

"Is just that, a desk. Put in the den to get it out of the way. I can't open it but even if I could it holds nothing of value. Why are you so interested." She blinked as he told her. "Maps? You are interested in maps?"

"Just of this area. This world. I like to know where I am."

"Yes," she said. "That I can imagine. But there are other ways to find out aside from maps. How about a personally conducted tour? I've a raft waiting and we could take a ride. Go to the Steaming Hills or look at the Pearls of Toria. If you're really interested in old maps we could even pay a visit to Chenault."

The name Pryor had given him, the same as that Shakira had mentioned back in the circus of Chen Wei. The man Dumarest needed to find-but without leaving a trail others could follow.

Casually he said, "Is that why you are here? To take me on a conducted tour?"

"No. I came to bring you a message. Lhank wants you to join him."

"Do you always do what Angado wants?"

"Angado?" She smiled with a secret amusement. "Is that what you call him? How touching. Such a sweet name."

"He chose it."

"Of course. He would. His mentor called him that when he was young. The monk-did he tell you about Brother Lyndom? He had a great influence on his charge and it would have been better for Angado to have joined the Church. That or the Cyclan, but he lacked the application for that. For either, if the truth be known, an inherent weakness of character-why else should he have run away? Would you have done it, Earl? Given up the leadership of a great House and gone roving?"

"Perhaps, if the reason were strong enough."

"Such as?"

Dumarest said, meeting her eyes, "Unrequited love?"

"No!" She was emphatic in her denial. "Never that! You'd abduct the girl, fight for her, rape her, even, but never leave her."

"I was talking about love," he said. "Not lust."

"And love is sacrifice? Is that what you mean?" She thought about it for a moment then said, "You should be right. Maybe I misjudged Angado. Certainly he seems different now, more adult, more confident. He tries to hide it but it's there."

She had noticed, had others? Dumarest said, "He wants me to join him, you said. Why and where?"

"To give him moral courage, perhaps." The small mounds of her breasts lifted beneath her blouse as she shrugged. "Or to show you off to his friends-the hero with whom he battled against incredible odds and managed to survive. Give it a week and it will be you whose life he saved. Give it another and the whole thing will be forgotten. No novelty lasts long on Lychen." Her eyes moved past him to settle on the shifting lights beyond the window. "Boredom, Earl. Why are we always so bored?"

"You know the answer to that."

"Too idle, too rich, too spoiled. The cure?"

"You know the answer to that too."

"Work. Fill every minute of every hour with unremittent effort. But what if you can't work? Or don't want to work? Or there is no work to do?"

Dumarest said, "Some people are fat. They are fat because they eat too much. It's as simple as that."

"And we're bored because we're lazy-it's as simple as that. Or is it?"

"Lazy," said Dumarest. "Or afraid. No matter what reason you choose to blame, the cure lies within yourself."

"As it does with those who are too fat." She looked down at her slender figure. "Would you like me if I were fat, Earl? Great bulges here and here and here." Her hands moved to breasts, belly and buttocks. "Masses of flesh, quivering, bouncing, sagging, grotesque. The thought is disgusting. I'll never grow fat." She sucked in her stomach the action making her even more like a man. "Let's get out of here."

"To where?"

"Didn't I tell you? To the party, of course. But first we take a ride."

* * *

The raft was a work of art, small, gilded, the controls and body shielded by a transparent canopy which could be rolled back into the sides of the vehicle. Wynne handled it with skillful ease, rising with a velocity which sent air gusting in a muted roar as the hotel complex beside the head of the waterfall fell away to become a model touched with silver light.

"Scared?" Turning she shouted above the wind. "Or do you like the taste of danger?"

"No."

"No what? You're not scared or-"

"I don't like the taste of danger and, yes, I am scared." His hands closed on her own, his strength mastering hers as he adjusted the controls. The raft slowed in its climb, steadied, began to drift toward the east. "If you're trying to prove something you've made your point."

"Which was?"

"To show me how well you can handle a raft, perhaps." His hands moved a little and she gasped as the vehicle veered and, suddenly, began to fall. As it leveled Dumarest added, "We can both handle a raft."

"And we both can be scared."

"Which makes us human."

"And honest." She looked at him, starlight touching her hair, adding a sheen to its silver smoothness so that from where he sat she seemed to be haloed in a nacreous luminescence. "Are you honest, Earl?"

"As much as you, my lady."

"My name is Wynne. I would like you to use it." As he remained silent she said, "Please."

"Wynne." He smiled as he repeated the name. "Wynne. I would guess, my lady, that the name is appropriate."

"Don't be so damned formal!"

"Am I right?"

"Yes, I guess you are." She smiled in turn, the quick anger forgotten. "I usually get what I want in the end." She looked over the edge of the raft at the waterfall to one side and far below. "Spoiled," she said. "Old Lhank must have been mad to have tried to improve on nature. It's too smooth, too pretty. Like a painted harlot skilled in deception." Her eyes moved to Dumarest as if inviting comment then, as he remained silent, she said, "To hell with it. Let's find something more amusing."

The raft lifted with a sudden savage velocity, darting forward to throw Dumarest back, wind blasting at his face and hair. In it the woman's silver crop took on a life of its own, each hair seeming to stand out with individual vibrancy. A fuzz which dominated her face, enlarging her head so that, for a moment, she seemed grotesque.

Then, as she touched a control, the transparent canopy rose to a halfway position, forming a windscreen which protected them from the blast. Above the droning, organlike note from above, her laughter rose high, brittle-edged.

"Do you like it, Earl?"

A child enamored by a toy and demanding praise. He studied her profile in the starlight, recognizing her willfulness, her need to hold attention.

"Earl?"

"A souped-up raft," he said. "I've seen them before. Helped clear away their wreckage too. Overstrain the antigrav units and they can fail. Sometimes the generator can fuse. There are better ways to commit suicide."

"Old man's advice," she sneered. "You're too young to give it and I'm too young to take it. Hold on!"

The speed increased, auxiliary burners flaring to add their thrust, turning the raft into a rocket which lanced on a tail of flame across the sky. One which ended over the loom of hills shrouded in luminous smoke.

"The Steaming Hills," she said. The canopy lowered and Dumarest caught the scent of acrid vapors. "By day they look like bones hiding in drifting mists. At sunset and dawn the mist becomes a sea of blazing hues, but at night the trapped energies are released and they are what you see now."

A place of enchantment and drifting glows. Light and shadow in which bizarre shapes took form to change and vanish and reappear in a different guise. A moving, living chiaroscuro of incredible complexity and stunning beauty.

"There is a game the courageous sometimes play," she said. "Couples take their rafts to a certain height then cut lift and make love. The trick is to finish before the raft hits the ground." Her eyes were brooding as she stared at the luminous smoke. "Sometimes I think that those who don't return are the lucky ones."

Dumarest said nothing but moved closer to the controls.

"Think of it," she breathed. "The rush, the urgency, the race against time-all sauce to add piquancy to the experience. Have you ever done anything like that, Earl? Would you dare to try?

"No."

"Why not? Afraid? Or don't I appeal to you enough?" She faced him, eyes direct as they searched his own. "Would you be willing if I were other than what I am? Bloated? Broad hipped? A breeding machine for children? Or would you rather-"

"No!" he said again, his tone sharp. "Leave it at that."

"But-"

"Love isn't something to be timed. If it's worth having at all then, while it lasts, time has no meaning. And I'm too old to play childish games."

"And too young to need such stimulation." She smiled and reached for the controls. "Let me show you the Pearls of Toria."

They stretched across the plain round lakes of limpid brightness, a cluster which formed a giant necklace of pendants and ropes edged with a soft vegetation and gentle banks. The result of an ancient meteor strike which had created a host of isolated aquatic worlds.

Landing, Wynne jumped from the raft and ran to the edge of a pool shot with streaks of varied color. Stripping, she stood naked, slim, lithe, a column of nacreous whiteness, then dived into the pool to leave a widening circle of ripples.

Before they reached the shore Dumarest had joined her.

The water was cool, refreshing, the luminous trails made by darting fish disturbing drifting organisms. Tiny motes which blazed with light to the impact of larger bodies. Like an eel the woman twisted, swam, glided through the water to touch him, to dart away, to return with extended hands. A game in which he joined feeling the smooth sleekness of her, the muscle beneath the skin, the hard, tautness of her body.

One which lay beside him when, exhausted, they had climbed on the bank to sprawl on the sweet scented grass.

"Earl!"

He turned to look at her, seeing the silver sheen of her hair, the direct stare of her eyes, the message they held. One repeated by her body as she moved, small breasts signaling her femininity, narrow hips and waist belying it, the slender column of her thighs parting to leave no doubt as to her sex and her need.

"Earl! Earl, for God's sake!"

Then she was on him, straddling him, engulfing him, lips seeking his, closing on them, teeth nibbling as her nails raked his flesh. Moving with a fevered determination to drain him and, her own need satisfied, to slump against him.

"A man," she murmured. "My God, but you're a man!"

She caressed him until again time ceased to have meaning and she lay against him warm and sleek, the silver crop of her hair against his shoulder, the nails of her fingers scratching like kitten claws over his torso.

"Happy, Earl?"

"You've made me so."

"That's nice." She snuggled closer to him then, turning over, looked at the stars. "I hate them, Earl. All those bright points. Those suns with all those worlds. Every time I look at them I'm reminded of the fact I'm a failure. Scared to move away from the familiar into the strange. Living a more and more constricted life… At least Angado had guts. He took a chance and-" She turned her head to look at Dumarest. "No," she said. "He didn't take much of a chance. Paid to stay away-for him it was just a holiday. But he came back and he brought you with him. For that I thank him if for nothing else."

"I thank him too."

"For me?"

"Yes, Wynne." Dumarest made the name sound like music. "For you."

"Darling!"

In the pool a fish jumped in mating frenzy, the trail of its passage a golden streak of flame.

Chapter Thirteen

The party was dying and Angado was bored. A condition he shared with others but while their ennui was a cultivated pose or the genuine result of too few things done too often his was the product of comparison. Spall prating about the hardships of poverty-after experiencing Lowtown his complaints were both trivial and ridiculous. Plaskit and his talk of personal combat-a man who would never dare risk his skin against an armed opponent. Or even an unarmed one; his talk was based on long-distance viewing and the safe slaughter of helpless game. Crixus who spoiled the air with words appertaining to the idealistic existence to be found when living close to nature in the wild. Deakin Epstein, Spencer-all fools unconscious of their folly; posturing, gesticulating, making sly allusions, asking pointed questions.

The women were as bad, each in their own way acting a part, jealous, spiteful, vicious even as they made overt invitations. Angado remembered Dumarest's advice about those who could smile and murder as they smiled. The majority, no, they lacked the elemental courage. Some, perhaps, driven by whim or the pursuit of novelty. Only a few fitted the bill and of them all Perotto was the most ruthless.

"See how our young friend fits so easily back into his niche, Juan? Almost it seems as if he has never left us."

At his side Juan Larsen, sycophant, aide, a living echo of his master, nodded and smiled with thin lips. His tone was as acid as his words.

"Men are like the birds, Luigi. Some find the strength to leave the nest of their own volition. Others have to be helped. Some need to come crawling back to the only haven they can find. A pity. The Seventh Lord of the Karroum would, I thought, have had more pride."

Angado shrugged, remembering the part he was playing, the pose he needed to maintain.

"Pride and hunger make poor bedfellows, Juan. Blame my return on the accountant who forgot to continue my agreed allowance."

"He will have cause to regret it for years to come." Perotto turned to his friend. "You were a little hard, Juan. Angado has not had an easy time. In fact he was lucky to survive at all. A fascinating story, you must hear it soon, but one now we can put behind us. In any case it would be enhanced by the presence of his friend. One who still has not arrived, I see."

"Earl will be here soon. I sent Wynne to bring him."

"Wynne?" Perotto raised his eyebrows. "Wynne-ah, I see. A fine woman and she would have made you a good consort. A good wife too, once she had proven her ability to continue the Karroum line. Maybe that was your trouble, Angado. A man should not live alone. A woman at your side would have eased both body and mind."

"Or driven him insane." Larsen was blunt. "Not all men share your taste, Luigi."

"True, but who is to condemn? One likes cake another bread and who is to say which is right? But the head of a House has obligations and-well, never mind that now. Wynne, you say?"

"Yes, Wynne Tewson." As always Perotto made him feel small, inferior, and Angado fought to maintain his calmness. A battle partly lost as he snapped, "You know damned well who she is."

"Who and what," said Perotto. "It is obvious why your friend is so late in joining us. You made a bad choice of messenger, Angado. You should have sent another to pick up your friend. By now they are probably over the Steaming Hills or sporting in the Pearls of Toria. Not that it matters. We must be tolerant of such things. To be otherwise is to act the barbarian." Smiling he added, "And to be jealous is to act the fool. Don't give your friends the pleasure of seeing your discomfiture."

"You are mistaken."

"Of course. I often am." Perotto turned and signaled to a servant bearing a tray laden with goblets. The wine was smooth, subtle in its hidden potency, but Angado gulped it as if it had been water. Watching him Perotto said, "I think it time for our surprise, Juan. Will you fetch the box?"

As Larsen turned and walked away Angado said, "Box?"

"Merely a container for something rare and rather strange. The product of a new confectioner who has set up business on Schenker. A trader brought me a sample and you may find his wares amusing." Perotto took the box Larsen had fetched. "That will be all, Juan."

Angado reached for more wine as Perotto lifted the container. One made of finely carved wood inset with a tracery of metal and stone, gold and silver merging with emerald, ruby, amethyst, sapphire, amber, the clear sparkle of diamond, the somber hue of opal. The lid opened beneath his touch to reveal a compartmented tray filled with small mounds of rich darkness decorated with a dusting of minute pellets of a thousand hues.

"Chocolate." Angado was disappointed. The wine had made his head spin a little; boredom had sent him to the anodyne of alcohol too often during the evening. Now he looked at his cousin. "Ordinary chocolates."

"Far from that, Angado. Once tasted they can never be forgotten. For a discerning palate the effect is incredible. Here!" Perotto touched a chocolate with the tip of a finger. "Try this one."

"Aren't they all the same?"

"Far from it. Each contains within itself an entire new world of titillation. In fact I can't resist their promise." Perotto lifted the chocolate he had urged Angado to take, placed it within his mouth, closed his lips and sighed with audible satisfaction. "Magnificent!"

He had eaten and it would be safe to do likewise and courtesy demanded the acceptance of the gift. Angado picked a chocolate, placed it within his mouth, bit down and was suffused with a sudden plethora of flavors. There was peach and apple and chard and a touch of grize and a hint of orange and the tang of grape and of embra and lemon and… and… and…

And a sharp, overwhelming thirst.

His goblet was empty but the servant was already making his way toward him. The wine accentuated rather than washed away the flavors, joining with them to tease his palate and to wake memories of the recent experience. One almost duplicated as he ate another sweet. Almost-as Perotto had said there were differences and now he tasted blood and leather and the sweat from hides and horn and more subtle exudations from a hundred living things. Tastes which aroused strange stirrings and sent his hand again to the refilled goblet, the goblet to his mouth, the wine to his stomach.

Close to him a woman laughed with a thin, vicious chittering.

"Drink deep, Lord Karroum, it will help you to bear your loss. But don't worry, your friend will return."

"Unless Wynne kills him."

"A good sleep and he'll be as good as new and think of the fun you'll have scolding him."

More laughter and more wine to drown the sound and another chocolate and still more wine. And more laughter and too many grinning faces and walls that moved and air that stank.

And a floor that rose to hit him in the face to the sound of ribald cheers.

* * *

Dumarest heard the noise as the raft settled to land, the yelling incorporating a name which sent him jumping over the side and into the room before Wynne had time to kill the engine. Angado lay where he had fallen, face down on the carpet, a ring of shouting party goers laughing and deriding his condition. They scattered as Dumarest burst through them to stoop over the fallen man.

"Don't worry about him, Earl." A tall, young, languid man smiled as he reached out to touch Dumarest's arm. "I may call you that? It's much better to be on friendly terms, don't you think? I'm Yip Zaremba-you can call me Yip. Or anything you like as long as it's nice. But don't worry about your friend. He's just drunk too much. Once he's sober he'll be all over you unless-"

He staggered back, blood dripping from his lips as Dumarest lashed the back of his hand against the simpering mouth. To Wynne who had joined him he snapped, "Get some water. Salt too. Hurry!"

"Earl-"

"Do it!"

Angado sagged in his arms as Dumarest lifted him, bending him over a table which he swept clear with a brush of his arm. A woman screamed as he snatched feathers from her ornate headdress then fell silent, watching as Dumarest forced open Angado's mouth with the fingers of his left hand, standing behind and beside him as he was thrust the bunch of feathers down the exposed throat.

"Earl?" Wynne had returned with a jug of water and a container of salt. "Shall I mix them?"

He nodded, busy with the feathers, feeling the limp body in his arms begin to jerk and heave. A moment then vomit sprayed from Angado's mouth to spatter the table with regurgitated wine, food, blobs of nameless substance.

"Now!"

Wynne poured as Dumarest kept open the mouth, wiping it clean with his hand before bending Angado over again, using the feathers as before, again causing the limp man to empty his stomach in a liquid gout.

"More."

"Earl, is it-"

"More!"

Angado struggled as the water entered his mouth, pushing at Dumarest with weak hands, barely aware but conscious of his discomfort. As Wynne emptied the jug Perotto came through the crowd to watch as Dumarest clamped his arms around the young man, jerking to constrict the stomach, again flooding the table with a now almost clear fluid.'

"What's going on here? What are you doing? If the man is ill a doctor should be summoned. This conduct is inexcusable."

"He was drunk." Zaremba thrust himself forward, caked blood on his mouth. "I went to help and this boor struck me. A matter of jealousy it seems. I-" He broke off, backing as Dumarest turned toward him. "That is, I mean, well, they seem to be friends."

"Of course!" Perotto beamed, extending his hands in a gesture of welcome. "You must be Earl. I should have recognized you from Angado's description. Still taking care of him, I see."

"Someone has to."

"And you are best suited for the task. We must talk, you and I. Later perhaps? Before you leave?"

Dumarest nodded and led Angado to the windows, the cool air outside. A fountain cast a crystal shower into the air, droplets illuminated with subtle glows, mist that flowed as if made of silk. Light that showed the area deserted, sound that masked his voice.

"All right, what happened?" Dumarest frowned as he listened. "Chocolates?"

"They were harmless. Perotto ate one before my very eyes."

"One?"

"Yes, just the one." Angado frowned, thinking. "It didn't seem to make him thirsty but when I ate one I had to gulp down some wine. The same with the others but the one he ate didn't affect him at all." His face took on a deeper pallor as he realized the implication. "Poison?"

"I doubt it. Just something to get you drunk but all kinds of accidents can happen to a man who can barely stand. Or perhaps he merely wanted to make you look a fool. Lord Hedren Angado Nossak Karroum the Seventh-crawling and puking on the floor. Who would respect you after that?"

"Who will now?"

Dumarest said, "You were ill. A blockage in the windpipe or a constriction of the epiglottis-there is no need to go into detail. You've had it before and I recognized the signs. How did you get on with Perotto?"

"What?" Angado blinked, then shrugged. "He put the blame on a clerk. The allowance will be resumed together with that owing and with an increase. He was most apologetic and promised it will never happen again."

"Do you believe him?" Then, as Angado hesitated, Dumarest added, "You were reported dead. Did he explain that?"

"Of course. A message from the Thorn. He had it all to hand, Earl. The answer to every question I might ask. Once, I would have swallowed every word but not now. I've learned to be mistrustful." Angado gave a wry smile. "It seems I've still a lot to learn."

"We all make mistakes."

"I make too many. You warned me but still I acted the fool." Angado swayed and would have fallen had not Dumarest caught his arm. "Those damned chocolates," he muttered. "Earl!"

"Drink water and bring it up." Dumarest half-lifted Angado to the fountain. "Wash out your stomach. Quick now!" He watched as the other obeyed. "Better?"

"I feel awful."

"Sick?"

"Queasy and my head aches like hell. That's just what I feel like."

And looked. Dumarest studied the pale face, the sweat dewing cheeks and forehead, the color of the eyes. Any poison would have been eliminated unless it was a subtle variety which had passed immediately into the bloodstream. A possibility but one he discounted; the death of Angado must not be too obvious.

"Get home," he said. "Get to bed. Call medical aid. The hotel should have a resident doctor. Can you manage on your own?"

"If I have to. Why can't you come with me?"

"I've an appointment to keep," said Dumarest. "With Perotto."

* * *

He sat in a room which echoed his dignity; a chamber rich in leather, wood, intricate carving and expensive fabrics. The chair behind the wide desk was like a throne and he occupied it as if he were a king. One who lifted a hand in regal greeting as Dumarest stepped toward him.

"Earl, be seated." Light blazed from the gemmed ring he wore as he gestured toward a chair. "My apologies for having kept you waiting but some affairs cannot wait. The penalty of duty, you understand. To be the head of the House of Karroum demands the sacrifice of all personal inclinations."

"A sacrifice you are willing to make," said Dumarest, adding, as he saw the other frown, "as Angado was not."

"He was too young. He is still too young and I am not talking of chronological years. His mind is unable to accept the concept of total dedication. The need to sublimate all private needs and desires for the sake of the greater good. Words." Perotto gestured, the light again blazing from his ring, one Dumarest studied as the hand was lowered. "How little they mean. Dedication, devotion, duty-labels, some would say, for outmoded concepts, yet without them what of the House of Karroum?"

"Ruin," said Dumarest. "Devastation."

"For the House and all connected with it. Entire families made destitute because of a youthful whim or brash inexperience. I do not intend that to happen."

"There are ways to prevent it."

"Many ways," agreed Perotto. "What is Angado to you?"

"A friend."

"And?"

Dumarest said flatly, "I'm broke. Stranded here on Lychen and totally dependent on Angado's charity. If he should turn against me or fall sick or die I'd be sleeping in the fields and living on dirt. That's why I acted as I did out there; my concern was to keep him alive. Once I get a stake he can sweat in his own juice. I wasn't born to be a servant."

"The price of friendship," murmured Perotto. "The price of two High passages? Three?"

"To do what?"

"To persuade Angado to leave this world and never to return. I've made him an offer-you can see that he accepts it."

"Three High passages." Dumarest looked at the room, the rich furnishings, the items of price. "A low price for what you have here. Five would still be low but a little more attractive. Paid in advance?"

"In your hand when you board. Of course there could be more if your powers of persuasion are too strong to resist. Fifty times as much if you can convince me Angado will never return to Lychen."

"Fifty?" Dumarest pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. "My Lord, you are generous."

"But hard to convince."

"You shall have positive proof. My word on it." Dumarest rose from his chair. "Now I must see how my friend is faring. A sick man needs a break from routine and there are other worlds aside from those in the Burdinnion. Interesting worlds, some a little dangerous, perhaps, but what is life without risk?"

Perotto said, "How will you travel?"

"To the waterfall? Wynne will take me."

"She has already taken Angado. I'll arrange for a raft." Perotto reached for an intercom then withdrew his hand as he changed his mind. "No. I'll take you myself. Work has made me stuffy and it'll be a chance to clear my head."

Outside dawn had broken, the day brightening as the raft moved east. Perotto sat beside Dumarest, the driver a hunched and silent figure at the controls. The air was clear, deserted aside from minute flecks wheeling over the top of the waterfall: birds scavenging the hotel complex, many settling to perch on the rails of the observation platform. Close to the entrance to Angado's home Wynne's raft lay empty on the grass.

She met them as the elevator sighed to a halt, turning to lead the way into the main salon. The door to the balcony was open, cool air wafting into the chamber together with the deep organ-note from the chasm, until it died to a muted drone as she closed the portal.

"Angado sat out there for a while," she explained. "I tried to get him to eat but he wasn't hungry so I made him take a shower and go to bed. The last time I looked in on him he seemed to be asleep."

"How is he?" Perotto sounded genuinely concerned.

"As well as can be expected."

"I've been thinking of what must have happened. Some fools at the party must have slipped drugs into his wine. A combination which caused a syndromic shock. Maybe it was triggered by the confections he ate. A special blend of exotic flavors that I thought would amuse him." Perotto shook his head in self-reproach. "I should have remembered his delicate stomach. Even as a child he had to be careful of what he ate. I blame myself for what happened."

"It wasn't your fault." Wynne glanced at Dumarest. "Do you want to see him?"

"Not if he's sleeping."

"He might be awake. I'll check." She left the room to return, shaking her head. "Still asleep and I guess it's best to leave him that way. One thing, Earl, I managed to find the key to that desk. You know? The one in the den. It's open now if you want to check what's inside."

Perotto frowned. "Desk?"

"Earl wanted to examine some old maps. The kind of thing Chenault is so fond of." Smiling she added, looking at Dumarest, "I never did get to take you to him-well, we didn't have the time. Tomorrow, perhaps. If you find anything interesting he'll be able to explain it to you."

"The den," said Dumarest. "You know, I've forgotten where it is."

"Just down the hall and-" Wynne broke off, shaking her head. "How could you have forgotten so soon?"

"Maybe I've had other things on my mind." His eyes held hers, their message plain. "Come with me. You can show me that trick with the lights you mentioned. Perhaps I could learn something."

"I doubt it." Her smile was inviting. "Come on, then I won't be long, Luigi, when I come back I'll make some tisane. You like tisane, Earl?"

"I'd like anything you make."

He followed her from the salon, a man eager to get her alone, to recapture the experience of the night, its joy and pleasure. Coming close to her as she paused before a door ending a passage, his left hand rising to rest against her back, his head lowering to touch her cheek with his lips.

As she relaxed he jerked open the door with his right hand, pushed with his left, slamming the door after her as she staggered through the opening. A second and he heard the thud of her falling body.

"Wynne?" Perotto called out as Dumarest neared the salon. "Wynne, is everything all right?"

He was standing beside the wide window facing the waterfall. He was not alone.

Chapter Fourteen

As a man Avro had never known physical pleasure. The operation performed on him when young had seen to that; one deft stroke of the scalpel had turned him into a living, thinking, unfeeling machine. But now he rode the crest of a giddy intoxication born of mental achievement.

Dumarest caught, trapped, safe in his hand.

The man the Cyclan had hunted for so long and who had escaped so often, leaving dead cybers to mark his success, now the living proof of his own efficiency. The key to his own survival; soon now he would be safe in his vat joined in a gestalt of his own kind.

A moment he relished, extending it as he saw Dumarest catch the scarlet of his robe, spinning, halting the movement of his hand toward the knife in his boot, lifting it instead to his chin. A casual gesture of outward calm to mask the tension within and a warning of the true nature of the man. One who had assessed the situation in a flash, recognizing the futility of violence, gaining time by talking while apparently relaxed.

"Cyber Avro. This is a surprise. I never thought to see you again."

"Did you think the Cyclan so foolish as to believe the report of your death?"

"It was worth the chance."

"Negated once you used your credited funds."

"Of course." Dumarest touched his left forearm with the fingers of his right hand. Watching as eyes followed the gesture, dropping the hand slowly to his side. "You learned I was on Yuanka and traced me from there. And found an ally, I see. A willing accomplice. What is his price? The death of his cousin?"

Perotto said, "Where is Wynne?"

"Enjoying the sleep she meant for me. Your idea or hers? Or did you set the trap?" Dumarest looked at the cyber. "My guess is that you were the guiding mind."

"You knew." Perotto gnawed at the subject like a dog with a bone. "About the gas. But how?"

Small items adding to form an uneasy whole, the sum triggering the instinctive reaction of a man determined to survive. A shallow answer and Avro knew there had to be more; the trait he was certain Dumarest possessed and which gave him the thing known as luck.

Dumarest said, "She was too friendly on too short an acquaintance and too eager to show me the sights. Time gained for you to feed Angado that filth. Not just something to make him puking drunk; such sights must be common in this society. Nor to show his friends what a weakling he is; they already knew that. You wanted to arouse their disgust and win their sympathy. Left alone he would have vomited then climbed to his feet. He would have stunk and staggered and he would have had an overwhelming desire to talk. He would have babbled and revealed his innermost nature. Become maudlin, sentimental, affectionate, amorous-and we both know he has a dislike of women."

"That is no secret."

"As Zaremba demonstrated when he tried to stop me helping Angado. He knew you wanted him shamed."

"That bothers you?" Perotto sneered. "You? A common traveler? A sycophant? A criminal? A man willing to take money to kill a friend who trusts him? Do you deny that?"

"A trap to get the man wanting him dead into admitting it," said Dumarest. "You want him dead. That's why you're helping the Cyclan. That's why you used Cranmer." He looked through the window at the waterfall. "He almost got away with it."

"He was a fool."

"Just as you are. As any man is who works with the Cyclan. Do you imagine you can use them and then forget them? And what of your own danger? How can they allow you to live now you know so much? Soon you will begin to wonder why I am so important to them. What makes me so valuable." Dumarest paused then added, "Side with me and I'll tell you."

Information which could kill; had killed for the existence of the affinity-twin must not be divulged. Perotto was as good as dead and Avro could appreciate the skill Dumarest was displaying. Attempting to drive a wedge between himself and the other; dividing so as to rule.

He said, "You waste your time. Killing me will gain you nothing. The apartment is sealed and men are stationed outside. As an intelligent man you can recognize the inevitable and yield. Do not force me to use this." Avro lifted his hand and displayed the weapon he had kept hidden in his wide sleeve. One which would vent a cloud of stunning vapor at the pressure of his finger.

Perotto said, "He is armed. His knife-"

"Leave it." Avro knew of Dumarest's speed. "If he reaches for it I will fire."

To stun and render unconscious but not to kill. He was too important to the Cyclan for that, which meant Perotto would not be armed with conventional weapons; Avro could never trust his aim. An advantage Dumarest assessed as, again, he rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. The cyber was making the basic mistake of talking when he should have acted. A need to mentally gloat, perhaps, but a weakness which had yielded information as to the trap he had closed on his victim.

One from which he had to escape or die.

Dumarest moved to one side, away from the door at his rear, checking distance and opportunity. Perotto faced him on one side, Avro, gun leveled, stood before him and the window. Ready now to shoot or summon help-and once he fired and the gas took effect the thing would be over.

"I yield," said Dumarest quickly. "You are correct-I have no choice. There is no need to use the gas. It would be inefficient. I'd have to be carried and the elevator is small. It would be better if I walked. It would give you greater credit; my capture would be yours alone."

The truth and Avro knew it. The reason he had insisted on facing Dumarest leaving lshaq and his men on the surface. A matter of pride if not of perfect judgment but what could go wrong?

His vision blurred as, suddenly, a pain filled his skull. Pain and the realization of the mistake he had made.

Now! He must correct it while there was still time. Now! The gun aimed as he fought a rising nausea, finger tightening on the release. Now!

"No!" The voice filled the chamber as Angado threw himself into the room. "No!"

* * *

He had waited outside, listening, an ally in reserve, now acting with speed which emulated Dumarest's own. A small, round tray left his hand, spinning across the room to strike Avro's wrist and send the vapor-gun to the floor. The cyber followed it, twitching, hands clutching at his head. Then Angado was close to Dumarest, stooping, snatching the knife from his boot, lunging toward Perotto with the blade lifted to strike.

"You lied to me. Cheated me. Wanted me shamed. You filth! You stinking filth! Die, you bastard!"

Words instead of action and time given for Perotto to spring to one side, to lift the hand adorned with the heavy ring, for something to spurt from it and land with a thin, waspish drone against Angado's skull.

As he fell Dumarest was moving.

He dived forward, low, rising as Perotto turned toward him, shoulder catching the underside of the hand aimed at his face and throwing it upward as he struck. One blow smashed into Perotto's stomach and sent him doubling forward. Another dropped him to the ground. A third sent him to sprawl, gasping, face upward as Dumarest fell to his knees beside him. As the ringed hand swung toward him he grabbed it, aimed the ring at the orifice of the gaping mouth, squeezed to release the darts held within the gemmed casing.

Two of them sang as they buried themselves deep into the soft inner tissue of the throat, creating a black crater of destruction, filling the body with toxic poisons as it filled the mouth with blood and pain.

"Earl!"

Angado was dying. The dart which had struck his head was buried deep above the left eye, already into the bone, the brain beneath. Dumarest knelt beside him, reaching for the throat, resting his fingers against the carotids.

"Earl! I-"

"Easy." Dumarest's voice was warmly reassuring. "Just relax, Angado. This is just a dream. A bad dream. When you wake you'll forget all about it. It's just a dream."

"No." Angado swallowed and then, incredibly, managed to smile. "It's real and I know it. As I want you to know something, Earl. I love… I…" He writhed beneath Dumarest's hands, sweat dewing his face, his throat. "You, Earl. I love…"

He stiffened and lost the smile as he lost the power of speech and the one became the rictus of death as the other grew into a silence which filled the world. One broken by the muted drone of the waterfall, the faint, insectlike scrap of a moving hand.

Avro reaching for his gun.

It lay beneath the wide window and his fingers touched it as Dumarest reared upright, closed on it as he moved forward, twisted it to aim as he approached, fired as, holding his breath, he dived toward the door.

Opening it as green vapor closed around him, falling through it into the open air of the balcony, clutching the rail as the wind tore the clinging mist from his face and body and his lungs burned with the need for oxygen.

Seconds dragging into minutes then he breathed and breathed again of the cool, damp, life-giving air.

Avro lay slumped on the floor, his breathing shallow, his gaunt face relaxed in the sleep the gas had created. A man felled in the moment of victory by the pain which had turned his mind and body into a rebellious machine. Dumarest checked he was helpless then snatching up his knife returned to the balcony and hung dangerously over the rail.

Beneath him the rock had been cut away in a smooth concave sweep devoid of any trace of hand or foothold. That above was as formidable; a carved overhang moist with condensation pearling the near-mirror finish. Only the sides were left.

Dumarest moved to the right, stepped up to balance on the rail and, extending his arm, quested along the stone. He found nothing and moved to the other side, this time probing with his knife. The point found a crack, slipped into it, held for a moment then rasped free.

Back in the apartment he went into Angado's bedroom, found sheets, ripped them into strips to form a rope, lashed one end around his waist. On the balcony he tied the free end to the rail and, mounting it, tried again. This time the knife held and he swung from the rail on its support. His left hand found a hold and he heaved, boots scrabbling for purchase. A few inches and he rested before moving again. Farther out this time, a little higher, the knife coming free to find a new hold. Up and along again to halt as the rope tightened at his waist.

The moment of decision as wind tore at his hair and the roar of falling water echoed in his ears.

To free himself from the rope was to risk everything on his ability to climb to the upper edge of the chasm, avoid the men waiting there and make his escape in some way. To return to the apartment was to reenter the trap Avro had constructed; a sealed place from which there was only one exit and that guarded by watchful men.

Taken, he would be held, questioned, his mind probed to the last cell. He would be stripped of all knowledge then discarded as so much useless garbage. To attempt to climb was to risk falling to the rocks below. A quick death against one of long-drawn torment.

A choice made for him as rock crumbled beneath his boot and the knife slipped free to send him falling to halt with a jerk at the end of the rope. Thrusting the blade back into his boot he climbed hand over hand back to the balcony.

On the floor Avro stirred; a crippled spider tormented by savage dreams. From the room of bizarre decorations came the rolling echo of drums as Wynne Tewson pounded feebly at the door.

* * *

She was pale, lips almost bloodless, eyes marred by a yellowish tinge. The silver helmet of her hair was mussed and a bruise showed livid on her left cheek. She fought against Dumarest's arms as he dragged her into the bathroom, stripping her before holding her beneath the stinging shower. As she dried herself, shivering from the icy spray, he searched her clothing, pocketing the keys he found.

"You bastard!" Dressed, she glared at him. "You smart, know-it-all bastard!"

"Shut your mouth."

"Lying to me. Kissing me-then shoving me into that gas. And then what? Woke Angado, I suppose and used him to help you. Now you want me to do the same. Well, you can go to hell!"

"You'll go first." He grabbed her arm and dragged her into the main salon. "Over the edge and down to the rocks." He pointed at the open door of the balcony. "You want that?"

"You wouldn't-"

"What have I to lose?" He was curt in his interruption. "Men are waiting on the surface to take me. If they do it's my life. You tried to trap me-why the hell should I consider you? Make your choice. You help or you go over." He pulled her toward the opening. To where the roar of falling water filled the air. "What's it to be?"

A choice that was no choice at all. She looked at the water, his eyes, the mouth that had grown cruel.

"I'll help, but what can I do? This place is like a prison."

With men waiting outside on guard. By why did they wait? How long had they been ordered to stand by before taking action? Who would give the order for them to move in?

Avro stirred again and Dumarest guessed the answer. One verified as he stripped off the scarlet robe to reveal the mechanism clipped inside. A small transmitter which, when activated, would bring the others crashing in. The gas had worked too quickly for the cyber to have used it-a failure that gave Dumarest a chance.

"It won't work." Wynne stared as Dumarest donned the scarlet robe. "You'll never pass for a cyber."

"Maybe not."

"What happened to him?" She glanced at Perotto lying in a pool of blood that had drained from his mouth. "Did you do that?"

"He killed Angado."

"So you killed him?"

She shivered as he nodded, knowing he would kill her with the same lack of compassion if she thwarted him. As he would kill anyone who presented a threat or who had done him injury. An attribute she had sensed when lying in his arms. Even when sharing a mutual passion and, remembering it, she felt a sudden desire.

"Earl! Earl, you can trust me!"

Dumarest ignored her, cutting free the rope still hanging from the balcony, dipping a portion of it into the carmine pool beside Perotto's head, winding it around his skull to form a blood-stained bandage which covered most of his face. With talc from the bathroom he whitened his features and stooped for the robe to sweep the floor.

Scarlet identified a cyber, one hurt, his face almost invisible beneath the bandage and the drawn cowl.

"Earl?"

He said, "The way out is by the elevator or the stairs. The stairs will be guarded so we'll use the elevator. I'll lean on you and you'll explain to anyone who asks that I was hurt by the man I came for. He's still downstairs gassed and helpless."

She was bitter at his rejection. "Then what? We take wings and fly?"

"One thing at a time. First we get out. Unless we do that the rest doesn't matter."

"Not to you," she agreed. "But I'd just as soon stay here."

"As a corpse?" Dumarest stepped close to her, the knife glimmering in his hand. Steel as hard as the determination stamped on his face. "I'm fighting for my life, girl. Remember that. Cross me and you'll be dead. The same if you betray me. The same if you don't cooperate. Now let's get going."

The elevator sighed down and to a halt at Wynne's signal. It held a man who went down beneath the smashing impact of Dumarest's knife, the pommel a hammer throwing the man into unconsciousness. Blood would have betrayed the deception; the missing man could prove an asset. Dumarest dragged him from the elevator before locking the woman to him with his left arm, his right hand with the knife slipping close to prick her flesh through the clothing.

"He was sent to stand guard over Dumarest," he said. "If anyone should ask that's what you tell them. Volunteer the information if they are suspicious but don't go into too much detail."

"Dumarest?"

"Just do as I say." She winced as the point dug deeper. "Up now."

The door slid shut and the elevator moved upward. As it came to a halt Dumarest sagged even more, throwing his weight against the woman, twisting to hide the blade he held against her.

"Master!" The acolyte was concerned, stepping forward as he saw the figure in the scarlet robe. "Master, are you hurt?"

"A head injury." Wynne answered the question. "Please step to one side."

Tupou obeyed, checking the empty elevator, stepping toward it.

"The man is guarding Dumarest." Wynne spoke quickly, conscious of the knife at her side. "Inform your master that he is ready to be taken."

His master? Ishaq had his own aides but Tupou was assigned to Avro. A thing the cyber would have known if not the woman, but why hadn't he ordered her to summon aid if he was hurt? Especially when his acolyte was so close.

Dumarest whispered, "Tell him to report to the other cyber." He had seen the glow of the scarlet robe. "You will attend me until Dumarest is taken. Hurry!"

A matter of efficiency which the acolyte could appreciate. Avro was in no immediate danger but the quarry must be taken at all costs. And, if there was doubt, Ishaq could settle it.

He came forward, impatient at the delay, the need to accede to Avro's decision. The operation had been badly conducted; too much time had passed since Dumarest had entered the trap. He should now be safely contained. As it was he had managed to hurt Avro and done who knew what else?

"Wait." He called after the pair now moving toward the woman's raft. "Cyber Avro. A moment."

One in which the masquerade would be exposed and what would happen to her for having aided the deception? Wynne felt the sudden rising of panic.

"No!" She twisted away with desperate strength, breaking Dumarest's hold tearing herself from the blade at her side.

"He isn't Avro! He's the man you want! Dumarest! He's Dumarest!"

The betrayal he had feared. Now only speed could save him. Dumarest straightened, running toward the raft, his hand diving into a pocket and finding the keys he'd taken from Wynne's clothing.

A precaution justified as she called, "He can't get away. It's locked. I've-" Her tone changed as she discovered the theft. "Get to the other raft. Chase him. Move, damn you! Move!"

Orders followed as Ishaq gestured obedience. Dumarest reached Wynne's vehicle as the cyber and his men climbed into their own, the woman with them, eager to demonstrate her loyalty.

It lifted as Dumarest fumbled with the keys, finding the right one almost too late, jerking the raft up from beneath the shadow of the other. A beam struck the rear edge and metal flowed from the point of impact. More as the laser quested for the generator to wreck it and bring down the raft. Shots which ended as Dumarest sent it darting forward to hover over the waterfall, hanging poised as the other vehicle came up behind him, men leaning over the rail ready to jump when given the chance.

As it drew close Dumarest hit the controls.

Fire streamed from the rear of his raft; the roaring torch of the auxiliary burners Wynne had demonstrated during the night. Livid flames bathed the other raft with their fury. Searing those it contained like ants in a blowtorch. Sending them to fall into the chasm of the waterfall as Dumarest rose toward the sky, to freedom, to the man who could tell him how to find Earth.