Technos

Chapter Eight

All channels were alike; organic chemistry, quantum mechanics, binomial theory, applied physics, atomic engineering, astronomy, algebra, basic mathematics, each a nonstop stream of educational matter force-fed into every home. Irritably Mada switched off the television. Had it always been like that, she wondered, and remembered that it had. The scientific approach. If a thing had no educational value then it went into the discard. Dancing was for the study of controlled movement and for physical development. Singing for the exercise of the vocal chords and the illustration of varying harmonics. Stories were lectures, painting an exercise in manual control, verse a mathematical problem.

But why should it bother her now?

Restlessly she wandered about her chamber, touching various items, her hands lingering on soft fabrics and supple leathers. Tactile pleasure, for so long unappreciated and now holding a special charm. How much had they all missed in the past? Was intellectual attainment really the sum total of existence? It wasn't she knew, remembering the lovers on the train, her own past affairs, but there had to be more than bodily satisfaction.

A mistake, she thought, sitting and leaning back in the chair. One built into the system at the very beginning of the colonization. The apparently bright but secretly tarnished concept that education would solve all ills. But it didn't work like that. A man gained degrees or he went to the bottom of the heap. Yet the levels were relative and the end product inevitably one of growing dissatisfaction. A laborer had been taught to recognize the menial nature of his work. A man with a valued degree could be qualified only to clean out sewers.

And so the imported labor from Loame. Let them do the filthy jobs, the dirty but essential tasks, lifting by their presence the egos of those above. Yet it was an uneasy solution, for it would lead directly to a slave culture with all that implied. Better to dispose of them all even though that was wasteful and emotionally unscientific. They were a smoldering bomb which would one day explode.

Subconsciously her hands roved over her body, feeling the firm contours beneath the clinging gown. The touch wakened memories and aroused again the biological reaction she had felt on the train. The reaction brought him vividly to mind.

Impatience drove her to the phone, sent her fingers punching a familiar number. On the screen a face, hygienically clean, looked at her.

"Madam?"

"Please report on the progress of patient nine eighteen."

The face dipped, rose as the woman completed her scanning of a file. "Progress is steady, madam. The injuries were intense and grafts had to be made. The spleen, a kidney and a section of intestine. There were also broken ribs and a punctured lung."

"How long before he is well?"

"The patient is in deep sleep and his progress is satisfactory. He-"

"How long?"

"Another few days, madam."

"Very well. Send him to me when he has fully recovered."

There was no point in being impatient, she thought, breaking the connection. Even the magic of slow-time which increased the speed of the metabolism so that an hour's healing could be compressed into little more than a minute took time.

The impatience of youth, she thought, and smiled. The impetuousness, too. It had been simple to order a guard to keep a discreet watch on the stranger, changing him for less conspicuous men when the chance arose. They had followed him: to the chemists, the library and then to the apartment of the woman. Almost they had lost him, but the accident had put him firmly in her power. A private nursing home and he was safe until she should need him.

As a lover?

She faced the question squarely, responding even to the concept, the reaction of her body telling her that it was the basic reason for her actions. He had appealed to her and she wanted him. The fact that he was something of a mystery enhanced his attraction. A whim, she thought. A romantic interlude. But why shouldn't she indulge herself?

She turned as the door chimed. Dek Brekla stood outside. He entered, smiling, glancing at the subdued illumination.

"Sitting in the dark, Mada? But then you have a fondness for shadows, don't you." Lifting one hand he touched her gently on the cheek. "I wonder why?"

"What do you want?"

"To talk." Deliberately he selected a chair, sat, folding his legs and resting his hands on the dark fabric of his thigh. "Did you know that Krell has retired from the council? He considers that his health would be better if he remained away from the capital. Naturally he retains his status and full pension. It simply means that he will no longer have a vote." He paused and then said gently, "I wonder if you also have considered the benefits of retirement?"

"No."

"Perhaps you should," he urged.

She controlled her mounting anger. "I see no reason to do so. Is that all you came to talk about? If so, I suggest you leave. It is not a subject which interests me."

"To be efficient the council must be a viable entity. Surely you can see that? If we are to become static then it will be good-bye to all progress. Tell me, how would you have felt when young if you had known that there would never be an opportunity for you to achieve your ambition?"

She met his eyes. "I wouldn't have liked it."

"Exactly."

"Are you suggesting that each council member retires on reaching a certain term of office?"

"I think it a fair suggestion," he said. "We are entering a period of potential unrest and should have younger minds to deal with the problems which will arise. You are a clever woman, Mada. I think you can see which path is best for you to follow."

To how many had he carried the suggestion? Krell gone and how many more to follow? Frightened by a shadow, terrified by the hint of a suggestion. But the council ruled and Vargas was only one man. If the Technarch sought dictatorial power then she wasn't going to help him get it. Even so it would be wise to be discreet.

"I'll think about it," she said. "There is truth in what you say; the young should be given their chance. But what of those who retire? Will they continue to-"

"As before," he said quickly. "I assure you, my dear, that you won't lose a thing. Just the right to vote. Everything else will be as before." He rose, teeth bright in a smile. "I'm glad we had this talk. I like you, Mada, and I would hate to see you hurt. Be wise. You won't regret it."

"As long as you promise that nothing will change? Aside from the vote, I mean?"

"You have my word on it." He glanced at the watch on his wrist. "I must hurry. There is a council meeting due. Are you joining us?"

"No. I want to think."

"Good for you, Mada." Again he touched her cheek. "Nice," he said. "Very nice."

A dog, she thought as he left. A slavering hound running at the heels of his master and hoping for a share of the feast. More. Doing Vargas's work for him; seeing the members of the council, whispering, setting one against the other. How long before he would turn assassin?

* * *

Yendhal said, "I am sorry, sire, but I am doing the best I can. The tests are stringent but essential if I am to offer more than an eighty percent chance of success."

One chance in five-it wasn't enough. Others had taken it, those more desperate than himself, but the odds were too low. Vargas scowled as he stared at the screen and the miniature figure depicted on it. Even via the electronic transmission he could sense the man's fear.

"Five and a quarter minutes," said the physician. "He has been lucky but it cannot last."

"Why not?" Vargas turned from the screen. "Isn't luck an essential factor for survival? It could be that you are looking for the wrong attributes. Why can't you test them for luck?"

"If they are lucky they wouldn't be here," said Yendhal flatly. "That is the first thing to consider if we are to seek their relative potential in that area, As for the rest, how do we test them? On the spin of a coin? On their ability to select certain favorable combinations? And, if they test high, wouldn't the sequel invalidate the findings?"

"Doesn't the same objection apply to the labyrinth?"

"No. They do not know what the final outcome will be if they survive. If they did it would affect their performance." Yendhal glanced at the screen. "Six minutes."

Vargas was ironic. "Still lucky?"

"Luck has an important part to play in survival," admitted the physician. "But it is too intangible a factor for us to be able to isolate. If a man lives he is lucky because he has lived. But it takes more than luck to pass through the tests I have devised." He grunted as a red light flashed from the screen. "Six and a quarter minutes. Failure."

Another one, thought Vargas. And one of how many? Would the result always be the same? Had Yendhal made certain that it would be so?

"Perhaps the test is too severe," he said. "Would lessening the dangers show an advantage?"

"It would increase the chance of survival, true, but it would invalidate what we are trying to determine."

Vargas was insistent. "A series of tests then, each harder than the ones before."

"That would prove nothing except the ability of the subject to learn from experience."

"And that is not survival?"

"It is," admitted Yendhal, "but we are not testing to determine educational ability. As I explained the survival instinct is inherent in the basic pattern. A man can be taught but it is not the same. I assure you, sire, I know what I am doing. Each subject has been selected on the basis of tissue affinity. If you wish I could operate tomorrow but-"

"Only with a success factor of eighty percent?"

"That is so, sire. I strongly suggest that you allow me to continue my researches on the present basis. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain by waiting. The laws of probability must, in time, produce a perfect specimen."

Vargas glowered around the subterranean laboratories. Yendhal was in his element here, a man devoid of morals or conscience, happy to pursue his experiments and, perhaps, forgetful of the main object. Such a man would take no account of the passage of time.

To reassure himself he said, "There is no doubt in your mind as to the suitability of the subjects?"

"No, sire, none. The people of Loame are unique in that they show a total lack of the stress factors induced by higher civilizations. From birth they have eaten a mainly vegetable diet, lived in a relatively gentle environment and have had none of the strains of competition. The results show in their medically perfect physiques. Comparisons with opposed types from Technos show a remarkable diminution in organic wear and arterial blockage. Unfortunately the same environment which has provided the stress free condition has worked against a high survival factor. They are like domestic cattle as compared to those running wild. The domestic types are more healthy in every way."

"But are more easily killed?"

"Exactly, sire. If they were not, the war with Loame would be far different from what it is. The mere fact they agree to the tribute is proof that their natural resistance is low. On a planetary scale war is, of course, an analog of an individual infection. A healthy organism will resist the invader-by healthy I mean one with a high survival factor. It will produce antibodies to fight on its behalf. Loame has not done so. And so we have the apparent paradox of a people perfectly healthy in body but hopelessly unable to resist the infection of war. For our purposes they are ideal."

* * *

At four in the afternoon the palace was a teeming hive of activity with people streaming through the lower chambers, supplicants, examinees, minor officials intent on their business. An ant hill, thought Major Keron dispassionately. A hive. A community of which the whole was greater than the parts.

The activity fell away as he rose to the upper levels, changing elevators to rise still higher, the cage humming as it rose into silence. A guard checked his credentials, another guided him down a mesh of passages, pointing as he reached a turn.

"The third door along, Major. Knock and wait."

Frowning, he obeyed. The panel swung open and a youth, bright in scarlet, gestured for him to enter.

Ruen stood at the far side of the room.

"Major Keron?"

"Yes." Keron stared about the room. "I was summoned to appear before Cyber Ruen."

"I am he. Will you sit?"

Keron obeyed. The acolyte glided silently from the room. For a moment the two men stared at each other, Keron frankly curious, the cyber calculating as he studied his visitor. A typical product of Technos culture, he thought. A man who considered himself to be highly intelligent because he had passed various exams, not suspecting that wisdom, intelligence and book learning were not the same.

"I have the permission of the Technarch to interview you, Major," he said. "You understand that I have his full authority? That in speaking to me you are speaking to him?"

"With respect, cyber, I disagree." Keron was firm. "As an officer attached to the Security Division I must be circumspect. You understand?"

"Are you intelligent, Major?"

"I have nine degrees."

"That isn't answering my question. Do you know what intelligence is?"

"Knowledge," said Keron after a moment. "Education."

"Wisdom is neither," said Ruen in his even monotone. "An untaught man can be wise. And intelligence is not necessarily knowledge. It is, rather, the ability to survive in the environment in which you find yourself. You can appreciate the difference. I venture to state that on Sarg, a planet of blistering heat and little water, you would quickly die." He paused and added, "Dumarest would live."

"Dumarest?"

"The man you allowed to escape." He caught the sudden tension, the almost indiscernible stiffening of his visitor. "You have never heard of him?"

"No."

"I have been checking the records," continued Ruen. "Of the last contingent from Loame how many were suspect?"

"Five. One was a liar, claiming to be the son of a grower when he was not. Three were interrogated and found to be harmless. The other-"

"Escaped," said Ruen. "That man was Dumarest. He was not a spy and comes from no local world. How did he elude your guards?" He waited as Keren explained. "He moved quickly?"

"Very quickly. Faster than any man I have ever seen before."

It was confirmation if Ruen had needed it, which he had not. Logic and extrapolation pointed to the obvious. The message received via Central Intelligence proved that Dumarest must have visited Technos. Now he had to be found. If Keron was as intelligent as he thought he would have found him long ago.

"I take it that you have thoroughly checked the base area? That he was not found?"

"I have and he was not." Keron was irked by the implication that he was incapable of doing his job. "We found his discarded uniform. We also found other clothes which he had left in a hotel. There is a suspicion that he booked at another under the name of Ganish. Other than that, nothing."

"It was getting late," pointed out Ruen. "The temperature was falling and later it snowed. He could not have wandered the streets all night."

"No."

"So he must have found shelter. Where else but on the monorail? Surely you checked?"

"Yes," admitted Keron. "I did. A ticket was sold against my credit card and identification. He stole it together with some money. But he was not on the monorail. Every car was checked and no passenger was found without satisfactory identification."

"He could not have boarded a vessel?"

"Impossible. The gates were locked and the fence guarded. Also each ship was later searched."

Ruen stood thinking, his eyes somber in the stark planes of his face. "The man is in the capital," he said after a moment, "You will find him at a hospital or nursing home. Either that or he will be in jail. Check every patient and prisoner, and when you find him bring him to me. To me, Major, do you understand?"

Keron frowned. "It is a security matter, I am not sure that I can do that."

"You can." Ruen was insistent. "It will be to your advantage. The man means nothing to you. Do as I ask and you will not regret it. I have the confidence of the Technarch and he will promote you if I suggest he do so. Now hurry. Already too much time has been allowed to elapse."