The Return

Chapter Four

From his office Magnate Chen Mernaya had a clear view of the warehouse and the towers on the far side of the field. A sight which brought little comfort — repairs were taking too long and the towers still lacked armament. The warehouse was in better shape, but traces of the raid remained despite the constant labor of a host of workers.

"They're too slow." Julian joined him at the window. "I've tried to speed them up but nothing seems to work." He added, "Cyber Hugas has agreed to an audience."

A relief; those who wore the scarlet robe did not volunteer their services, but his unexpected presence gave an opportunity to gain the help of the Cyclan and Mernaya was eager to take it.

To the secretary he said, "Have you discovered what he's doing here?"

"I understand a minor fault in his vessel needs repair. No help has been asked of our facilities and his aides have been out and about asking questions."

"About what?"

"The raid. The damage. Ship movements. Other things." Julian moved from the window. "Maybe he'll tell you why he's so curious."

Mernaya doubted it and he had a more important problem needing an answer. One he voiced when, after being ushered into the room at the hotel used by the cyber as an office, he took his seat before the desk.

Hugas said, "You realize that until a formal contract has been established between those who govern this world and the Cyclan I can give you no assistance."

"I am the Magnate. A contract will be agreed. It is just that, as you are here and the problem is urgent, I had hoped to minimize delay."

A laudable desire for efficiency or a betrayal of desperation? To the cyber there was no doubt as to the answer. No doubt either as to the underlying cause of the problem afflicting Arpagus. The system of justice practiced on the planet was bleeding the economy dry. A fact the magnate found hard to accept.

"Nonsense!" Mernaya reared to his feet, fighting to control his anger, the desire to strike the skull-like face before him. An act tantamount to suicide. "What would you have me do with malefactors? I asked for help, cyber, not a moral judgement!"

"Compose yourself, my lord." Huga's voice remained an even modulation devoid of all irritant factors. "I advise, nothing more. My duties lie in offering you the logical outcome of any proposed course of action. To help you arrive at a decision by presenting you with the probable result of any sequence of events."

A living machine with a computer for a brain. One able to take a handful of facts and from them to extrapolate a hundred more. To use what was to predict what would be. To give advice which would lead to power and riches. The lure and power of the Cyclan. Who would willingly relinquish the source of such advantage?

The thin end of the wedge which would gain the organization yet another world.

Mernaya slumped back into his chair, sweat gleaming on his lined face, his domed and balding skull. "I apologize." His hands made vague gestures. "I am overwrought. What do you advise should be done?"

"Get rid of the malefactors."

"Sell them? We do. Only the debtors are retained to provide needed workers. They are essential to our economy."

"On the contrary, my lord. The workers you gain are an expense to maintain. They have no incentive to work, no reason to cooperate and they have no buying power. Because they provide a source of apparently cheap labor others are prevented from gaining employment and are forced into debt in order to survive. Debt they cannot pay so, in turn, they wear the collar. It is a problem which can only get worse. The prediction is in the order of eighty-nine percent that, unless changes are made, Arpagus will be bankrupt within two generations."

Odds too high for comfort. "What can be done, cyber?

Advise me."

"If and when the contract is agreed by the Cyclan your problems will receive immediate attention," assured Hugas. "Until then, my lord, consider what I have said."

An acolyte ushered Mernaya from the office, another entering to set a list of data on the polished surface. Facts and figures from a host of sources, correlated, integrated as to time and place. Details which firmed the final pattern and presented a stunning conclusion.

Dumarest was alive!

Hugas had traveled in a ship which gave no outward hint of the incredible velocity it could obtain. Yet, fast as it was, the prediction had been ninety-three percent that he would arrive too late. One which gave no glow of mental pleasure when confirmed. A small thing could have made such a difference. An accident, a sickness, an argument, normal greed — anything which could have caused delay.

To have enabled Ryon and Central Intelligence to have eliminated an incredibly remote possibility.

That a man, caught in the searing heat and fury of an atomic explosion could, somehow, have managed to survive.

The probability that Dumarest had died in the Temple of Cerevox on Raniang was ninety-nine point nine percent. Practical certainty, but the unknown factor had always to be taken into account. Nothing could be taken as inevitable.

Central Intelligence had been directed to give prominence to any item which could have the remotest bearing on Dumarest. He was known to carry a knife and he knew how to use it. A man had died because of a thrown knife. A probable coincidence but one which had to be investigated. A question to be answered — had Dumarest thrown the knife or was he dead as had been assumed?

Hugas had no doubt as to the answer. Dumarest, alive, had been on Arpagus. He had done certain things and had left on a certain vessel accompanied by a certain person. Sufficient facts to enable any cyber to predict the logical sequence of events.

To the acolyte who answered his summons he said, "Total seal."

A small room leading from the office held a bed, some soft furnishings, a few ornaments all of which Hugas ignored. Lying supine on the bed he touched the thick bracelet locked around his left wrist. Invisible forces flowed from the mechanism to create a barrier no prying instrument could penetrate.

Closing his eyes he concentrated on the Samatchazi formulae. His heartbeat slowed, his breathing became shallow, his temperature fell as if he had been asleep. Gradually he lost all sense of feeling, all contact with the physical world. Silence engulfed him; had he opened his eyes he would have been blind. He rested, detached from external reality, only his individual awareness remaining alive. Only then did the grafted Homochon elements within his brain stir from quiescence to become truly active.

Hugas entered another dimension.

A place of shifting banners of rippling luminescence laced with crystalline shapes which shifted in continual motion to form new and enticing configurations. He sensed rifts of unimaginable depths, each pulsing with the nexus of galaxies yet to be formed. Colors were alive with brooding intelligences developing themes illustrated by haloes of drifting, writhing, brilliance. A dimension of which he was a part, sharing and giving in a universal gestalt.

Deep in the heart of that shifting luminescence was Central Intelligence, the nexus of the tremendous power which spanned the galaxy. It touched his mental presence and melded, absorbing and transmitting knowledge with equal ease. Mental communication so fast as to be instantaneous.

The rest was a matter of mental intoxication.

Always, after rapport, when the grafted Homochon elements sank back into quiescence and the machinery of the body reassociated itself with the mind, came this period of supreme revelation. Hugas drifted in a limbo alive with alien memories and unexperienced situations, eerie thought and peculiar physical sensations. Thoughts like scratching whispers on the surface of his mind tantalizing with concepts of engrossing magnitude and unsuspected complexity. Scraps of overflow from other minds, the residue of powerful intelligences caught and transmitted by the massed brains of Central Intelligence.

The entity which, once having the secret carried by Dumarest, would have gained potential immortality.

Pangritz was a harsh world. Mines to the north fumed acrid dust into the sky and smelters added plumes of roiling smoke. Smuts drifted in the air and clouds of swirling dust hung low beneath a leaden sky. A world sacrificed to the gaining of wealth, disposable, a planet to be gutted, ravaged, left as a desert. One close to the Lonagar Drift.

"Kaldar?" The handler shookhis head. "No. We don't go there. It's too deep in the Drift. We wouldn't risk it even on full charter. The best I can offer is passage to Weinzt. You could get a ship to Kaldar from there. We leave in three hours. The woman can have a high passage but you'll have to ride Low."

Locked in a casket meant for the transportation of beasts, doped, frozen, ninety-percent dead. Risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel.

Dumarest said, "I've a better idea. I'll ride High and work the table while the woman goes into the box. A deal?"

The handler stared thoughtfully at Zehava. She had changed the metallic dress for garments similar to those worn by Dumarest. A high-collared, long-sleeved tunic reaching to mid-thigh with matching pants thrust into knee-high boots. Clothing easy to clean and refurbish, popular among travelers for the protection of its mesh, the thermal defense against extremes of temperature. Hers was maroon against his grey, a gilded belt emphasizing her waist, her femininity.

"All right," said the handler. "Be there an hour before leaving. You can pay me now if you like."

"No," said Zehava quickly. "But we'll be back. Is Weinzt an easy world?"

"You'll get on fine," assured the handler. "Trust me."

Another ship. Another handler, this one more honest.

"You're on the right world if you want to get to Kaldar but we can't take you. Try the office," he jerked his head to where a low building stood beside the fence.

Inside a Hausi reached for a pad covered with jottings. "Kaldar? A ship leaves tomorrow, another next week. The one tomorrow is a private charter but I might get you passage — traders are always eager to cut costs. It'll be extra, but any passage will cost you double normal rates. The Drift," he explained. "Good navigators don't come cheap."

An official barred their path as they headed towards the gate, gesturing to where a ship was unloading. A file of men stumbled down the ramp urged by guards bearing short rods which they handled like swords. The men had cropped hair, wore rough coveralls and each had a collar embracing his neck. Criminals sold to work in the mines. None of them would last more than a year.

"Why do they stand it, Earl?" Zehava shook her head as she watched the shambling line. "They have no hope and nothing to lose. They are as good as dead so why don't they do something about it? At least they could kill a guard."

He said, dryly, "Have you ever worn a collar?"

"No, of course not, but what difference does it make? A collar doesn't make you a slave."

Not unless the love of life was too strong. The fear of pain. The rods could activate a mechanism in the locked band and turn every nerve into liquid fire. If unlawfully opened the collar would explode and decapitate the wearer.

Things they both knew. An experience he wanted to forget.

"The hell with it," she said. "Let's get a drink."

A tavern stood beyond the gate, the facade ornamented with bizarre depictions of an ancient ritual. The door gave on a wide chamber flanked with a bar and secluded alcoves all warmed by yellow light from glowing tubes. On a dais a girl writhed to the accompaniment of cymbals and a wailing pipe.

As Dumarest led the way to an empty alcove the music increased in tempo, the writhing become more abandoned until, with shocking abruptness, the girl froze as the music ended.

A moment of silence then coins showered at her feet as the audience yelled appreciation.

"A fool," said Zehava.

"Could you do better?"

"I was thinking of the first handler. Does he really think we'll be back?" She sipped at the wine a serving girl had brought and pursed her lips at its tartness. "He lied about getting to Kaldar from Weinzt. He lied about the planet, too. It's as bad as they come. Scum like that should be taken care of."

And would be, but not now and not by him. Dumarest looked around, noting some new arrivals, a trio sharing a bowl of stew, a man frowning over a handful of coins. On the dais a juggler had replaced the dancer, filling the air with glittering balls which formed a fountain of brilliance.

Zehava said, "Why did you try to book passage on that ship? There was no need. We're as good as home."

"So you told me."

"But you had to check, is that it?" She smiled, not waiting for an answer. "You're too suspicious, Earl. At times I feel you still don't trust me." Her hand fell to the satchel at his side, moved to rest on his thigh. "You will once we get to Kaldar."

Dumarest said, dryly, "We have a problem. You heard what the Hausi said. As things stand we haven't money for passage."

"You can get the money," she said. "We both know how."

By entering the arena, facing naked steel, risking his life for a fee. Pretending to be clumsy and slow and easy prey while she moved among the crowd using what money they had to make bets at favorable odds. Relying on his skill, his luck, her honesty.

Or to steal, to kill, to take from those who had. The way of the Kaldari. The way he must go if he hoped to be accepted.

"Don't worry about it, Earl." Her hand closed with warm intimacy on his thigh. "I don't want to take the chance of you getting killed and there's no need for either of us to risk wearing a collar. The traders here know me and will extend credit. It will pay them to help and they know it. I only have to get in touch."

She moved to where a row of communicators stood beneath a faded sign. A woman with a odd sense of humor or one who had submitted him to a test. Or, perhaps, she was taking a small and belated revenge — she had known all along that the traders would be willing to help her. But if she had waited? Forced him to a decision?

Dumarest looked at the juggler, the balls rising to fall to rise again. Symbols of a life in which every hour could bring a change of fortune.

Hollman Brasch raised his glass and said, "A toast to unexpected but more than welcome friends. Zehava. Earl. I salute you!"

He was smooth, bland, a man of middle years to whom the gaining of profit was a personal religion. Others at the table shared his creed; men who priced everything they saw, women who searched for every advantage. Traders with a vested interest in Kaldar and what the world could offer.

Rhia Styne, tall, dark, cosmetics masking her age, the hard set of her features, said, "I must say I envy you, Zehava. To have traveled so far with such a charming companion. I'd love to hear of your adventures."

"Is that what you call them, Rhia?" Marcia Tomlin, blonde, as old and as hard, cracked a brittle smile. "From the look of Zehava, I'd call them beauty treatments. She positively glows."

"Thank you, Marcia. You too, Rhia. You are both most kind." Zehava forced a smile. "But extra thanks to you, Hollman, the dinner was superb. On Kaldar I will more than repay your hospitality."

"I anticipate the pleasure, my dear, but it will have to be deferred. Personal matters detain me."

"I regret to hear it. The ship?"

"Will leave as planned. Sung will be on it, Molo, Zinny Montiel." His hand made gestures at those seated at the table. "Rhia, too, I understand."

"Not this trip," she corrected. "I yielded my place. Had I known who else was traveling I would have resisted temptation." She looked meaningfully at Dumarest. "I too could use a few adventures."

"I'd advise against it," warned Marcia. "It isn't wise to steal from the Kaldari."

"Steal?" Rhia smiled and shook her head. "I would only intend to borrow."

Fuming, Zehava rose and said, acidly, "It is just as well that you aren't coming to Kaldar." To her host she added, "My apologies, Hollman, but your excellent food and wine have induced a sudden fatigue. I wish to retire. Earl?"

"I'm not as tired as you, Zehava." He selected a nut from a dish, cracked it, ate the kernel. "I'm sure someone will show me to my room."

"A wise man," chuckled Molo Blain as she swept from the chamber. "One who knows that to be too soft with a woman is to lose her respect. Especially a woman like Zehava Postel. The Kaldari have no time for weakness."

"What is your interest in her?" Marcia leaned closer over the table to give him a glimpse of her body, the scent of her perfume. "Your real interest."

"Business."

"Of course." Brasch sipped at his wine. "What better motive? You met by simple accident? Traveled together for mutual convenience?"

Things Zehava had explained and which Dumarest repeated with elaborations. The story they had concocted which made no mention of Arpagus and hinted at mutual attraction as well as mutual convenience.

"How romantic." Rhia sighed her envy. "You are fortunate, Earl. She could give you the chance to become a very rich man. Of course, to make the most of the opportunity, you will need the right kind of friends."

"Which I hope I have found." Dumarest reached for another nut. "I am glad we have things in common and can be of mutual assistance. We must discuss details during our passage."

He sensed the release of tension at the hoped-for response. The implied response of further discussion and the arranging of details. One close to an important member of the Kaldari would have powerful influence and could increase already bloated profits.

Montiel said, "I would say that you are a much traveled man, Earl. Certainly I would take you to be an authority on the diversity of Man. It happens to be a hobby of mine and I wonder if-"

"Zinny! Please!" The blonde lifted her hands in protest. "Not again. Not now. You'll bore Earl to death." To Dumarest she explained, "He's got this crazy idea that all men could have originated on one planet. It's obviously impossible. The very divergence of types is evidence against it; black, brown, yellow, white — all from one world? Impossible!"

"The ability to interbreed proves all belong to a common species," snapped Montiel. "But you object too quickly, Marcia. I was going to ask Earl if he has heard of the Lugange theory dealing with the composition of cultural structures. It is based on the assumption that there are five basic types of human; rulers, creators, warriors, builders, followers. Rulers must lead," he explained. "Always they must be at the top; the ones who make the decisions, give the orders, command obedience. Creators are innovators, artists, thinkers, those who plan. Warriors fight against the forces which always threaten us; death, disease, famine, drought, the environment itself. Builders construct. They are the craftsmen, the artisans, the engineers who turn dreams and plans into concrete reality. Followers serve. They lack imagination and are reluctant to change. They cling to old ways, old traditions, and resist those who threaten their established way of life."

"The majority," said Brasch. "But essential, surely?"

"Yes," agreed Montiel. "They ensure a degree of stability but the ratio has to be within certain limits. Too high and you get a static society. Too low and there is no buffer against chaos. Too many changes made too quickly can destroy the social fabric."

"Warriors would take care of that," said Marcia. "Soldiers."

"Soldiers are followers. They take orders and obey without question. A warrior will think for himself and choose his enemy. A doctor is a warrior. A nurse. A farmer. A destroyer of predators. Naturally there is overlap — a composer is a creator but not all musicians can compose. Those who simply play to order take on the attributes of a follower. The difference in the various categories is the inherent ability and drive which dictates the use of individual thought and action."

"What are we, Zinny?" Rhia smiled at Dumarest. "I know what Earl is, a warrior if there ever was one, but the rest of us? We like to give orders. We like to build fortunes and create new markets. We fight to keep what we have. What does that make us?"

"On the edge of becoming boring." Hollman Brasch smiled at the company. "Let us leave this mess and enjoy wine in another room. Earl, when you wish, a servant will guide you to your chamber."

Like the rest of the house it was a place of luxury with scented water in the shower and hot air serving as towels. As he moved towards the bed, a robe covering his nakedness, Zehava entered the room.

She too wore a robe, a thin, clinging swathe of fabric which held subdued glitters and subtle tones. The satchel she carried pulled at her shoulder and made a heavy sound as she put it down.

"Here. I thought you'd be worried about it."

An excuse to visit his room — the food and wine had induced more than fatigue.

"It was safe where it was." He added, "I though you'd be asleep by now."

"I was restless. Thinking. What did you all talk about after I left?"

"Montiel did most of the talking. He wanted to expound a theory he has — "

"I've heard it. He thinks all men originated on one world. Some mythical planet. He gets boring. He should find something new."

"He has. The Lugange theory." He told her about it as she moved restlessly about the room. "If there's anything in it Kaldar must have a high ratio of warriors."

"So?"

"Who does all the work?"

A question she ignored. "What else was said?"

"Nothing of importance. That's the reason I stayed behind," he explained. "I wanted to let them know I was a free agent and could be trusted. You must have known that." A sop to her pride, her offended dignity. "But they were wary. Just putting out hints and feelers. They're saving the real business until we're on our way."

"I can guess what it will be." Her lips thinned in anger. "I've no illusions as to what these people are. Don't think of conspiring with them against me, Earl. It wouldn't be wise."

The warning of a jealous woman and a reminder of unfinished business. He glanced at the satchel. Once on Kaldar she would be among her own kind and it was better for her to learn the truth before appearing a fool. But not yet. Not until they were safely on their way.