The Temble of Truth

Chapter Eight

Ellen Contera was as dark as Karlene was fair. A small, hard, self-assured woman with close-cropped hair, a face which showed her age and a restless, impatient manner.

To Dumarest she said, "So you're the appointed. How good are you with that knife?"

He smiled, not answering, looking at the enclosed garden they were in: a walled extension of the palace, the walls high and topped with vicious spikes. A stone promenade followed the inside of the wall, shrubs and bushes edging it to surround an inner lawn set with a band of flowering plants. The air was soft, scented, the heat trapped from the noon sun reflected from the walls and created shimmers in the air.

"I asked you a question." Ellen moved three paces, halted, moved back to the bench against which she had been standing. The fabric of her clothing made a dry rustling. She wore pants, shoes, a mannish blouse. Her hands, broad, the fingers spatulate, were marred with livid blotches. She wore no rings. "Need I repeat it?"

"You made a statement and asked a question," corrected Dumarest. "One I don't have to answer. Why did you say I'm the appointed?"

"Rauch gave us the word. You're going to lead the team to rob the Temple. Didn't he tell you?" She frowned as he shook his head. "Did you think you'd be operating alone?"

A possibility he had considered during the night-but had rejected. To a madman all things were simple and Ishikari, he guessed, was far from sane. He remembered the eyes, the glare, the foam on the lips. A man obsessed. A dreamer driven insane by his dream. Such a man was dangerous in more ways than one. Rather than follow him, Dumarest had decided to go his own way.

"He's consumed with an ideal," said the woman. "But I guess you noticed that. For years he's been trying to solve the mystery of Cerevox. I've helped him. The girl," she explained. "Karlene vol Diajiro. A mess if ever I saw one. God knows what they did to her in the Temple but I managed to bury most of the traumas."

"You?"

"I'm Ellen Contera. Professor of applied psychology. Doctor of medicine. Doctor of hypnotic therapy. Professor of psyche manipulation. I'm among the top of my field. Something else you didn't know, eh?"

"No." There had been pride in her voice when she had mentioned her name and titles. "Why does Ishikari need me?"

"If I'm so good?"

"I didn't say that."

"No, you didn't." Her eyes searched his face. "The answer's simple: I work in one way and you in another. That's why I asked if you could handle that knife." She paused as if expecting him to demonstrate, then, as he made no attempt either to speak or reach for the blade, continued, "He's been looking for the right kind of man. One with guts, courage and intelligence. He figures you fit the bill."

Dumarest said, dryly, "I gained the impression he wanted a thief."

"He has a thief. Someone caught trying to rob the palace. He's alive now only because he was so good. You'll meet him later. For now I'd like to know how you feel about it."

"Robbing the Temple?"

"Call it that if you like. I was thinking about the religious aspect. Some men can't kill. Some can't stand the sight of another in pain. Some won't commit sacrilege. We all have our weaknesses. Are you superstitious?"

"No."

"Does the thought of violating a sacred shrine bother you?" As Dumarest shook his head she said, "I'd like to check your psyche. Would you object to hypnotic interrogation? It would do no harm."

"To you, no."

"Then you object?"

"Strongly. I don't like anyone probing my mind. Call it a weakness if you like."

"I'd call it a strength." Again she strode from the bench, but this time did not return. "Well? Aren't you interested in what's facing you?"

She led the way from the garden into a room bright with diffused sunlight. Cold air gusting from vents gave the place a stimulating coolness. In the center of the chamber stood a large table. On it was the model of a patch of countryside together with a building.

"That's it," said Ellen. "The Temple of Cerevox."

It wasn't what Dumarest had expected.

Karlene had described a place of delicate construction, of walks and promenades, soaring arches and open spaces filled with the perfume of massed flowers. The spaces were present together with the walls but the spaces were bare and the walls had been constructed of rough stone which sprawled in a mazelike pattern around the central mass of the building, which was low, domed, set with stunted towers and flanked by the sloping roofs of attendant buildings.

"No gems," said Ellen. "No polished stone. No soaring arches, flowers, scented air. And you can forget about the warm air and gentle winds. Raniang isn't known for clement weather."

"She lied."

"Karlene? No. She told you what she thought to be the truth."

"Conditioning?"

"From the moment she was bound to the Temple. The rituals are strongly hypnotic. They usually are, of course, but these are something special. Chants, drums, incense, suggestion, fasting, pain, soporifics-they use the whole spectrum and they're damned good at what they do. First they blurred her early memories then imposed a false reality. She told you they only accept the very young?"

"Those barely able to walk."

"That, in itself, is suspicious." Ellen gestured at the table, the model it carried. "What would they want with people so young? Children are a burden until they can at least fetch and carry. The Temple needs servants, workers, guards and a supply of new priests and priestesses. Those in charge would have neither the time nor resources needed to bring up the very young and helpless."

"So you dug into her mind," said Dumarest. "You and Ishikari. And found, what?"

"I did the digging, she only thinks Rauch did. And what I found isn't nice. She must have been about eight or nine when they took her. Suggestion made her think the air was warm and all the rest of it. An invented paradise to keep her and the rest happy. Fair enough-on a world like Raniang that's good therapy. But later, when her talent began to worry her, things changed for the worse. Can you tell me how and why?"

She was serious. Looking at her Dumarest recognized the expression in her eyes, the blank attentiveness of her face. Another test? One to determine his level of intelligence?

He said, "She was in a closed society. A religious one. For such a society to work all must share the same beliefs and have an unquestioning obedience to authority. Her talent would have set her apart."

"And?"

"Differences, in such a society, cannot be tolerated. All must conform."

"You've got it!" Ellen turned, relaxing, and he guessed he had passed her test. "To them she became a heretic. Her talent was a nagging ache; a question to which she could find no answer. Instead of trying to understand it they tried to eradicate it. To beat it out of her." Her voice thickened a little. "I mean that literally. I'll spare you the details but there are none so cruel as the righteous. If Karlene hadn't run they would have killed her."

"So the story she told me-"

"Was the edited version of what I put in her mind." Ellen gestured at the table. "What do you think? Can you get in there and find what it contains?"

Dumarest said, "I'll need a lot more information before I can answer that."

"You'll get it. Now come and meet those who are going with you."

The thief was Ahmed Altini, a slim, lithe man with a solemn face and grave eyes. His hands were designed to handle locks as a surgeon handled a scalpel. Neat hands, deft, the kind Dumarest had seen often before. Gambler's hands trained to manipulate cards.

One touched his own in greeting. "An old custom," Ahmed explained. "But one we must become accustomed to using."

"The pilgrims use it." Kroy Lauter was big, bluff, one cheek pocked with scars. "But I'll greet you in a more familiar fashion." He extended both hands, palms upwards in a mercenary's welcoming salute.

Ramon Sanchez smiled as he stepped forward. A fighter, light on the balls of his feet, shoulders hunched as if ready to drop into a familiar crouch. His touch was cool, assured.

"We are of a kind, it seems. Unlike Dietz."

Pinal Dietz was an assassin, a stealer of lives as Altini was a stealer of wealth. A small, neat, precise man devoid of any outstanding feature. One who would be easily lost in a crowd and as quickly forgotten by any who saw him. Only at times, when his eyes betrayed him, did he look what he was.

"A gambler," he said. "Although he's tired of the risks a gambler must take. Once we have won the wealth of the Temple, I shall retire to some secluded world. I may even write a book."

"On the art of killing?" Ellen gave him no time to answer. "Rauch had him hired," she explained to Dumarest after she had drawn him to one side. "Paid to kill a man from whom he wanted a favor. He warned the man what to expect and, when Pinal made his attempt, he was taken. The victim, of course, was grateful. Pinal decided to work for Rauch rather than face the penalty of failure."

"Ishikari trusts him?"

"Now, yes." Her smile was enigmatic. "An elementary precaution. Pinal is a snake without fangs until given the word. I shall teach you that word."

"The others?"

"Ahmed you know about. Kroy is what he seems-a mercenary willing to do anything for the hope of reward. Ramon comes from the arena, which is why I asked if you were good with a knife. Such a man may decide to question your authority." She glanced to where he stood with the others. "Come, now, let's eat."

The room was next to the one holding the model; a spacious chamber containing tables, chairs, a bookshelf and computer terminal. A door opened to baths and showers. One table bore scattered cards; another, chessmen in neat array. The center table, flanked by chairs, bore wine and plates of succulent dainties. Salvers bore cold meats and an assortment of bread and pastry.

As he helped himself Kroy said, "What do you think we'll find in the Temple, Earl?"

"Probably nothing."

"What?"

"He could be right." Altini helped himself to wine. "I once robbed a shrine on Matsuki. It was reputed to hold a fabulous treasure. A thing so holy that it was virtually beyond price. I found an egg."

Kroy stared his disbelief. "An egg?"

"Just that. It was made of stone."

"A jewel? Well-"

"Stone," repeated the thief. "Some hard, black stone. Smoothed and polished, of course, but about as valuable as any other you can pick up on the shore. A symbol valuable only to those who worshiped it." He sipped his wine with the fastidiousness of a cat. "I could tell you other stories."

"We can all tell stories." Dietz reached out and lifted a pastry from the salver. "I'm only interested in rewards. Gems, precious metals, things of price. The Temple must be full of them. Think of all the pilgrims who make offerings. Over the years they would fill a hundred rooms the size of this."

"One would be enough for me." Sanchez leaned back in his chair, smiling, a grimace without humor. "A private arena, a stable of fighters, a selected audience. Easy money, Earl, don't you agree?"

"Is that what you want?"

"As a hobby, of course. Even a rich man must have something to occupy his mind. With what I get from the Temple, I'll build the finest establishment ever seen. Inlaid chairs, a ring of precious metal, attendants all dressed in silk. The epitome of luxury. The peak of fighting skill. Surely you've dreamed of owning such a place, Earl? Of being on the winning side for a change."

Ellen Contera said, "What makes you think Earl is a loser?"

"Could Rauch buy anything else?" Sanchez met her eyes. "We are all after the same thing. The Temple has it and we are going to rob the Temple. Money with which to establish ourselves."

"Just walk in and take it, huh?" Ellen shrugged. "You think it will be as easy as that? Even a fool would know better."

"Are you calling me a fool?" Sanchez glared his anger. "Are you?"

"Anyone's a fool who walks blind into a trap," snapped Dumarest. "And before loot can be spent it has to be won."

"Meaning?"

"You've been in the arena. What happens when a fighter is convinced he's already won? That he's got it made. When all he can think about is the money he'll get and the woman he'll pick and the feast that's waiting. What would you call such a man?"

"A suicide." Sanchez puffed out his cheeks. "I get the point."

"Keep it in mind. That goes for all of you." Dumarest looked from one to the other. "We don't know what's in the Temple. It doesn't matter. First we have to get to it. Any ideas?"

Kroy Lauter led the explanations, jabbing a thick finger at the map he unrolled, moving it to illustrate points.

"Raniang's a hard world. One little better than a cinder. The Hsing-Tiede Consortium has an installation there but it's on the other side of the planet from the Temple. Pilgrims usually arrive in groups on chartered ships which land here." His finger jabbed. "Well away from the Temple and down in this depression. Pilgrims march toward the Temple and enter the complex here." Again his finger rapped the paper. "They are met and escorted by priests. After certain ceremonies they are led into the Temple proper."

"Which is where the hard part begins." Altini leaned over the map. "We can only guess as to what really lies inside."

"Why guess?" Dumarest glanced at Ellen. "Don't we have maps? Diagrams?"

"The best I could get," she admitted. "But-"

"Things change," said Altini quickly. "Walls built or removed. New paths opened in different chambers. Traps set in the floor. Even the rituals can vary. Those guarding the treasure aren't fools and we can't be the first to want to rob them."

Dietz said, "No matter how things vary the basics remain the same. A thing I learned when young at my trade. To hunt down a man, to place him in the right position for the kill, to strike home and escape capture-all depends on established habit-patterns. Discover them and the victim is helpless."

"An assassin's philosophy," sneered Sanchez. "You are saying a man cooperates in his own murder."

"Unconsciously, yes. As you may easily cooperate in your own defeat when-"

"Nonsense!"

"No," said Dumarest. "A fighter, any fighter, can't help but follow a certain pattern. He will repeat winning maneuvers, hold his blade in a familiar way, stand in a workable position. Watch him long enough and you can plan his defeat." He changed the subject; if he had to fight Sanchez then the less he knew the better. To the assassin he said, "You were talking about the basics, Pinal. Would you please continue?"

He listened, checking points, evaluating available data. Too little was based on known fact, too must rested on assumption. Yet it was logical to expect that the treasure, whatever it was, would remain in its shrine. That ceremonies would remain basically unaltered. That Karlene, despite her conditioning, would have yielded essential data as to the interior of the Temple.

He remembered how Altini had cut Ellen short and wondered at his reason. Later, when the discussion was over and the others had drifted apart, he spoke of it to her as they walked beside the garden wall.

"Ahmed is a thief and as such he tends to be cautious. Also he is proud and wants to enhance his prowess."

"Is that all?"

"Of course." She turned to look at him, smiling. "What other reason could there be? You can trust him, Earl."

A conviction Dumarest didn't share. He said, "Are you coming with us?"

"Yes."

"I meant into the Temple."

"I can't do that." She walked seven paces in silence then added, "Remember we talked of weaknesses? Mine is pain. I can't stand it. I found that out on Kampher when some people I knew staged a rebellion. I didn't take part but I was taken in for questioning. They weren't gentle." She lifted her hands so as to display the livid blotches. "I told them everything they wanted to know."

"You can't be blamed for that."

"You are kind to say so. Not everyone would be so understanding. But I dare not go into the Temple and risk discovery by the priests. I learned from Karlene what will happen."

"Bad?" As she nodded, Dumarest added, "Is that the real reason Ahmed stopped you? Was he afraid you'd tell us what we'd face if we were caught?"

"Possibly. But, as I said, he can be trusted."

As the assassin, the fighter, the mercenary- all trusted to be hungry to make their fortunes. All united by greed. Not the best of motivations.

Ellen said, as if reading his thoughts, "Rauch had to take what he could get, Earl. That's why he wants you to take command."

Dumarest said, dryly, "Because I've guts, courage and intelligence?"

"You've got all that," she admitted. "But so have the others. What makes you special is that you have something else. A greater motivation." Halting, she turned to face him, to look up into his eyes. "They just want loot-but you want to find a world."

The air of Driest was far more salubrious than that of Erkalt and, instead of snow and ice, the window gave a view of rolling plains and distant hills all covered in a rich brown and green. A difference Clarge noted and dismissed as unimportant as he had the comfort of the room, the furnishings, the cool air vented through decorated grills. The room, the planet meant nothing.

Dumarest was gone.

The data lay before him: a mass of facts, reports, observations-the results of time-consuming but essential verification of statements made by those willing to help the Cyclan.

Again he checked them, feeling the mental glow of achievement which was the only real pleasure he could ever experience. His prediction had been correct-finding the woman had guided him to the man. Had he arrived a week earlier the hunt would now be over.

He rose from the desk, banishing thought of what might have been. To speculate in such a manner was a waste of mental direction and as useless as regretting the past. And all was not lost; when Dumarest had moved on he had not gone alone.

Mentally he reviewed the data he had obtained. An agent of Rauch Ishikari had chartered a vessel, the Argonne, and none knew where it was bound. Dumarest and the woman had resided with Ishikari. Investigation had shown they no longer occupied their quarters. A party had left in the chartered ship; a score of persons all muffled in masking robes but one of them, caught in a sudden gust of wind, had revealed a mass of shimmering white hair.

A genuine mistake or a deliberate diversion? A moment of accident or a false clue planted to lead any followers astray?

The former, he decided, the woman had left on the ship.

But where would it land?

Dumarest was on it; Clarge set the probability as high as 99.9 percent. As near as any cyber would go to predicting certainty. The woman also-but why was he still with her? What had she to offer?

The acolyte came at his signal, bowed as Clarge said, "Total seal."

Within his own quarters Clarge lay supine on the bed. A touch activated the wide band circling his left wrist, the device ensuring that no electronic scanner could focus on his vicinity. Relaxing, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the Samatchazi formulae. Gradually he lost the use of his senses; had he opened his eyes he would have been blind. Locked within his skull his brain ceased to be irritated by external stimuli. It became a thing of pure intellect, its reasoning awareness its only connection with normal life. Only then did the grafted Homochon elements become active. Rapport followed.

Clarge blossomed into a new dimension of existence.

Each cyber had a different experience. For him it was as if he were a point of expanding parameters; rings which widened to the end of the universe, renewed and replenished by further rings. A point which pulsed and moved through realms of scintillating brilliance, connecting, interchanging, embracing everything in a composite whole. The living part of an organism which had transcended the limitations of flesh and moved with the freedom of unrestricted thought.

And all was rooted in the heart of the Cyclan.

Buried deep beneath layers of adamantine stone Central Intelligence absorbed his knowledge as a sponge soaked up water. Mental communication, almost instantaneous, made him one with the massed brains.

Information given and orders received-but this time Clarge wanted more.

"Check on the origins of a tattoo." He described it in detail; information gained from Hagen. "Worn on the region above the left breast."

A question.

"The woman, Karlene vol Diajiro."

A query.

"Dumarest is with her. She must be leading him. The tattoo could provide the answer to where."

A command.

Clarge waited as Central Intelligence searched the massed intelligence which made it what it was. Brains removed from the skulls of cybers who had earned the reward of near-immortality, lying still alive and aware in sealed vats of nutrient fluid, all hooked in series with each other to form a composite whole. An ideal state in which to ponder the problems of the universe. A combination which formed a tremendous organic computer of incredible complexity working to establish the rule and dominance of the Cyclan.

Once, perhaps centuries ago, a cyber had seen or learned of the tattoo. Or had been told about it when an acolyte. A memory which, like all memories, would never die. Now, stimulated by need, it woke to provide the answer.

Clarge spun in an intoxication unsurpassed by any drug. A mental euphoria in which he sensed strange memories and alien situations-the scraps and overflow of other minds. The residue of other intelligences. A stimulation which always followed rapport but was now enhanced by an added dimension. One which would ensure his reward.

Clarge opened his eyes, waiting until the ceiling grew clear and small sounds adopted meaning. Always it took time for the workings of the body to become realigned with the dictates of the mind. He swayed a little as he rose from the bed and sat again knowing he had been too impatient. A fall now would demonstrate his inefficiency; minutes were not important now that he knew where Dumarest was heading.