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
