'Nothing.' He shook his head, remembering her ability, wondering as to its depth. 'You spoke of Armand's madness. Did your father-'
'My creator,' she interrupted. 'I call him a parent for convenience only. The only one I had. He constructed the chromosome pattern, did what needed to be done and, when the attempt proved viable, turned me over to the care of an artificial womb. The first, he hoped, of endless millions, all cloned from my body. The reason I had to be female. The perfect woman as he saw perfection. The Supreme Mother of the human race.' Her laughter rose, harsh, brittle. 'The fool! He wanted to turn back the clock and breed the creatures he swore must have inhabited Earth.'
'You-'
'I'm the result of his lunacy. He had the dream but I inherited the nightmare. Can you imagine what it is to be like this? To know that things can only get worse? It isn't a disease, you understand. Not a cancer which can be cut or burned away. It's a natural part of me as the color of your hair is of you, the color of your eyes. In ten years time it will have spread. In twenty I will be twice the bulk I am now and the epidermis will begin to harden. A decade later and I will be locked in a prison of inflexible living tissue. And then what? Shall I metamorphose into something even more strange and horrible?'
Dumarest said, 'Did Armand intend that? For you to develop wings, for example?'
'If he did he didn't tell me.'
'His papers? Surely he must have kept records. If you had the original pattern wouldn't it give you a clue?'
'Do you think I haven't checked? The man was insane and believed in legends. The records show a pattern but how can I be certain it's mine?'
'You could check,' he urged. 'The original could be among Armand's private papers.' And they would be in the library if anywhere at all. If he could get to them, the books and records stored in the room, to find the secret he had come to learn and then to leave while there was still time-if there was still time. Dumarest said, 'It would be a beginning. If nothing else it could resolve a doubt. Try, Charisse-what have you to lose?'
He had expected an argument, instead he gained immediate cooperation. Setting down her glass, she moved to where her wig and gems lay gleaming on the floor. Stooping she donned them, careless of his presence, making small adjustments by touch. When she turned to face him again lights winked from her throat and hair, gleams which drew his eyes from the parody of her face. Even as he watched that face seemed to blur, to take on softer, more endearing lines-illusion backed by telepathic projection.
He looked at the gun in her hand, the bare floor where it had lain.
'A mistake, Earl,' she said. 'Not your first, but it's probably your last. Move and I'll burn your legs off at the knees.'
The table was at his side, the glass of untouched wine resting on it like a lambent gem. It crashed to shatter in a pool of liquid as Dumarest upended the heavy board.
From behind it he said, 'Remember, Charisse, the Cyclan won't pay you for a corpse.'
The snout of the laser wavered, dropped from where it had aimed at his upper body. To carry out her threat the woman would have to burn through the wood and with such a lightweight weapon that would take time. Time for him to take action of his own. Yet should he move, expose his legs, she would fire.
A mistake as she had said; he should have remembered the gun, but he had been too eager to get to the library, to find the secret it could contain. But why had she threatened him at all? The answer lay in the hand she lifted to her face, the fingers touching the ornate wig. He had stripped her of defenses, exposing her true appearance and humbling her pride. To her, now, revenge would be sweet.
'Help,' he said, talking to distract her attention, to ease the tension he felt mounting between them. If it rose too high not even her promised reward would keep her from closing her finger on the release. 'They promised to help you. Is that why you contacted them?'
'Clever,' she said. 'You're too damned clever, but not this time. I didn't contact them, they got in touch with me. After Podesta when I'd taken what I wanted from you and was out in space. They thought you were riding with me and offered to buy you. A good price, Earl, too good for what you seemed to be and I became curious. What made you so special? You are fast and strong and intelligent but why should the Cyclan be interested in that? So I came after you.'
To Ascelius and what else?
Dumarest was certain but it did not harm to talk, to continue easing the tension and so gain a measure of greater safety. Against an ordinary woman he would have taken a chance if there had been no other way, snatching out his knife and throwing it and trusting to speed and luck that it would strike home before the gun could be fired or, if fired, badly aimed. But Charisse had a degree of telepathic ability, enough to warn her of imminent danger, and she was almost hysterical with released fury. He saw the tautness of the skin over her knuckle, the white rim around the irises of her eyes. Anger blazing, barely contained, obvious despite the illusion.
He said, 'And now you have me, Charisse. What did they offer? What do you hope to gain?'
'So much, Earl. So very much.' Even the thought of it brought a degree of calm. The finger eased a little and the eyes lost some of their wild fixity. 'The full resources of their laboratories to isolate and cure the malfunction built into my chromosome pattern. Money to enable me to continue my own research.'
'Together with a few technicians to reside here with you to guide that research,' he said. 'The advice of the Cyclan at all times free of charge. Correct?'
'And if it is?'
'You'll become a servant of the Cyclan, Charisse. It will be inevitable. Within a few years you'll be totally dependent on them for your income if nothing else. And, always, they'll dangle the carrot of a final cure before your eyes.' Dumarest took a step toward the edge of the table. Given time and a short enough distance he would make a rush to snatch the gun from her hand. Risking a burn for the sake of escape from the trap she had constructed. 'But no cure will ever be discovered and you must know it. Don't be a fool, woman! Don't sell yourself for a lie! A promise which can't be kept!'
'Move again and I'll ruin your face.' The laser rose to aim at his eyes. 'I know where to hit, Earl, how deep to burn.'
And how to heal should the need arise. Did she know that, to the Cyclan, only his brain was of value? The knowledge he held within it? The secret which they hunted as he sought to find the coordinates of Earth?
He said, 'We could make a deal. Work to our mutual advantage. There is no need for you to hand me over to the Cyclan at all. In fact it would be a mistake. As you guessed, I'm valuable to them, and once you know why you'll have something to bargain with. They'll give you all you want and on your own terms. You tell them nothing until they deliver your cure. A new face,' he urged. 'An end to pretense. No more hiding behind a veil of illusion. No more fear of what is to come. Trust me, Charisse. Trust me.'
The gun wavered a little, began to lower, the finger growing slack on the trigger as she digested his offer. He could almost read her mind, the computations she was making. To lie, promise him anything in order to learn why he was so valuable, then to lock him away as insurance while she made her arrangements with the Cyclan. A mouse dealing with a cat but she needn't know that. In the meantime he would make his own chances.
Dumarest tensed, ready to make his rush should she prove stubborn, to snatch at the weapon and negate its threat. Once that had been done he would promise anything to gain access to the library and the precious papers it would contain.
His plans shattered as brilliance winked from a point behind him. The guide beam of a laser accompanied by the burning shaft of raw energy which touched the woman's wrist, to spear it, to send her weapon falling as it cauterized the wound it had made.
Dumarest turned, hand freezing as he saw the tall figure, the aimed laser, the glow of scarlet and the gleam of the hated seal on the breast of the robe. The face which rose like a skull above the thrown-back cowl.
From where she stood the woman said, 'Okos! Why did you fire? There was no need!'
The cyber from Ascelius-a man insane.
Chapter Twelve
There was beauty in madness. A burning, brilliant devastation of old restrictions and hampering patterns of
