Chapter Ten

  Axilia was cleaning gutters when Dumarest arrived back at the tavern. He'd begun work early; the day was barely bright with dawn, gold and orange tinging the azure, reflecting from the fluffy clouds which had gathered far out over the sea. Later, perhaps, the air would tinge with color but now it was clear.

  "Sven!"

  The miner looked down at the call. He stood high on a ladder, a bucket hooked to the rungs, a trowel in one hand. He was stripped to the waist and was smeared with a thick, black mud.

  "Sven, can we talk?"

  "Just a minute."

  Axilia returned to his task, scooping sediment from the gutter and dropping it into the bucket. A pile of the rich dirt standing to one side told of his labors. Only when the container was filled did he descend, holding it in one hand. Silently he emptied it, adding to the existing pile, then, as if steeling himself, he looked at Dumarest.

  "Well?"

  "How's the nose?"

  It was swollen, a little red but otherwise normal. A few more days and it would be wholly healed. The bruise on the temple had also faded.

  Axilia said, "Is that what you've come to talk about?"

  "Our fight? No. I just want to know if you figure it ended. Is it?"

  "The damned thing was a mistake, Earl. I was drunk, crazed I guess, you know how it can be. That woman—I was wrong." He sounded as if pleased to make the admission. "Anna told me what happened—she figures you could have killed me."

  "How are you getting on with her?"

  "Anna? I'm in her debt and am working to clear it. The gutters, the roof, some internal stuff. She offered me a deal. I guess she offered you the same one."

  "She did. Did you take it?"

  "No. I want to look around first. From what I can make out there's work for a willing man. Maybe I can find it at some of the big estates." He looked past Dumarest at the raft he'd arrived in. "I see you've managed to get fixed up."

  "In a way. Are you still interested in mining?" Dumarest read the answer. "Good. Any objection to working for a woman? The one you tried to kill?" Then, as the man hesitated, he added, "She bears no grudge, Sven, but I guess you owe it to her. Right?"

  The miner nodded. "What's the proposition?"

  Dumarest explained after the man had cleaned up and they sat with steaming mugs of tisane. Anna, if she guessed he was stealing her labor, had made no comment but, noticing how the man's eyes followed her, Dumarest guessed the reason for her apparent unconcern. There were more ways to hold a man than with food and wine. Often the promise of something more intimate was enough, a hint of future union and Sven, despite his face, was a well-built man.

  Now he frowned at the drawings Dumarest had spread on the table before them.

  "This the layout?" He scowled as Dumarest nodded. "Amateur work—it's got the brand. These damned fools think all you need to do to mine is dig a few holes in the ground. What's the substrata? Limestone? Sandstone? Shale? If it's real hard rock you'll be in trouble unless you've the equipment and men." He studied the maps again. "Jascar, you say?"

  "Yes." Dumarest held out his hand. "Here." It was the scrap Rudi had held when he'd died and Axilia examined it, digging at it with a blunt thumbnail. The metal was blue, soft, malleable the mark made by his nail clearly visible. He hefted it, judging its weight, pursing his lips as he set it down.

  "Has much been taken out as yet?"

  "No."

  "Good." Axilia poked at the small nugget. "This could have come from the main deposit. You ever mined this stuff? It rests in nodes in strata where the conditions were right for its formation. Don't ask me how it's made, I don't know and I don't think anyone does. I heard a man say once that it could be the result of some local but intensive force such as a field-drive applied from a ship landing or leaving—high pressure coupled with electronic intensity—but that's just speculation. The thing is it forms a central cluster with particles widely scattered around it. If you hit the external particles you have to delve beyond them to the main deposit. If they haven't taken much from the mine it could still be there."

  "Waiting to be collected?"

  "Maybe." Axilia was grim. "But getting it won't be easy. The strata is usually unstable and the biggest danger is from shifting stresses causing falls and cave-ins. I know of three juscar mines where the stuff is still there just waiting to be collected but no one can get to it without paying more than it's worth. Labor," he explained. "Equipment. Tools and time. Some sharp operators sell claims to suckers—they're genuine enough but worthless if you know what it's all about."

  And Rudi hadn't. A man blinded by a dream and killed by his own ignorance.

  Dumarest said, "What's your answer, Sven?"

  Axilia hesitated, looking again at the plans, frowning as he assessed the possibilities. "A share if I get out the juscar, right?"

  "Right."

  "And a free hand? I don't want any woman telling me how to handle my job. Sorry, Earl, I know I owe her, but that's how, it is. The shafts go where I direct and are built as I say." He added, "But who do we have to build them?"

  "You, me, Zalman. How about the others? Ochen? Quail? Tocsaw? Think they'll be interested?"

  "In shares? Maybe. Anyone else?"

  "The woman has men who sometimes work but they're unreliable. It's possible there could be others in town who could use some real money." Details which rested on the miner's acceptance of the proposition; without his skill and experience the project was hopeless. Dumarest said, casually, "Of course, if the work seems too much, you can always hit the manna."

  "Not me!"

  "Why not? No worries if you do. Just eat some of the stuff and every day's a holiday. You won't care about a thing; your face, the way you dress, the way you live. And it's free. Just go out and pick it up by the handful. It's easy."

  Axilia said, "Quit needling me, Earl. You mentioned my face but you don't know how I got it. A woman, yes, and acid, but I was doped at the time, riding high. A damned fool, but I learned. Being a zombie is no way to live. Anna—" He broke off then said, quietly, "She's a good woman, Earl, and a man could do worse than stay with her. With money I could get my face fixed and maybe—well, it's worth the chance."

  Dumarest made no comment, watching as again the man studied the drawings, this time with a different attitude. The criticism was there still but now there was something more; a judgment, an assessment, a tenuous program of progress to be instigated. A blunt finger traced a detail.

  "This must have been the original shaft, right?"

  "So Isobel told me. It was there when they came."

  "An old working, tried and abandoned." The finger moved on. "This the second? I guessed so. Another failure; the angle and direction are all to hell. This produced metal, right?"

  "Some."

  "But not much. They were working through the periphery." Again the finger moved to another section. "Here?"

  "A blocked tunnel." The one where Rudi was buried and Dumarest's main target. "It could lead to the nexus."

  "What makes you say that?" Axilia pursed his lips as he listened. "He came out with this in his hand?" He touched the nugget and again examined it. "You could be right. What do you suggest?"

  To clear the tunnel, find the body, get what hung around its neck and then win what could be found. The only way to recover the secret Rudi Boulaye had discovered.

  Dumarest said, "Maybe we could open it—the woman would like to bury her husband's body back on his home world."

  "That needn't be easy," said Axilia. "It could even be impossible; if the strata is slipping the shaft will fill as fast as it's cleared. Maybe we could drive in at an angle just beyond and work back to find the line. I'll have to study the terrain." He stared at Dumarest. "Well? When do we start?"

  On Liment a cyber had died; burned in a palace fired by a rioting mob. A loss but one the man himself should have been able to avoid and his failure to predict the uprising had held its own punishment. The incident on Chierene was different; there a young and spoiled daughter of a tycoon had slashed a servant of the Cyclan across the face with her whip.

  Elge studied the report and decided on what action was necessary. The services of the Cyclan to be withdrawn immediately with no compensatory return of fees. The cyber in question to be reassigned. Instructions given to weigh the balance in favor of the tycoon's rivals. The man would be ruined and he would know who was to blame. His anger against the girl would be far more telling than any other form of punishment.

  And the news would spread.

  Alone that would help to strengthen the respect in which cybers were held and increase the deference shown them by rulers and commoners alike. An armor, invisible but real, a defense against anger and pride and a guarantee of the immunity which was the basis of real power. To strike at a cyber was to strike at the Cyclan itself. To demean the part was to demean the whole. A lesson which must be taught whenever necessary, not as a matter of revenge but of expediency.

  Elge glanced at the next report; a matter of general guidance as to the progress of expansion in a remote part of the galaxy. It could continue as at present; to advance expansion too fast on too many fronts would be to risk a lessening of efficiency. Other matters followed; decisions to be made which he settled with smooth ability. Promotions to be ratified, new clients to be approved.

  Data which he received as a matter of finalization but which to ignore was to invite a gradual erosion of power and the possibility of accumulated error. A decision made by a cyber could be valid in the light of his limited knowledge, wrong in the overall scheme of things. The organization, like a machine, needed its governors and safety devices, its checks and counterchecks.

  "Master?" The communicator hummed with the smooth monotone. "Councilor Boule as expected."

  "Show him in."

  A distraction but one to be borne. Cyber Boule was more fanatical than most in his determination to stamp out any trace of inefficiency, and to ignore him was to be more than inefficient. It was as important to maintain harmony with the Council as to direct the workings of the great plan.

  "Councilor." Elge rose to greet him. "You are welcome. The matter of Elysius, of course."

  Boule was direct. "Time and effort has been expended in a pursuit which is patently illogical. Neither of the two affected units has had any connection with anything named Elysius yet you ordered the technicians to investigate worlds of that and similar names."

  "That is so."

  "The reason escapes me."

  Elge said, "I am covering every possibility no matter how apparently remote. The word is the only clue we have as to what could have affected the catatonic unit. Nequal's sacrifice must not be wasted. That is why I have ordered cybers together with acolytes to travel to, and report on, each of those worlds."

  "Twelve of them."

  "Each bearing a name which could be a derivation of the clue word: Lysius, Eylsius, Silysus—you must have the complete list." He added, "The total was arrived at only after the most thorough elimination."

  "And your prediction as to the probability of success?"

  "Low," admitted Elge. "But even if the probability were no higher than one tenth of one per cent I would regard the effort justified."

  "Perhaps, but I doubt if the Council will agree. Waste must not be tolerated. Your method of operation is too similar to blasting an area with missiles rather than using one, carefully aimed, to hit the target. If there was one single factor associating either of the affected units to any of the worlds in question your action would be acceptable. As it is, there is the question of motive to be considered. I must warn you that the Council may ask you to justify your conduct."

  An official notice of impending condemnation. As Cyber Prime he could ignore it if he wished but, if he should display such arrogance, he would prove that he was not fitted for the position he held. If nothing the Cyclan was a gestalt: the individual counted for little against the whole. Personal love of power, ambition, aggrandizement—all were concepts alien to any cyber. They worked and existed for the benefit of the whole.

  Alone Elge activated the depicted galaxy and looked at the blaze of glowing motes. Nequal's toy and he could understand the fascination it had held for the man. There was a soothing quality about it, a hypnotic attraction so that, as he stood watching, it seemed that he encompassed the entire universe and that all the suns and worlds of creation were but cells of his corporal being.

  An illusion, gone in a moment, but some of the heady intoxication remained. The sheer mental euphoria of grandiose design and one which held an insidious danger. Elge recognized it and, by the mere fact of recognition, negated it. He was not a god. He was not greater than the whole. He was no more than a cog in the complex machine of the Cyclan and, already, he had been warned he could be at fault.

  Why had he ordered the investigation of those worlds? Boule had been correct; there was no logical reason for the expenditure of such effort and, watching the model of the galaxy, he evaluated the steps which had led to his decision. He had been tired and the toxins accumulated by fatigue had affected the efficiency of his metabolism. That he had not postponed making the decision was a proof of his failure to acknowledge the circumstance and one which would tell against him if the Council chose to question his ability. And yet, with all the facts before him, he had still gone against the dictates of logic. A higher order of mental association? It was possible and tempting as an answer. Facts could be barriers as well as guide if those facts were based on restricted knowledge. It was a "fact" that men couldn't fly—yet with the aid of machines they could move from world to world. Other examples were legion but one was enough to illustrate the point. Had his mind, fogged with weariness, made an intuitive connection which now defied analysis?

  Elysius—why Elysius?

  It glowed before him, enhanced by electronic magic, a mote set against the fleck of its sun. Even at full enlargement it would gain no further detail; the scale was far too small for that. Only the position could be determined and Elge studied it together with the suns close by. Near to them loomed the dark mass of the Rift which had initiated Nequal's downfall.

  Dumarest had been located there and should have been trapped. Instead he had moved on to land finally on Harge. The world on which he had died when trapped in a web of sand. Died—the prediction had been as close to certainty as any cyber dared to make. And his death had sealed Nequal's fate.

  As his own fate would be sealed if his belief that the world of Elysius held the answer to the crying brain was wrong. But, unlike his predecessor, Elge knew he would be given no second chance.

  Mtouba said, patiently, "You can't have the bracelet, my dear. You know that."

  "Why not?" The woman was young and had the guileless eyes of a child. "It's pretty."

  "Very pretty, but you have no credit."

  "You can trust me."

  "Of course, and I do, as I hope you trust me to hold the bracelet until you bring me something of value." He ushered the girl from his premises then turned to smile at Dumarest. "They're like children, Earl. They see something which shines and they want it." His eyes moved to the raft lying outside: Isobel's vehicle. "I see you came to an arrangement with Madam Boulaye."

  "Yes."

  "I'm glad for her. That woman has worked hard and gained little return. Some refreshment? Tisane? A liqueur? Or would you prefer this?"

  Dumarest looked at the box the Hausi extended, the glitters it held. "No."

  "Good. I'd wondered." The agent closed the box with a snap and threw it to lie with other items on his desk. The gloom thickened as he closed the door, brightened as he switched on a light. "A bad thing about Selina."

  "How did Jarvis take it?"

  "With dignity and with pain but he is old and knows that all things are transitory. I said that she and Boyce died instantly. It would be a kindness to let him continue to believe that."

  "I doubt if I'll see him again."

  "No, it is unlikely." Mtouba stood, waiting, "Is that what you came to ask?"

  "I'm curious about the ships which call here. Traffic, I assume, isn't heavy."

  "An obvious conclusion. The Phril has a sister ship, the Mercador and they operate in opposed directions." Mtouba moved his finger in a rough circle over his desk, the tip touching a succession of objects. "Think of these things as worlds. Both ships serve them at more or less regular intervals. Others could be traveling across." His hand swept over the circle. "Sometimes they will call if carrying passengers or a delivery. I usually get some notice—about a day."

  A Hausi could be trusted and they never lied which was not to say they always told the complete and literal truth. The inference was that the machine he'd gestured to was a short-range affair but the supra hi-beam radio could have reached the far end of the galaxy.

  Dumarest said, "Why do they call at all? What has Elysius to offer?" He followed Mtouba's eyes as they shifted to the box. "Manna?"

  "Terminal institutions on local worlds have a use for it. It's cheap, effective and enables the hopelessly sick and aged to die without care—people like the woman you saw harvest it for me. The profits are small but the trade is regular."

  Dumarest said, "You have your regular suppliers?"

  "Of course, but—"

  "Old residents, naturally. They deserve preference." He drew a list of names from a pocket and handed it to the agent. "These people might try to earn money that way. I'd appreciate it if you'd refuse to accommodate them."

  Mtouba frowned at the list. "You've put down the men you arrived with and others who recently landed."

  "Anna gave me their names. She's cooperating by refusing all credit. Ochen, for example, he's been living it up at the Argive House. Now he's found himself a woman, a young girl, and she'll want new clothes and trinkets. He might think to pay for them with manna."

  "And Quail?" Mtouba nodded, understanding. "You hope to squeeze them, force them to work for you at the mine. But what of my profit? New arrivals bring in the biggest loads. Am I to tell them that I don't want the manna? To reduce my shipments? Where's the gain in that?"