Luck or something more? An attribute as unusual as his physical prowess; the speed which had saved him so often? Things which had failed him at the end.

  "Fifteen molecular units," said Nequal as if speaking to himself. "The reversal of one determining whether or not it is subjective or dominant. We know the nature of the units. We know that the chains enable a mind to take over the being of another creature. To become that creature, animal or human, in almost total assimilation. All we lack is the knowledge of the correct sequence in which the units must be joined."

  Fifteen units, the possible combinations were vast and to try them all would take millennia even if one unit could be fashioned and tested each second. An impossibility; each unit took a minimum of eight hours to construct and test. A planet could grow old and turn into dust before all could be tried.

  "We know he was in the Rift," said Nequal. "In the Quillian Sector. On Harge." His face thinned at the memory of it, the cyber who had paid for his stupidity. As he was about to pay for his failure in turn. His failure—always the Cyber Prime had to accept the final responsibility.

  As Elge would do.

  Nequal glanced at the man where he stood close to the depicted galaxy. He was relatively young and should live long; a factor which had governed his choice as it had the others for the Cyclan had no use for the old and ailing. Time would expand his horizons and he would build on the accomplishments of his predecessors. When his turn came to be replaced the simulacrum could be blazing with scarlet where now there was none. And he too could share in the achievement. As a living brain linked to Central Intelligence he would have helped to bring it about. But first Elge must make his decision.

  He turned as if sensing Nequal's tension, speaking as if he had read the other's thoughts.

  "Your offer," he said. "You accept that failure will result in extinction?"

  "I do." There was no need to emphasize the converse—to destroy a successful unit would be illogical and inefficient and so alien to the workings of the Cyclan. Nequal added, "I am probably the most suitable instrument at your disposal."

  A fact which Elge had already assessed as he had evaluated the survival-drive inherent in the older man. A factor which would augment the chance of his success and one not to be wasted.

  Elge said, "Your offer is accepted. When will you be ready?"

  "Immediately."

  There was no point in delay. As the new Cyber Prime moved toward the desk and the communicator Nequal looked for the last time at the glowing depiction. A plethora of habitable worlds among which a lone man had moved. One who had bested him and the power at his command. Dumarest—had he really died?

  Chapter Two

  At first the girl seemed grotesque; impossibly deformed as if stretched by some monstrous machine, then Dumarest realized the impression was one created by illusion and artifice. The pants which hugged the long, lithe legs were cut high at the waist and fell over stilted sandals to give an illusion of height. One aided by the tightly cinctured waist, the narrow shoulders lifted by tapered pads; the shortening of the neck masked by a cascade of purple hair which rose in an elaborate bouffant to tower high above the rounded skull.

  "Dumarest? Earl Dumarest?" The mirrored lenses covering her eyes gave her the expressionless stare of an insect. "Is that your name?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Because if it is I've a message for you." She stepped closer and his nostrils filled with the scent of her perfume; a rich, floral odor which hung about her like a cloud. "Aren't you going to ask me in?"

  The room was small, one of the cheapest the hotel provided, the furnishings to match: a narrow bed, a chair, a cabinet, a small table on which stood a vase filled with delicate blooms. Their scent warred with the girl's.

  "No wine?" She looked at the chair then sat on the bed. "I was told you were generous."

  "By whom?"

  "A mutual friend." She leaned back, resting her weight on her arms, inflating her chest so as to display the high prominence of her breasts. "You could send for some wine and then we could have a nice, friendly drink. Wouldn't you like that?"

  Dumarest said, flatly, "Get out!"

  "Why, don't you like me?" Her smile was a mechanical invitation. "I'm not so hard to get along with. My guess is that you're lonely, right? A stranger and short of company. Why make it so hard? Just send for some wine and we can relax and talk and be friendly. Real friendly, mister, you'd like that." She smiled again as his hand lifted and moved slowly toward her cheek. "You want to touch me, honey? Feel how warm I am? Remember how—" She broke off, snarling. "Bastard!"

  She dressed as a girl and spoke as one and acted as one but her naked eyes betrayed her. Dumarest looked at them, the mirrored lenses hanging from the fingers of his left hand. Old, hard, resembling splintered glass fogged and brittle with time. Eyes which had seen too much and had given up trying. His own noted the tiny lines at their corners, the deeper lines buried beneath the paint, the telltale signs of cosmetic surgery undergone more than once. A harpy plying her trade in hotels, latching on to the lonely, the strangers willing to accept her company.

  What would she have slipped into his wine?

  "Out!" He threw the lenses into her lap. "Get out!"

  "And if I don't?"

  She could have an in with the manager who would come at her scream to back her accusation of rape. A farce—but who would care about a stranger? Staring at her Dumarest saw her face change, the eyes grow wide with fear, the lips thinning as she hunched back on the bed.

  "No! Mister, for God's sake!"

  He looked down at his hand, at the knife clenched in it, drawn from his boot in instinctive response to danger. Light shone from the blade, clouding on the wickedly curved edges, the needle point. Light which vanished as he thrust it back into its sheath.

  "You wanted to kill me," she whispered. "You would have killed me if—God! What kind of man are you?"

  Not the kind she thought but he made no effort to change her opinion. Let her think he would have killed her if it would mean an avoidance of trouble. Such a reputation could save him from others with similar intentions.

  "Out," he said. "I won't tell you again."

  She writhed on the bed, passing him, her perfume now contaminated by another scent; the raw reek of fear. At the door she paused, turning to face him, her eyes again shielded behind mirror lenses.

  "What about your friend?"

  "Don't you ever give up?"

  "I mean it. How do you think I knew your name? How to find you?" She gave him no chance to answer. "He told me. All right, so I tried to make some extra profit, can you blame me for that? It's a hard life, mister, damned hard."

  The more so when you were old and unwanted and trying to stay alive by selling goods which had long lost their appeal. Doing it and hating it and the necessity which gave you no choice. How often had he been in a similar situation? Driven to fight from pressing need? To risk his life in an arena, standing beneath glaring lights, ringed by avid faces, wounding, cutting, killing for the sake of continued survival.

  "Mister?" Her tone held a note of pleading and despite the illusive height she seemed somehow small and helpless. "Earl—please. I get nothing if you don't show."

  And how much for leading him into a trap? She could be innocent but what else could it be? He knew no one in this world so who could have sent for him but those he had reason to know meant him harm?

  "Earl?"

  "Just be on your way."

  "I did it all wrong," she said regretfully. "Now you don't trust me. Well, I guess I can't blame you for that. But at least let me take back a message. Shall I ask your friend to call? Would that be more convenient for you?"

  Age had dulled her intelligence—if the one who'd sent her wanted or had been willing to call why use an intermediary? Her visit could have been simply to locate him; now he would have to move and forfeit the advance paid on the room. An expense he could have done without. Funds were low and he had still to find a passage. To delay too long could be fatal.

  "Well?" The woman was still waiting. "Shall I tell him to call?"

  "Yes." The harm was done and it would send her on her way. "Tell him I'll expect him tonight. An hour after sunset. And remind him to bring some wine." He added, casually, without change of tone, "What was his name again?"

  "Bochner, didn't I tell you? Leo Bochner."

  The woman had lied; the man was not the hunter. Bochner had been tall, slim, his face unlined, his hands smooth as was his voice. The camouflage of the animal resting beneath his skin. The man he now faced could also be an animal, a man dedicated to the love of destruction, one who lusted after the spilling of blood, but if so it was buried deep. He came forward, smiling, one hand extended in an ancient gesture of friendship.

  "Earl! It was good of you to come." Their fingers touched, parted. "Zalman," he said. "Hans Zalman. What did you think of my messenger?"

  "The best you could get?"

  "The most suitable. No, she won't talk. The money I gave her will be spent on drugs and she will spend days in hallucinogenic diversions. My errand will become a part of them. Some wine?"

  He poured without waiting for an answer, his hands deft as they manipulated bottle and glasses. A man a head shorter than Dumarest, rounder, his face creased with soft living. His clothing was expensive; pants and blouse of harmonizing color, his boots softly supple, the belt adorned with arabesques of precious metal. A man of apparent wealth and occupying a room which could not have been cheap.

  "I have money," he said. "Not as much as I would like but enough for immediate needs. No, I do not intend to drug you or cause you any harm of any kind. We are alone in this apartment, search it if you wish. I am not expecting visitors. Bochner is not here."

  Answers to questions Dumarest hadn't asked but had formed in his mind. Zalman gave another.

  "Bochner is dead."

  "How?"

  "His stupidity killed him. He made the mistake of underestimating those who wear a scarlet robe."

  The Cyclan—what did this man know of the organization?

  "Enough to treat them as you would a venomous serpent. Which is to say," he added, "with wary respect. But your attitude would be different. In you, I think, respect would be absent."

  Was the man a telepath?

  "No." Zalman beamed as he sipped his wine. "I am not reading your mind but I am reading you all the same. The way you stand, move, the movement of the muscles of your face, the flick of your eyes, the tensions you emit—a hundred things. A talent I have had since early childhood. The ability to tell what a person is thinking from the tiny signals I glean from his body. You understand why I sent for you in the way I did, of course."

  "To throw me off guard," said Dumarest. "What were you hoping to learn?"

  "Your true identity. I was almost certain but there was the possibility of a mistake. Now I have no doubt. Some more wine?"

  Dumarest had barely touched what he had. As Zalman refilled his own goblet he moved about the room studying the ornate decorations. Any of the protuberances could hold an electronic eye or ear. Already it could be too late.

  "No!" Zalman was emphatic. "I give you my word this is not a trap."

  How could it be trusted?

  "A difficulty, I admit, but I swear it is so. I need to talk to you, Earl, to discuss a certain matter of mutual advantage. How to convince you I am exactly what I appear to be. Bochner? You want to know about Leo Bochner?" Dumarest said, quickly, "Yes, but not here."

  "You don't trust this place. A commendable caution. Where then? Your room? No." Zalman smiled. "Ideal! I have much to learn from you, my friend. The baths, but which? Earl, the choice is yours."

  The city held many; palaces designed to cater to the wealthy, others merely providing a room full of steam for workers to ease their tensions. Between the two extremes could be found a host of variations. Dumarest chose one at random, staying close to Zalman as they changed, stepping into a marbled space filled with areas of colored smoke; steam which carried perfumes, stinging oils, stimulating drugs, changing novelties all confined by electronic barriers to selected regions.

  In a cloud of emerald mist Dumarest learned how Bochner had died.

  "As I said, he was a fool." Zalman, vague in the steam, peered at his companion. "You were together in the Quillian Sector and must have learned that. A man bemused by the mystique of killing. He thought of a hunt as a religious ritual and the actual killing as something more emotional than a sexual climax. For him it could have been the truth."

  "You knew him well?"

  "We met and, yes, I knew him. I knew when he lied and when he boasted and I knew the things he wanted to keep hidden. Some things I knew better then he did himself. He hated you as you must have guessed, but do you know why? It was because you spared him. You bested him in combat and had your blade to his throat and he stared into the face of the extinction he secretly craved and you spared him. When I met him he lived only to avenge the insult."

  Dumarest could believe it. Leaning back he saw again the thin, contorted face, the naked savagery burning in the eyes. It would have been more merciful to have driven home the blade.

  "Merciful, perhaps," said Zalman. "But had you not spared him we would not be sitting here now. As it was I met him barely in time. Luck, who can define it? A vessel which left sooner than I thought, a few days waiting and a chance meeting and then a voyage, together in the same ship. Coincidence—but it happens. Sometimes more than we realize. Our meeting, for example. I saw you down at the field and knew you at once from Bochner's description. It was not too hard to follow you, to learn where you lived." His shrug stirred the scented vapor. "The rest you know."

  "And Bochner?"

  "Dead. His head shattered by some explosion. I was on a trip and learned of it when I returned."

  The punishment meted out by the Cyclan for failure and Zalman's trip had probably saved his life. But what had he learned from the hunter?

  "Something he barely suspected," he said. "Yet I know he had an inkling of what it must be. Something of incredible value to our friends of the scarlet robe which they would pay highly to obtain. Bochner was their agent, of course, and you must have suspected it. He was to trap you, hold you fast, but something happened to upset the plan." His hand waved in a gesture of negation. "That is of no importance now, the past is dead. But your importance remains and, I think, you are fully aware of your danger."

  "So?"

  "Something you have which the Cyclan wants," said Zalman. "Something of tremendous value to them at least. And, if it is valuable to them, why not to others? You see my point, Earl? I am suggesting that we share it and find the highest bidder. As I told you, a scheme to our mutual advantage."

  One Dumarest wished he had never heard. Zalman, little as he knew of the man, had induced a liking and it made it harder to do what had to be done. In the emerald mist Dumarest lifted his hands, the fingers clamped fast to turn them into blunted axes, broad-bladed spears. A blow to the larynx would render the man helpless, doubled and retching, the nape of his neck exposed to a killing chop. Injuries which could be explained by an accidental fall on the moist tiles.

  Murder—but how else to save himself?

  Zalman had moved away and Dumarest looked for him, feeling the sting of unfamiliar odors in his nostrils, a sudden singing in his ears. The man had to die. Greed would make him dangerous and, even if he had no hint of the secret Dumarest carried locked in his mind, the insistence that he had a secret at all was enough.

  "Earl?" Zalman's bulk showed wreathed in emerald. "What do you say?"

  He was smooth, glistening, but the tissue covering his bones was muscle, not fat. The lowered chin made a slash at the throat difficult and the nape would be better protected than he had thought. The carotids, then, the great arteries leading to the brain. A pressure of his fingers would close them, bringing swift unconsciousness and eventual death. A more explicable termination than the other; the cause would be attributed to a cardiac failure.

  "A partnership. We work together for—" Zalman glanced at the arm Dumarest had placed against his chest,, the fingers which were now closing on his throat. He said, quietly, "Why?"

  "I don't care for your idea of mutual advantage. I give you everything and you give me—what?" He was talking, delaying the moment. "I'm sorry, Hans."

  "No!" Extra sweat beaded Zalman's face. "Give me a chance to explain. Earl!" He swallowed as the fingers eased a little. "For God's sake, man, listen. Your share I've mentioned now let me tell you of my contribution. I can guide you to Earth!"

  Lies! Lies! It had to be lies!

  "Earth!" Zalman pulled at the hand, the clamping fingers. "Earth, Earl! I know how to find it!"

  The barrier was a tingle dying as quickly as it was felt, a barrier for the emerald mist which pressed against it in coiling plumes. Outside the area was clear air and Dumarest gulped at it, inflating his lungs, fighting a momentary dizziness. Drugs, subtle additions to the emerald steam which had triggered a latent violence. Why had he ever considered killing Zalman? There was no need for murder; lies, a pretended agreement and a later parting would have been enough. He had managed to elude the Cyclan—how much easier it would be to elude a man.

  "Earl!" Zalman was at his side, his face strained. "You would have killed me."

  There was no point in lying. "Yes."

  "The mist. That damned mist." Zalman shuddered. "A hell of a place to hold a conference."

  But one which others had found suitable for love. A labored breathing came from a bank of orange, a giggle from a plume of scarlet. From twists of ochre a man, naked, stepped toward Dumarest. Behind him a girl, adorned only with her hair, followed, smiling with drugged vacuousness. "Him, Brill. Him!"

  "The small one?"

  "No, the big."

  "As I thought." The man hadn't turned to look at his companion. "A wager," he said to Dumarest. "The girl against what? Have you money?"

  Like the girl he was drugged, spoiling for combat, a man proud of his physical attributes. He moved to block the path as Dumarest stepped forward.