She felt the sting of tears and the sudden wetness of her cheeks. He had tried too hard, attempted too much and she had remained silent when she should have objected. The lure of wealth, the promise of a fortune—how could she have been such a fool? Why hadn't they realized that there had to be something wrong?

  The wind strengthened a little, drying the tears on her cheeks but more followed born of the memory she couldn't forget. The scream, the rumble, the sudden fall and, as the dust settled, the sight of the body lying half buried, limp, the face turned toward her, one hand extended as if in mute appeal. A hand which held a scrap of metal, the juscar for which he'd given his life. His last gift to her—a fraction of what he'd intended.

  A scrap of metal and a name.

  The devils increased even as she watched, fresh puffs rising to join the others, compact masses of color to replace the thinning clouds. The swarms bred and nurtured in domes which swelled to grow taut from internal pressures to rip apart in final dissolution. From them, blasted by expanding vapors, the spore-like ephemerae rose high to be caught by the winds, to wheel and spin in a mating frenzy. The males, having vented their seed, would perish to drift dead and drying on the winds. The females, gravid, would spread to select new sites for fresh colonies.

  Had the devils danced when Rudi had died? She couldn't remember but, if she had been a little earlier, she would have been with him. Impatient he had gone on ahead, turning to shout to her to hurry, a shout which could have caused the fall.

  Now he was buried, the devils his only memorial.

  From where he sat at the console Icelus said, "A node, Master. Termination of coherent thought now unmistakable. Uniting the brains has not achieved the desired result."

  A failure and one Elge was reluctant to accept. "Increase the cerebral stimulus to level five."

  Pain was the product of stimulation of the appropriate center of the brain and was a tool he did not hesitate to use. From the speakers came a thresh of sound; a keening breaking into a shriek which died as the microcurrents were cut.

  "Reading?"

  "Previous conclusion verified."

  As was the failure, and the blame had to be his: Elge assessed it as he faced the console. It had been his decision to accept Nequal's offer and the reward could have been great. As it was, time and effort had been used to no purpose. Nequal would die and the affected unit would be destroyed at the same time. And yet, surely, something must have been learned?

  "Replay the recording," he ordered. "Revised version."

  One which eliminated all unessential data and yet was still not easy to understand. The confusing jumble of electronically translated "noise" was gone but other confusions remained. Words, sounds, crackles—how inefficient mechanical devices were when compared to the interplay of intelligent minds.

  "Master?"

  "Begin. Open speakers."

  Let them all hear there was nothing to hide and someone in the room could catch a significance he might miss. Elge leaned forward, concentrating, imagining himself to have been in Nequal's position when the linkage was established. There would have been a moment of doubt, a questing, a reminder of the original purpose, then a sudden awareness of company.

  Why had it sent him mad?

  He tried to find the answer in the blurring susurration of sound. A voice, calling, another answering with tears. A question followed by others and insistence through repetition. Normal therapy and practice and what he would have expected but Elge knew that more had happened than had been recorded. A change of viewpoint, perhaps? An altered framework of reference? A distortion of familiar reality or the sudden awareness of a truth so disturbing that the mind had found escape in mania?

  Could such a truth exist?

  Logically it could and he listened with an added interest even as a part of his mind examined the probabilities of what kind of truth it must be. A moment then he recognized the paradox; no truth determined by an intelligent mind could have the power to destroy that mind. A superstition, then? Could any cyber be so prone to error?

  Yet Itel was no longer a cyber. His mind had retreated to a point long before he'd been accepted and given a new name. A child was subject to terrors and fears of darkness—had Nequal been affected by the power of unrestrained fantasies?

  A shadow cast by a flying insect was, to a child, a shapeless monster of horrific dimensions. A whisper in darkness which, to a man would be a trick of acoustics, was to a young and impressionable mind the murmuring of an alien hungry for flesh. Vampires, ghouls, ghosts, and goblins—all creatures born of imagination and ignorance as were witches and sorcerers. Yet more than one planet had seen the smoke of their burning.

  And, if a trained and sharpened mind could be affected by childish terrors wouldn't the impact be proportionally great?

  A possibility Elge pondered as he listened to the recording. Nequal was whimpering now, pleading, a drone broken by a sudden scream as stimulus had been applied to jerk him back to an awareness of his mission. Had that induced agony added to his confusion?

  The recording ended to be followed by silence. One broken as Icelus said, "Something may be learned if I plot present electroencephalograms with previous recordings. I could be mistaken but it seemed that not only Itel but Nequal himself was displaying signs of extreme emotion."

  To be expected in a child. A concept alien to a cyber.

  "Regression?"

  "Apparently so."

  "Contaminated by the affected unit?"

  "The probability is of the order of ninety-seven percent." Icelus glanced at the others present; his aides, technicians. "Perhaps someone has something to add?"

  A technician said, "With permission I would like to conduct an experiment."

  "With the affected units?"

  "Those together with the recordings. There could be information in the material we have eliminated from the version just heard. While, to us, it seems to be merely noise yet it must hold within itself some code value to those originating it. It might be possible to use that code value to stimulate an automatic response."

  As a man would flinch at a scream or respond to an ingrained conditioning at a signal. The idea held merit.

  Elge said, "How would you attempt to translate a response if received?"

  "Electronic comparison, Master. We can itemize all signals and break each down into fractionated particles. A code, by definition, must be repetitive and it should be possible to match, isolate, and reassemble to achieve a comprehensive result. It will take time and the probability of success is low; of the order of eighteen percent."

  Low indeed but little would be lost by trying.

  "I agree." Elge rose from his chair. "Let me know immediately when you have a conclusive result."

  It came fifteen hours later after he had woken from a brief sleep to study reports from a dozen worlds. It was short—a single word. Elysius.

  Chapter Five

  There was no gate, no fence, no guards. The field was nothing but a bare expanse of dirt edged to the north with rambling buildings which could have been warehouses. The town sprawled on the slope behind them, a ramshackle collection of dwellings parted by winding roads. To the south the valley widened as it headed toward the distant ocean.

  "Home," said Estelle. "Welcome to Elysius."

  Her tone was bitter and Dumarest could guess why. She had slept and bathed and had discarded her cheap finery and now looked clean and neat but the improvement since had been small. She was still withdrawn, still masked and aged with a peculiar blight.

  Dumarest looked again at the town not liking what he saw. The signs were familiar and he could guess why the girl had run. The planet was at the end of the line, a dead-end world lacking industry or even a viable agriculture. One without opportunity for a man to find himself work and build a stake so as to buy passage and move on. The worst kind of landing for any traveler. Once stranded it was too easy to starve.

  "Not here, Earl." Zalman seemed amused. "There's no fear of that here."

  "That's nice to know. Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Why? Would it have made any difference?" He looked at the sky, the sun reaching for the horizon. "We'd better find somewhere to stay."

  There was no hurry. Dumarest turned and looked at where the Phril was resting. The handler, steward, gambler and a Hausi had loaded it and now it was ready to leave. Julie had stayed aboard, moving on with Rosichien and Marriol, and he wondered if, even now, she was laughing. As far as he could tell no passengers had been waiting to embark.

  "There rarely are," said Zalman. "People come but not many want to leave. That's the charm of this place."

  One Dumarest found hard to understand. The town held the unmistakable atmosphere of a slum but, while the buildings were dilapidated, he could see none of the usual abject poverty. The edge of the field was free of beggars, harlots, maimed children set to arouse a transient pity. Even the usual sightseers who came to study the new arrivals were absent.

  "A hell of a place." Sven Axilia, scowling, spat in the dirt. "I heard there was mining here, a big operation. One day I'll meet up with the cheat who sold me the lie."

  "You came to work?" Ochen grinned and shook his head. "Man, why be a fool? You don't need to work on Elysius. Right, Jon?"

  "That's what I heard." Quail drew in his breath. "Well, let's find somewhere to sit. Get some decent food too, maybe. You coming with us?"

  Tocsaw grunted. "Might as well."

  "You?" Quail looked at Dumarest. "I guess not." His eyes fell to the girl. "Well, have fun."

  "Some people take chances," murmured Zalman as the group moved away. "But I'm glad you didn't decide to take offense. But about the girl—what happens now?"

  "Do you need me to tell you?"

  "No, but I'm taking your advice. To wait and let others tell me what I already know. The Hausi, naturally."

  "What else?" Dumarest added, dryly, "Who better to know how to find her family. You're doing well, Hans."

  Better than himself. The girl could have run from poverty in which case she wouldn't be welcome but, if nothing else, the purchase had gained her freedom of choice. Mtouba ended the doubts.

  He met them in his office at the edge of the field, a small room stacked with files and samples, the air redolent with the scent of pungent spices, perfumes, dried fruits, vials of dusts. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the girl.

  "Estelle Lamont." His eyes moved to Dumarest. "It was kind of you to bring her back."

  "You know her?"

  "I know her family. They have an estate to the west. Her father is dead now but there is an older sister and others. If you wish I will contact them."

  He would do it anyway. Dumarest said, "Just tell them the girl is here. Will they come in to pick her up?"

  "Not today. Haven't you seen the sky? It is full of color—but I forget, you are strangers. Can you keep her with you? Tomorrow I may be able to arrange transportation. Within a few days she will be safely home."

  "A few days?"

  "I will do the best I can." The agent spread his hands in a gesture symbolic of his limitations. "It is a matter of time, you understand. A bad period, to be sure, as to what can and cannot be accomplished but I promise to do what I can. Just be a little patient. Have you anywhere to stay? No? In that case I would recommend the Argive House. The owner is a woman of culinary skill and is exceptionally fastidious. Also," again he looked at the girl, "she has an appreciation of certain situations."

  "Earl!" Zalman was quick. "He doesn't mean it the way it sounds."

  The man was too sensitive. Dumarest said, "Where do I find this paragon?"

  She was like her tavern, tall, wide, pleasing to look at. She came to meet them, smiling, hands lifted in a gesture of greeting. "Welcome to the Argive House." Her eyes measured each in turn, came to rest on Dumarest. "I am Anna Sefton. You?" Her smile broadened. "Earl! I like the name! You will be staying long?"

  "A day, maybe a few days, it depends."

  "On what? The girl?" She looked at Estelle who had said nothing. "Is she—do you want her to share your room? Or would you prefer me to take care of her? She has been away too long as you probably realize and needs help."

  "Can you give it?"

  "Of course." Her laughter was a warm contralto. "How stupid we are at times! If nothing else I have learned the necessity for discretion and yet who can tell another's customs? If my assumption offended you I apologize."

  "There's no need." Dumarest, grateful for her help, smiled back. "Do you run this place on your own?"

  "I own it and use what help I can get. Yours, I hope. If you have no business here on Elysius I would appreciate the offer of first refusal. Bed, board, all you can drink, and your choice of any girl—none would refuse you. At the end of six months the cost of a Low passage. That is if you are still interested."

  "Who wouldn't be?"

  "My last worker. I liked him, we became lovers, but even that wasn't enough. He stayed two months and followed the rest. Well, I have the consolation of knowing he doesn't suffer." She blinked then remembered her guests, the need to smile. "Celia!" The girl was obviously her daughter. "Show these gentlemen to room 15 while I take care of their lady." To Dumarest she added, "Dinner will be ready in an hour."

  The room was large, the floor solid, the walls made of stone faced by inner panels of stained, smoothed, and polished wood. The windows were glazed with tinted glass with heavy curtains giving a barrier against the light. Twin beds rested wide apart and small tables, chairs and cabinets completed the furnishings.

  Zalman said, "I didn't interfere down there, Earl, but if you'd rather have a room on your own just say the word."

  He was practicing, being polite. Dumarest said, "This will do. Unless, of course, you prefer another arrangement."

  While together he could watch the man—did Zalman have the same idea? As he shook his head Dumarest moved to examine the room. Though strongly built it showed signs of neglect; the panels could have done with wax, the curtains showed a minor rip, the tinted glass needed a few new panes to replace those cracked. The beds gave no cause for complaint. A drawer of a table held a scatter of old leaves, another some sheets of paper bearing odd scribbles. One of the chairs needed repairs to the seat.

  A pattern continued outside. Dumarest leaned from the window to study the external walls, noting spots needing fresh mortar, others showing the effects of attrition. Reaching up he could touch the eaves and guessed the gutters would be full of sediment. A good house slowly going to ruin. He remembered the dilapidation of the town.

  "No workers, Earl." It took no talent to know what he must be thinking. "You heard the woman—bed, board, all you can drink and the rest of it. A snug berth for any traveler and a dream come true for a stranded one. I told you there was no danger of starving on Elysius."

  One of the few things Zalman had mentioned and then only after they had landed. What other surprises was he holding in reserve?

  The throb of a gong echoed from below as Dumarest left the bathroom where he had showered. Zalman had gone ahead and waved as Dumarest entered the dining room. It was long, low, set with tables and flanked at one end with a bar. Some drinkers stood there, mostly young, some wearing bright colors. A few girls similarly attired were among them. A normal assembly in any tavern but the place was too empty for its size.

  "Hi!" Fitz Ochen nodded from where he sat. The others were with him. "Seems this is the best place in town. Where's Estelle?"

  "Snug." Quail had been drinking. "Tucked away in a big, soft bed and waiting for her master. You did well there, Earl. If you want to pass her on I'm interested."

  "In what?" Dumarest looked at him. "Buying her? You want to buy her?"

  "No." Tocsaw spoke before Quail could answer; a man quick to end an impending quarrel. "He hasn't money enough. None of us have." Changing the subject he said, "Have any luck, Sven?"

  The miner shook his head. "Not so far. If there's a mining operation on this world it has to be a small one. No equipment that I could see, no workers, none of what you'd expect."

  Zalman said, "Maybe the diggings are way out somewhere. In that case they'd be self-contained."

  "Maybe." Axilia wasn't convinced. "But there should be a feel to the place if there was. Miners like to spend their money and it shows. But this town is dead; no bars, casinos, girls—nothing. Maybe the Hausi knows. I'll ask him tomorrow."

  "You want to work?" The woman serving the dinner had overheard. "Anna could use you. Or you could work the fishing boats. Are you a carpenter? A mason? Can you work in metal? Are you skilled in electronics?"

  "I'm hungry." Axilia's face reflected his irritation. "Women," he grumbled as she moved away. "They never know when to mind their own business."

  The meal was good; baked fish followed by slices of meat in a rich sauce and accompanied by a profusion of vegetables. A compote followed together with a cheese blended with syrup and laced with veins of emerald and cobalt. Anna had been generous with the wine.

  Lifting his glass Ochen said, "A toast, my friends. To the best voyage we could have made!"

  "The best?" Tocsaw shook his head. "The worst, maybe. I'll drink to that but not to the other."

  "That's because you're a fool. Don't you know about Elysius? Man, it's ideal! You want something you just take it. You don't have to work. You just help yourself and no one will stop you."

  Dumarest said, dryly, "I wouldn't like to try it."

  "Why not? Scared?"

  "You could say that."

  "Of them?" Ochen gestured at the people standing at the bar, the others now sitting at small tables. "Sheep just waiting to be sheared. This is a soft world. I know. I met a man who'd lived here for years."

  "If it was so good why did he leave?" Tocsaw helped himself to more wine. "Did he tell you that?"

  "He did."

  "You sleep on a hard floor all your life," said Quail, musingly. "When you do you long for a feather bed. Then you get one and, soon, you long for the hard floor again. It happens."