* * *

  The driver said, "God, look at that thing! The size of it!" His voice was shrill with disbelief.

  Below the sea was alive with boats of every size. To one side Dumarest could see the rafts moving slowly as they scanned the water. One changed course as they approached and headed towards them— Izane, probably, coming to make his latest report. Dumarest concentrated on the scene below.

  The Ven brothers had done their job. In a wide circle of boats, lying flaccid on the surface, a bloated shape spread multiple arms in the afternoon sun.

  It was huge, the body a hundred yards in length, the arms doubling the expanse, a tremendous mass of flesh and sinew a dull blue in the sunlight, the arms covered with suckers and wreathed with spines. As he watched the arms quivered, lifted a little, slamming down on the water and sending showers of spray high into the air. It fell quiescent as the sharp bark of sonic explosions rent the air.

  Selkas said, "Earl, you can't. Not in that thing. It isn't possible."

  "It has a brain and a bloodstream. It's possible." If he had assembled the units correctly. If they worked on creatures of differing species. If the hastily constructed units had formed true.

  There had been no time for checks or testing. Dumarest closed his eyes, fighting the waves of fatigue dulling his brain. It had been a long night with him working with Redal and the director, urging them on, forcing the pace, making certain that no time was wasted. And then he had locked them out of the laboratory as, alone, he had put his learned skill to the test. Afterwards he had destroyed all trace of his activities. If he should die the secret of the correct sequence would die with him.

  A jerk of the raft snapped him awake and fully aware.

  Izane had come alongside and he had the Ven brothers with him. They scowled as Dumarest followed by Selkas jumped on the raft.

  "How long do you want us to hold that thing?" one demanded. "We expected you before this."

  "We were delayed. Is everything under control?"

  "For the moment, yes." The other stared down at the stunned creature. "We lost two boats and three men getting that. And if you don't hurry there won't be anything left. Those damned eels will tear apart anything which can't protect itself. What the hell do you want it for anyway?"

  "That's my business. Can you get any men who are willing to go under?"

  "Divers?" One of the brothers stared his disbelief. "After what happened to Shem and Larco?"

  "Try and find some. Report to Selkas if you do," Dumarest waited until they had left, dropping from the raft into a waiting boat. To Izane he said, "You have the ship spotted?"

  "Three markers set as close as I can determine. It was impossible to be more precise, the ship is very deep."

  "And Veruchia?"

  "Nothing as yet."

  It was an added complication. Dumarest drew Selkas to one side and said in a low voice, "Keep trying to contact her. With any luck at all the quick-time she took would have lost some of its potency and she could recover her normal metabolism at any time. Don't let her take more. If she gets in contact tell her to wear her breathing gear and to burn a hole in the outer lock when Izane gives the word. That will equalize the pressure and allow her to escape. I'll try to get the ship back on the continental shelf. If I can't I'll get it as near to the surface as I can. If she doesn't recover you'll have to get divers to go down after her. Offer them a fortune if you have to, but get them."

  "If I can't I'll go down myself," Selkas promised. "Do you honestly think this will work, Earl?"

  "It will work. Now tell Izane to set down on the back of that thing."

  He had come prepared, the subjective half of the affinity-twin loaded into a large hypodermic with the longest needle obtainable. Dumarest jumped as the raft lowered, feet slipping on the moist skin of the decapod. It was like standing on the slick hull of a spaceship. He ran towards the head and the buried brain. While he had worked in the laboratory Selkas had obtained a chart of the creature's anatomy; Dumarest knew just where to dig in order to find an artery.

  When he returned to the raft he was covered with blood and slime.

  "Tell them to clear the area," he ordered. "Every boat and man away, fast!" He wiped himself clean with a mass of tissue. "If you lose track of this thing, Izane, I'll have your life."

  The technician was offended. "There is no need of threats. I know my responsibilities."

  "Just don't get careless." Dumarest moved to the rear of the raft and stripped off his tunic. "All right, Selkas."

  Selkas picked up the second hypodermic. "Now?"

  Dumarest looked down at the water, the sun bright on the waves, the scurrying boats looking like toys worked by miniature people. He breathed deeply, fighting his inward tension, the fear of the unknown.

  "Now!"

  He felt the sting of the needle.

  * * *

  It was a dream, a confused jumble of disassociated impressions, an incomprehensible mass of unrelated data. He was flying, no he was floating, no he was swimming, no he was drifting in clouds of limpid smoke. He was moving yet stationary, unable to distinguish fact from impression. He was afraid.

  Light hurt his eyes and he tried to close them, lifting his hands to shield them when the brightness persisted. He had no hands. Instead a great veil of shadow seemed to bring relief and he felt a dull concussion. He tried again and this time the hurtful brightness vanished to be replaced by a comforting gloom. He moved again and felt a peculiar relief. Again and he saw long, prehensile arms stretching before him. Arms? His arms?

  Again he knew fear.

  Deliberately he fought it.

  I am in this creature's brain, riding it as a man would ride a horse, yet I am not really here at all. Nothing can harm me. I am safe in the raft with Selkas. Nothing can hurt me. I am safe in the raft with Selkas. I am not really here at all.

  It didn't help. Because he was here. He could see the thing he had become, the reality of a dreadful nightmare in which his body had become grotesquely distorted and trapped in a totally unfamiliar environment. And he wasn't alone. He could sense another entity close by as a man would sense the presence of an animal in a room: a dull bewilderment as primitive survival instincts failed to function as they should, an increasing terror as Dumarest tried to consciously control his new body.

  It was the wrong method. He was a man, used to two arms, two legs, the pull of gravity. He lacked the necessary coordination to manipulate a machine with multiple limbs and a different set of responses. Given time he could have learned a certain control but there was no time and there was no need. He could dominate but he didn't have to replace. The essential habit patterns were already built into the creature's brain; he could use them merely by thinking the appropriate instructions.

  He thought, "Go down!"

  The gloom increased yet he could still see clearly, the decapod's eyes adjusting to the diminished light. A school of fish appeared before him and he swept them towards his mouth with automatic reflex, tasting nothing, not even aware of the rush of water which carried the food. And it was a normal response: how often does a man consciously direct the act of breathing?

  He headed towards the shore. He didn't know in which direction it lay but the decapod did. The water lightened and Dumarest felt a growing uneasiness. The warning mechanisms of survival reacted as they should. This region of the sea was dangerous to the creature he had become.

  He overrode the cautionary signals, turning at the edge of the shelf where a wall of rock reared high before him. Eels darted from undersea caverns, jaws wide, snapping at his limbs and falling back as he lashed at the sinuous shapes. He dove deeper, trying to leave the pests behind. The gloom deepened and objects lost their sharp definition. He moved onwards looking for the cables which would mark the position of the vessel. He found one and dived for the bottom.

  It looked smaller than he remembered, almost a toy as it lay in the thick ooze, and then he remembered that it wasn't small at all—it was just that the decapod had a different value of size. He approached it, sending the tentacles questing over the surface, trying to get a firm grip. Twice he failed and then the tip of one of the arms found the open port of the cargo hold. This time, when he lifted upwards, the ship came with him. He rose faster, hugging the wall, ignoring the eels which came darting to tear at his flesh. Blood streamed from a dozen places but he felt no pain. More eels appeared attracted by the scent and he rose as if surrounded by a swarm of flies. The water lightened and the edge of the shelf came into sight. He moved towards it, up and over, ship and arms scraping the bottom, higher still until the great bulk of his body scraped the bottom and the dazzling light of the sun burned his eyes.

  It was impossible to get the vessel on dry land. Its weight was too great once it had lost the support of the water and he had no room in which to maneuver. He left it and pushed himself back towards the depths. Now he felt the sting of his wounds, a nagging ache from where flesh had been ripped away. He moved faster, drawing the predators away from the vessel, trailing a stream of blood and a horde of voracious eels. Undominated the decapod would have lashed at them, defending itself, finding safety in flight it it were possible or battle if it were not.

  But Dumarest had no reason to keep it alive.

  Trapped in the mind of the creature, it had to die before he could escape. And he had to experience every moment of its passing. He watched as the eels tore at his arms, severed portions floating past his eyes, felt the jaws rip deeper and deeper into his body, the pain mounting until it became a red tide—waiting, suffering, longing for the final dissolution.

  * * *

  Selkas said, "I was worried, Earl. I didn't know what to do. At first I thought you'd died and then, well, I had to use restraints."

  Dumarest looked at the bruises on his arms, the welts on his body.

  "You were all right at first and then you really began to struggle." Selkas wrung a cloth out in water and handed it to Dumarest. Slowly he laved his face and neck.

  "Veruchia?"

  "We got her out as you planned. I managed to get a couple of divers, the Ven brothers; I think they'd do anything for money. They were only just in time. The air had run out and she was unconscious, dying. They fed her air from their own tanks and got her up immediately. Izane is with her. He knows something about medicine."

  "Did she find what she was looking for?"

  "I don't know. I told you, she was unconscious and Izane gave her something to make her sleep. An anti-shock capsule. He said that she had probably accepted the concept of death and the trauma had to be overcome. But she'll be all right, thank God."

  Dumarest looked at Selkas and then beyond him to where the stars shone bright against the canopy of the raft. It had been afternoon when he had entered the body of the decapod, night when he returned to his own. He leaned back, eyes misted with thought. The beast had been a long time dying. The great bulk had taken tremendous punishment and, towards the last, the primitive mind had fought with a savage intensity to stay alive. Some of that energy must have been transmitted to the subjective half of the affinity-twin. It would account for the necessity of restraints.

  "I should have had you drugged, Earl, but I was afraid it might do more harm than good. I didn't know how the compound might affect the thing you had injected into your brain. I was afraid to take the chance. At times I wished that I had because you looked scarcely human. And then when Veruchia was carried to the surface and I knew that she was alive and well and would walk and talk and smile again… Earl! How can I thank you? What can I do?"

  Dumarest rose to his feet. "The job isn't finished yet."

  "What do you mean?"

  "We didn't go through all this for nothing. We have until noon tomorrow for Veruchia to prove to the Council her right to inherit. Let us find out if she has that proof."

  She looked very small lying on a heap of nets in a hut close to where the waves sent ripples over the sand. The ebon tracery on her face blended with the mesh of the nets so that it seemed they covered her with their delicate strands. The bars of silver in her hair caught the light and reflected it in gleams of brightness.

  Selkas looked at her, his arms aching to hold her as they had ached when she had been just a child. He resisted the temptation now as he had then. If Lisa had lived! But she had died and her memory was not to be sullied. In that bad time he had found refuge in flight, visiting a dozen worlds and thickening the armor of his assumed cynicism. Now he had to be stronger.

  "I have given her a neutralizing drug," said Izane. "She will awake soon but I must repeat my warning that this is most unwise. There is a danger of disorientation and later relapse."

  "Leave us." Selkas was sharp; the fool didn't know the strength of his patient. As he left Selkas dropped to his knees, one hand stroking the shining mane of hair. "Veruchia, my dear. Veruchia. Wake up, my child. My child." His words betrayed him.

  "Selkas?" She smiled, sleepily. "Is it you?"

  "Wake up, Veruchia."

  "I had a most unusual dream," she murmured. "I thought that I had found something wonderful and then, suddenly, everything went wrong and I was alone again." Her eyes widened as memory returned. "Earl?"

  "He is alive and well and looking at you this very moment."

  "Earl!" She surged upright, arms extended. "Earl, my darling. You saved me. I knew that you would save me."

  He felt the pressure of her lips, the heat of her body as it strained against his own. She was full of demand, a woman resurrected and filled with the desire of life. How often had he experienced the same euphoria when riding Low: the heady intoxication when the journey was safely over and he had risen from the cabinet as from a coffin.

  Gently he freed the grip of her arms. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

  "Earl?"

  He remembered that she must still be a little confused. Patiently he said, "Was that the First Ship? Did it contain the proof you need in order to inherit?"

  "Yes, Earl. Yes!" She looked wildly around. "I had a book. It was tucked under the straps of my breathing equipment. Where—"

  "It will be with your equipment," said Selkas. "The Ven brothers left it in the next hut."

  "Get it. Don't let it out of your sight. It is the logbook of the First Ship. Selkas, Earl, I was right! The old legends did not lie. The owner's name was Chron, not Dickarn. Dickarn was the captain but he didn't own the ship. And he wasn't the First Owner of this world. Chron died just after landing and Dickarn took over full command. He married Chron's widow and that's how the confusion began. But Chron was the First Owner. It's all in the book. I had time to read it while I was waiting."

  "Before you took the quick-time?" Selkas frowned.

  "After. While I waited for the ship to lift and rescue to arrive." She sighed, happily. "We won, Earl. We took a gamble and we've won. I am the new Owner of Dradea."

  Chapter Eight

  Montarg heard the news at dawn and within an hour was at Surat's door. Early as it was the cyber was at his desk. He rose as the visitor rushed towards him, gesturing at the acolyte who moved to step between them. Montarg was furious but there would be no need for defense. Even in his rage the man knew better than to offer violence to a servant of the Cyclan.

  "You've heard?" Montarg glared at the cyber. "That bitch has found what she was looking for. Even now she is on her way to the Council and everyone expects that at noon she will be the new Owner." Rage made it impossible for him to remain still. His feet thudded on the floor as he paced the chamber. "So much for your predictions, Surat. The meanest fool in the city could have done as well."

  "I do not foretell the future, my lord. I merely predict the most probable outcome of any series of events but never have I claimed to be infallible. Always there is the unknown factor."

  "Excuses, cyber?"

  "Facts, my lord."

  "I trusted you to advise me. You predicted that I would be recognized by the Council, and what happened? Your prediction was wrong and Veruchia gained a hundred days. Again you predicted that she would not discover the First Ship, yet she did. And when she fell to the bottom trapped in the hull it seemed certain that she would die. Yet she lives. Three predictions, cyber, the last of the order of ninety-nine percent probability."

  Surat's even modulation was in sharp contrast to Montarg's raving. "The decision of the Council was your own fault, my lord. Your conduct antagonized them and made them agreeable to grant the woman time to prove her claim. The discovery of the vessel was pure chance. As you will remember my prediction was ninety-two percent that she would not."

  "And the last? Ninety-nine percent that she would not survive?"

  "Ninety-nine percent is not certainty, my lord. Nothing can ever be certain. There is always—"

  "The unknown factor," snapped Montarg, interrupting. "In this case a man called Dumarest. He saved her. I think I shall kill him for that."

  "That would be most unwise."

  "Why? What is that man to you? Scum from the arena, a traveler, I should have arranged his death long ago." Montarg dropped his hand to his belt. He wore a dagger in an ornate sheath. Drawing the blade he looked at the bright steel. "I ordered a thousand of these," he said. "To be given to graduates as a symbol of the new culture of this world." Abruptly he threw the weapon, the blade quivering as it buried its point in the desk. "Veruchia," he said. "That bitch will never be the Owner."

  Surat looked at his desk. The knife was inches from where his hand rested on the surface but he had no effort to move it, predicting the path of the blade even as Montarg had thrown it. A stupid, emotional gesture without logic or reason, typical of the man and typical of all those who were slaves to glandular secretions. How could such people hope to control the destiny of worlds? How could they formulate policies and determine actions when, at any moment, they could fall victim to hate and fear and anger? Emotion was insanity.