And yet it could be used. Surat pondered. Would it be best to allow the man to kill Veruchia? The Council would take revenge, true, but his son would inherit and regents be found to hold the planet in trust—the Council, perhaps, there were precedents. But such an arrangement would complicate matters. One man was easier to guide than many and the central intelligence had ordered a speeding-up of the program. So Montarg must inherit.

  He watched as the man retrieved his dagger and thrust it back into its sheath. The act of throwing it seemed to have acted as a catharsis and when he spoke it was in a tone calmer than before.

  "Make me a prediction, cyber. What is the probability that Veruchia will inherit?"

  "If she has the necessary proof, my lord, and my informants tell me she has, the probability of her becoming the new Owner is almost certain."

  "Wrong." Montarg gave his silent laugh. "Her ancestry is in doubt. I have reason to believe that Oued was not her father. A biological examination of her genetic factors could prove it beyond question. Amplon could do it. The old fool would have no choice if the Council made a direct order. I'll get on to him now. Where is your phone."

  He reached the instrument before Surat could object, punched a number, spoke, waited with a frown. Again he snapped into the instrument, his voice rising with mounting impatience. When finally he turned away his eyes were puzzled.

  "Amplon is dead."

  Amplon and Redal both, the one as a precaution, the other because he had failed. Placed in the laboratory for one reason only, he had missed the chance when it came. He had failed to obtain the correct sequence of molecular units and the Cyclan had no time for those who did not succeed. His body was in the pool weighed with lead.

  "It is no loss, my lord," said Surat evenly. "He would not have been able to help you."

  "There are others. We can send for a biotechnician if necessary. I'm convinced that Selkas fathered Lisa's child."

  "Even so it makes no difference, my lord. Her claim is based on the maternal, not the paternal side. Lisa was in direct descent from Chron and there is no doubt that Veruchia is her child."

  "Then she must die. And the man Dumarest with her."

  "No, my lord. Not the man."

  Surat could not feel emotion and his voice was always evenly modulated but, even so, Montarg sensed a peculiar strain. Curiously he studied the thin face, the hard, almost stonelike features beneath the shaven skull, his innate intuition jumping gaps of logic and arriving at an instinctive conclusion.

  Surat kept insisting that Dumarest remain unharmed.

  Why? What possible reason could the cyber have for protecting such a man? What connection could there be between a common traveler, a fighter in the arena and the world-embracing organization of the Cyclan?

  Quietly he said, "Dumarest. The unknown factor. There is a mystery as to how Veruchia was rescued. Dumarest, somehow, seemed to have managed to control the actions of a decapod. Yes, I have my informants, too. I was kept notified." He frowned, thinking. "Both Dumarest and Selkas visited the biological laboratory. A series of experiments was discontinued and the entire resources of the building concentrated on the manufacture of fifteen molecular units. A member of the staff thought I should know, he was eager to maintain good relations with the next Owner." He scowled. "The next probable Owner. I thought him a fool, but now I am not so sure. And now Amplon is dead and his assistant nowhere to be found. A mystery, Surat, don't you agree?"

  "A series of unrelated incidents, my lord."

  "Such talk from a cyber? Can any series of incidents be unrelated?" Montarg stood, brooding, unaware of the acolyte edging close, ready to send a poisoned dart into his flesh if Surat should give the signal, a poison which would kill, not immediately, but in a hour when he was safely away and no suspicion would be aroused.

  "Dumarest has something you want," he said abruptly. "A secret of some kind. I can think of no other explanation why you insist he must remain unharmed. Fifteen units—assembled in a certain order, perhaps? Is that it?"

  His intuition was incredible; somehow he had stumbled on the correct answer. A guess, perhaps, but one which would normally have earned him immediate death. A gesture and the thing would be done, but Surat did not give the signal. Montarg was more fortunate than he could ever suspect.

  The Cyclan had made plans for this world and he was a part of them. The need for haste dictated that he inherit and Surat was a devoted servant of the organization which he served. Yet if he became certain that Dumarest was of prime importance to the Cyclan he would have a weapon against them. It was a dilemma which had to be resolved.

  "Fifteen units," Montarg said again. "But no, if it were simply a matter of finding the correct order you could try them all."

  Any mathematician would reveal his error.

  "The possible number of combinations of fifteen units runs into millions, my lord. If it were possible to try one new sequence each second it would take four thousand years to test them all."

  "Then he does have the secret?"

  It was time for a little truth. "Yes, my lord. A thing stolen from the Cyclan."

  "And you want it back." Montarg threw back his head as he gave his silent laugh. "A bargain, cyber. See that I inherit and I will tell you how to get what you want."

  His intuition had failed him. He did not realize that he was offering to give away the greatest power a man could know.

  * * *

  The house was as she remembered. The flowers wilted, dead in the vases, but otherwise everything was the same. Veruchia stood for a moment in the hall, relaxing in the familiar embrace, little things sharply clear: a toy she had cherished as a child; a picture framed and hanging a little askew on a wall; a dish made of shells collected on a bright day when, as a child, she had first seen the awesome expanse of the sea.

  Selkas caught her arm as she made to run from the hall into the rooms.

  "A moment."

  "But this is my house! Surely I am safe here?"

  "You haven't inherited yet," said Dumarest. "There are still two hours to noon. Wait here until I check."

  She frowned as he moved from room to room. Was it always going to be like this? Fearing every shadow in case it had a lurking assassin? Did every ruler have to be surrounded by guards and watchful eyes? She relaxed as Dumarest returned, throwing off the momentary chill. This was her home and in it she was safe, as she would always be safe while he was at her side.

  Selkas watched as she left the hall, seeing her smile, her undisguised pleasure.

  "She is happy," he said. "I have never seen her so radiant. Not even when I called to take you both to the Council. She was happy then, but this is something I have wished for all her life."

  Dumarest said, "Your daughter?"

  "You guessed." Selkas drew in his breath. "She must never know. Lisa was a wonderful woman and Oued was my friend. There was a time of sweet madness—I make no excuses. Do you love her?"

  "In a matter of hours she will own a world."

  "And you are a man and you have your pride. But I think that you love her, Earl. Why else did you risk your life?"

  "For information."

  "Only that?" Selkas smiled his disbelief. "Well, no matter. Shall we wait in the study?"

  The book Veruchia had found lay on the desk, old, stained with water, the writing cramped and precise. Dumarest leafed through it as Selkas poured two glasses of brandy. He shook his head at the offered drink.

  "No thank you."

  "Disappointed, Earl?"

  The book contained nothing but the record of the journey, the account of the first few years. The navigational tables he had hoped to find were gone, carried away by the gush of air when the port had been opened, perhaps, or taken out of the ship years ago. Yet there were clues.

  "This world was settled from a planet named Hensh," said Selkas. "There is mention of Quell and Allmah, but nothing of Earth."

  Three planets. Dumarest hunted through the book looking for their reference. The captain had been stringently precise. Each world carried a set of figures after the name.

  "Selkas, is there a planetary almanac here?"

  "I don't know. Shall I ask Veruchia?"

  "Never mind." Dumarest was at the shelves, searching. He pulled a thick volume from where it rested and carried it back to the desk. Quickly he leafed through it. "Hensh," he said. "Selkas! The coordinates are not the same!"

  "Are you certain?"

  "Look for yourself." Dumarest's finger stabbed at the almanac and then at the notation in the log book. He riffled more pages. "Quell and Allmah, both the same. Neither has a modern reference." He leaned back, thinking. "The ship must have used the original navigational tables. That is why the coordinates given are not the same as those now used."

  "In that case—" Selkas broke off what he was about to suggest. "No, Earl. It must be a mistake. A private code of the captain, perhaps. They needn't be coordinates at all."

  Dumarest wasn't listening. He looked at the stained pages and the three sets of figures the long-dead captain had left. Had that man known Earth? Had he been able to look at the sky and single out the star which warmed the planet he yearned to find?

  Three sets of figures; three items of information which could be fed into a computer for the machine to devise an analogue of the tables from which they must have come, tables which would have used as their zero-point the region he needed to find—the planet Earth, perhaps, it was possible.

  Home!

  Dumarest looked at his hands. They trembled a little and he reached for the brandy Selkas had poured, warming the goblet between his palms. A journey to a planet selling computer services; a wait while the analogue was constructed and comparisons made and then, at last, his search could be over.

  Success made him dizzy.

  No, not success.

  He looked at the untouched brandy in his hands, at the figure of Selkas slumped in a chair, and surged to his feet.

  "Veruchia!"

  "What is it, darling?" She was casual, unaware of danger. "Earl?"

  She reached the study as men burst into the hall.

  "A neat little house," said Montarg. "Small and snug and nicely warm. A fit setting for a pearl even if it is flawed." He moved restlessly about the hall, alive with bursting energy. "A neat trick as I think you'll agree. A hole bored through the wall and a gas fed into the atmosphere. Simple, quick and efficient. The men were hardly necessary but Surat insisted that I use caution. Right, cyber?"

  "The unexpected must always be anticipated, my lord."

  "So we brought men with us just in case your tame dog could do without breathing, Veruchia." Montarg paused behind her chair. "Are you comfortable, cousin?" He tightened the strap a little. "Better now?"

  She refused to give him satisfaction, sitting with tight lips as the strap binding her body and arms to the back of the chair dug into her flesh. He scowled, taking up another notch.

  "Well, scum of the arena? Aren't you going to plead for your slut?"

  Dumarest ignored him, looking about the hall. Like Veruchia he was strapped to a chair, the broad leather band holding his upper arms close to his body, his body tight to the wooden back. Selkas was nowhere to be seen. Aside from Veruchia and Montarg the hall was deserted but for the cyber and one of his acolytes. The men who had rushed into the house had been sent away. The gas which had robbed him of strength dissipated.

  "Answer me when I speak!" Montarg stepped forward, the back of his hand lashing across Dumarest's face. A ring he wore caught the lip and sent blood into his mouth.

  Dumarest said, "Is this what you call the mystique of combat?"

  "You mock me?"

  "To torture a helpless woman and to beat a helpless man." Dumarest spat a mouthful of blood. It landed on Montarg's foot. "You are a brave warrior, my lord."

  Rage drew Montarg's face into a livid mask. He raised his hand again and sent the ring to tear a furrow across Dumarest's check. As it landed he kicked at the floor and sent the chair slipping across the polished wood to slam against the wall. Montarg followed and the acolyte moved forward a little as he raised his hand to strike a third blow.

  "My lord." Surat's even modulation was like water thrown on a fire. "We waste time. The Council is due to assemble in an hour. It would be most unwise to keep it waiting."

  "They will wait. They have no choice."

  "Even so, my lord, we have no time to waste."

  Montarg sneered. "What you really mean is that you don't want me to hurt your property. All right, cyber, I understand." He looked down at Dumarest. "Listen, you filth. You have a secret the cyber wants to learn. You will tell him what he wants to know or the girl will suffer."

  Dumarest glanced to where Surat stood like a living flame in the scarlet of his robe. He and Montarg working in partnership? It was impossible, the Cyclan admitted of no equal. Montarg was being used, then, manipulated to the cyber's ends. He tensed the muscles of arms and shoulders. The chair felt like a rock. Flatly he said, "Why should that worry me?"

  "Because she is soft and helpless and you are a fool."

  "Because you are in love with her and would hate to see her flayed alive."

  Dumarest shrugged. "She is only a woman. My secret is worth a million of them."

  It was logic the cyber could appreciate. Montarg's promise had depended on the power of emotion and Surat had no means of calculating the power of love. He had never known it and could never know it. And now there was no need of Montarg's further help. He had Dumarest and what was in his mind could be learned.

  "My lord, this has gone far enough. With your permission I will take the man and go."

  "If you do you won't get far, cyber." Montarg was grim. Also he was curious; if the secret were so important he wanted to know it. "I've men outside and they have their orders. If you leave without me they will hold you. They might even kill you and the man you value so much also. We'll do this my way, as we agreed."

  "Your way is not working, my lord."

  "It'll work. Don't be deluded by what he said. I know better and so does the woman. Once she begins to scream, he'll soon talk."

  "Earl?" Veruchia was puzzled. "What's this all about? What is it he wants to know?"

  "Shut your mouth," snapped Montarg.

  Dumarest rammed him in the stomach.

  He threw himself forward, using the weight of the chair to accentuate his own, his head landing just above the groin. Before Montarg had fallen he had jerked backwards, slamming the chair against the wall. The construction was solid. It did not break though he felt the joints yield a little. Before he could try again the acolyte had run forward, holding him firm with irresistible strength.

  Montarg was strangely calm. He rose, breathing heavily, a thin patina of sweat shining on his face. He walked towards Veruchia flexing his hands. He gripped.

  She screamed.

  The screams rose to shrieks interspersed with a frantic pleading. "Don't! Please don't. Earl, help me!"

  He strained, feeling the strap yield a little, the back of the chair begin to break.

  The shrieks became a raw sound of agony. Dumarest felt the sweat on his face, the sting as it touched the gash on his cheek and the cut on his lip. The acolyte stared at him with detached interest and he forced himself to be patient. Too soon and they would be suspicious. Too late and he would have caused the girl unnecessary pain.

  Montarg stepped away from the chair and looked at Veruchia. She slumped, whimpering, the sound of an animal hurt and not knowing why.

  "I think you must be enjoying this, Dumarest." His face held a satiated expression. "But unless you talk soon she will never be normal again. I am giving her a respite, otherwise she will faint and so escape my attentions. In a short while I will begin removing the skin from her face and body. The design she carries will make it interesting. Alternate patches, yes? An art form of red and white edged with black. But now there is a little something I have often wanted to try."

  Her shriek tore the air.

  "No!" Dumarest surged against his bonds. "Leave her alone. I'll tell you what you want to know."

  "You see, cyber?" Montarg was triumphant. "The power of love. It is strong enough to overcome even his reluctance to yield the secret."

  "That we shall see, my lord."

  "You doubt it?" Montarg smiled. "He knows better than to lie. If he hopes to gain time or a respite for his woman he will regret it. The next time I shall not stop so soon. Well, Dumarest? What is this precious knowledge."

  "The sequence of the molecular units forming the affinity-twin," said Dumarest quickly. Had he known? From his expression Dumarest guessed he had. But the rest? "It enabled me to control the decapod."

  "Some form of hypnotic chemical?" Montarg shrugged. "Well, tell the cyber and get it over with."

  He didn't know. For a moment Dumarest was tempted to try and set one against the other, to bribe Montarg with golden promises, but he knew that it would be of no use. He would be suspicious of such an obvious attempt to win his support.

  Instead he said, "And afterwards? What happens then?"

  "Nothing. Both you and the woman will be set free."

  He was lying. Veruchia would be killed and himself taken by the Cyclan. Surat would never trust him to give the correct sequence. He would be held while tests were made, his brain probed for the true information. The cyber must have his own reasons for this farce.

  "I'll have to write it down," said Dumarest. "You'll have to free my arms."

  "That will be unnecessary. You have movement enough." Surat nodded at his acolyte. "Give him paper and something with which to write."

  It was a stylo, long, slender, the point tapering to an ink-loaded ball. Dumarest scrawled the symbols in random order, accentuating his difficulty.

  "Show me." Montarg moved close as Surat studied the paper. "Is that the secret? I want a copy."

  "Certainly, my lord." Surat had anticipated the demand. "He will write you one."

  Dumarest crouched over the paper. Surat was being subtle. It was hard to remember fifteen units scrawled at random. If the second copy did not match the first it would prove it false. If it did he would have a point to work on should anything happen to rob him of his source of information.