"One man," he said. "Moving as a molecule would move in a heated gas. One man among billions, moving from world to world, and he has been warned. At first, when unaware he held the secret he could have been taken, had due importance been given to the matter. Now, warned, he is on his guard."
And dead cybers proved it. Cybers and agents both; those who had come close, those who had been careless. They had paid the price for underestimating the man they sought.
"The secret was used on Dradea," said Yandron evenly. "We have proof of that. It seemed that we had him fast and then he vanished."
"To appear on Paiyar and, later, on Chard." Wain was acid. "Once again we learned of his movements too late. He left on a trading vessel and now we can do nothing but wait."
"Nothing?"
Wain blinked. Engrossed in his laboratory duties he had lost the razor-keenness of his brain; the one great attribute of every cyber had become dull through disuse.
"Master?"
"We know where he was last seen," said Nequal. "We know on which ship he left. Yandron, what is your prediction as to his present whereabouts?"
An exercise which the aide had done before, but always faced with the baffling encumbrance of random motion. One ship, moving among countless worlds, one man among so many. And Dumarest had been clever. He had not taken a commercial line which had regular ports of call. A free trader went where profit was to be found.
He said so and Nequal, without turning, gave him no chance to regain his stability.
"No motion is truly random," he said. "Even the shiftings of molecules of gas can be predicted after a fashion. And here we are dealing with a man. A clever, resourceful man, but a man just the same. And even a free trader follows a predictable path. The Tophier left with rare and costly oils and perfumes from Chard. Eriule would be the most probable market. They produce mutated seeds and luxury goods aimed at agricultural cultures. The probability that the Tophier obtained a cargo of such goods is of a high order. A prediction of 89 per cent. There are three such worlds to which they could have been taken."
The depiction expanded still more as Nequal touched the control. Now suns could be seen, worlds, satellites; dangerous proximities of conflicting energies which any ship would wish to avoid. He studied them, building on known factors, judging, eliminating; selecting the worlds on which the vessel had most probably landed, extrapolating from available data and predicting where next it would be.
An exercise in sheer intellect aimed at the one, sole object of trapping a man.
Dumarest-who held the secret which, once regained, would give the Cyclan total domination.
An exercise which had been conducted before, but which, as yet, had always failed.
Nequal sharpened the edge of his mind. From the agricultural worlds a trader would, most logically, move on to Ookan, to Narag or Guir, and then?
A moment as factors were weighed and evaluated. "Tynar," he decided. "We shall find him there."
Chapter Two
It was a harsh world with a ruby sun casting a sombre light, the air heavy with the stench of sulphur, ammonia, methane; the natural exudations augmented by the fumes from the smelters, the acrid gases rising in plumes from the pits and craters of the mines. An old world, dying, ravaged by exploiters eager for its mineral wealth.
The city hugged the field, a rambling place of raw buildings and great warehouses against which the shacks of transients clung like fetid barnacles. A nest of lanes gave on to wider thoroughfares, streets flanked with shops, inns, places of entertainment. Narrow alleys led to secluded courts faced with shuttered mansions.
A normal city for such a world, the early residents withdrawn; hating the brash newness, the greed which had shattered their peace. From barred windows they watched as the great trucks headed towards the field loaded with precious metals; the workers thronging the city eager to spend their pay. Noisy men who had brought with them their own, familiar parasites; gamblers, harlots, the peddlers of dreams, the fighters and toadies, the scum of a hundred worlds.
Seated in a corner of a tavern close to the field, Dumarest sipped slowly at his wine.
He was a tall man with wide shoulders and a narrow waist, dressed all in neutral grey, the collar and cuffs of his tunic tight against throat and wrists. He wore pants of the same, plastic material; the legs thrust into knee-boots, the hilt of a knife riding above the right. Common wear for a traveler, the metal mesh buried beneath the plastic an elementary precaution.
As was the place he had chosen, the wall which rose at his back.
A woman hesitated before him; aged, dressed in bedraggled finery, face plastered with cosmetics, eyes hard with experience. They searched the planes and contours of his face, the line of his jaw, the mouth which she sensed could so easily become cruel. For a moment their eyes met and then, without speaking, she moved away.
Another, younger, confident in her attraction, took her place.
"Hi, mister!" She smiled, resting her hands on the table and leaning forward so as to display her wares. "You lonely?"
"No."
"Just come in?" She sat and reached for the bottle, the empty glass resting beside it. "On that trader, maybe?"
"Maybe."
"Where you from?"
"Kalid," Dumarest lied. "Did I offer you a drink?"
"You begrudge it?" Her eyes, over the rim of the half-filled glass, were innocently wide. "Hell, man, are you that strapped? If you are, maybe I can help."
Dumarest lifted his own glass, touching it to his lips, eyes narrowed as he looked past the girl towards the others in the tavern. A motley collection of spacemen, field workers, pimps and entrepreneurs. None seemed to be paying him any attention.
"I can help," repeated the girl. "You've a look about you-you've been in a ring, right?"
"So?"
"I can tell a fighter when I see one. If you're broke I could arrange something. Ten-inch blades, first cut or to the death. Big money for a fast man if he wants it. I've a friend who could line it up if you're interested."
He asked, knowing the answer, "Is there much of that going on?"
"Fights?" She shrugged. "Plenty, but you'll need a guide to the big money. You don't want to be cheated. Why don't I call over my friend and let him make the proposition?" Without waiting for an answer she turned, mouth opening as if to shout a name. It closed as Dumarest leaned forward and closed his fingers about her wrist.
"What the hell!" She stared at the clamping hand. "Mister! You're hurting me!"
"We don't need your friend," he said flatly. "And I don't want company."
"Not even mine?" She smiled as she rubbed her wrist, the marks of his fingers clear against the flesh. A mechanical grimace, as if she had remembered to play a part.
"You're strong. Damned strong. And fast; I never even saw you move. You'd be a joy to watch in a ring. How it it, mister? We could make a deal. My cut wouldn't hurt you."
"No," he said dryly. "But it could hurt me." He saw by her expression that she didn't understand. To her the fights were a spectacle to be enjoyed, something by which to make a profit; but to those engaged it was something far different. Dumarest leaned back, remembering; the bright lights, the crowd, the stink of oil and sweat and fear. The smell, too, of blood; and the savage anticipation of those who watched others kill and maim, to cut and bleed and die for their titillation.
It was always the same. In an arena open to the air, where men fought in the light of the sun; or in some small back room filled with shadows, the risks were the same. A slip, a momentary inattention, an accident, a broken blade or a patch of blood; all could bring swift and painful death. Only speed and skill had saved him, that and luck-and who could tell how long that luck would last? Already, perhaps, it had run out.