A man said, "He sounds bad, madam. What's the matter with him?"
"Syncopic failure coupled with internal seepage of lymphatic fluids into the lungs. Probably internal hemorrhage and a malfunction of involuntary muscular responses aggravated by extreme exhaustion and psychic shock."
The elevator came to a halt, doors opening, the wheels of the stretcher humming over a smooth floor. More doors, the sound of muted voices and the taint of antiseptics. The hands lifted from his chest and touched his mouth. Something hard and cold was thrust against his tongue.
Elaine whispered, "Yendhal is coming. I heard them notify him what happened."
Dumarest groaned and heaved on the stretcher. Through slitted eyes he saw the uniforms of watchful guards. Elaine stooped over him, the spatula hard against his tongue. Her eyes were anxious, afraid.
"What now?"
He relaxed, unable to answer, forcing the woman to think for herself. If she had sense she would think of an answer but it would have to be soon. At the moment she was operating on fear, caught in events over which she had little control, her intelligence numbed by the shock of recent disclosures.
The spatula left his mouth and he felt the touch of something cold on his chest. An electronic stethoscope? It rose and pressed against his throat. He spoke, sub-vocally, only a sighing murmur passing his lips.
"Get the guards out of here or get me somewhere out of sight."
The instrument left his throat, and he heard the sharpness of the woman's command.
"This man needs immediate operative surgery. You will leave the room while I have him prepared."
One of the guards said firmly, "We have our orders. He is not to leave our sight."
"I cannot work with you watching. For one thing you are medically unclean. If he should become infected because of bacteria carried on your persons I shall not be responsible." Her tone softened a little. "I appreciate your dilemma but he cannot walk let alone escape. You can wait outside. There is no other exit from this room. Now please hurry. Every second lost lessens his chances of recovery."
The door closed and she said faintly. "All right, Earl. You've had your way so far. Now what?"
He opened his eyes and rose from the stretcher looking around. The room was small and lined with cabinets containing medical equipment. The bright glitter of operating instruments shone from a tray: forceps, shears, scalpels of various sizes. He picked up the largest.
"You're a barbarian," she said contemptuously. "A savage. All you know is how to lie and kill."
"You think I lied?"
"I don't know. You threw me into a panic and I acted without due consideration. That was unscientific. I should have gathered more data, tested the truth of what you said, made my own judgments. I was a fool."
"You still are," he said harshly. "A fool and worse. You are a traitor to your own land."
"Loame-"
"Means nothing to you," he interrupted. "And it means even less to me. I came here to ask you for help and that is all. The rest simply happened. Now all I want is to get away from here. To take passage to another world. If I have to kill a dozen men to do it, I shall. The alternative isn't pleasant."
She was in shock, he decided; the even tenor of her life suddenly disrupted, her previous conviction now being replaced by doubt. He remembered the luxury of her apartment and the loneliness she had suffered when young. Here she was respected and her knowledge was valuable. The ability she owned gave a tremendous advantage in the peculiar competition of this culture.
"You told me that you had slow-time," he said. "Is it here?"
"A little. Enough for about thirty hours subjective time. You want it?"
He hesitated, tempted to take advantage of the offer. It would enable him to leave the building and perhaps reach the landing field. Certainly it would remove him from immediate danger. But he owed a duty to the girl.
"No, you take it. You've used it before?" He continued as she shook her head. "It will speed your metabolism to forty times normal That means you must be very careful how you move and walk. Don't hit anything and remember that, because of inertia, things will weigh forty times as much. Keep eating glucose because you'll be burning up a lot of energy. Use the stairs, not elevators, it will save you time."
She frowned. "Time for what?"
"To find Keron. To get him to prove what I say about Mada Grist To bring him back here and to put an end to this corruption. And," he added, "to save my life if I'm still around."
Chapter Twelve
It had been a prediction of a high order of probability, and Ruen was not surprised when the acolyte announced Dek Brekla. He came into the room, tense, wary, his eyes glancing from the scarlet figure of the cyber to the package lying on a low table. Ruen remained silent as the acolyte brought the guest a glass of wine. Brekla sipped and nodded.
"Nice," he said. "A good vintage."
Ruen wouldn't have known. To him food and drink were fuel for the mechanism of his body, tasteless substances which kept it operating at an optimum level of efficiency. The wine was kept merely for use by the Technarch and as an offering to guests.
Brekla finished his wine. "I want to talk to you, cyber. Can I be sure as to your discretion?"
His voice was strained, hurried, in direct contrast to Ruen's even modulation.
"You can, my lord."
"You can predict the course of events. I want you to make such a prediction for me. If Vargas were to die what are the chances of my becoming Technarch?" He frowned as Ruen remained silent. "Well? Why don't you answer?"
"Such a prediction is not easy to make, my lord. There are factors which must be taken into consideration and of which I have no present knowledge. The council, while sundered, still remains a viable entity and could unite against you. There could be a question as to the loyalty of your men." Ruen paused then added, "And Vargas is not yet dead. Much can happen in the immediate future to alter the present pattern of potential probabilities."
"Assume the Technarch was to die within the next few hours. What then?"
Ruen said, "Would you care for more wine, my lord?"
"More wine?" Brekla looked at his glass and then at the tall figure of the cyber. "You digress. Why won't you reply to my question?"
"The services of the Cyclan are not given freely to all, my lord. The fees are paid by the Technarch."
"And if I were he?"
Ruen bowed. "In such a case I would cooperate to the full, my lord."
The prediction had materialized just as he'd anticipated and its success brought the only pleasure the cyber could ever know. And yet it had been an elementary problem based on the emotional weakness of greed. Brekla was ambitious and so transparently obvious. He had been given a position of power and wanted more. It could be wise to let him have it. The mounting irrationality of Vargas's behavior was reaching a climax. Already his paranoia had spread to include distrust of the cyber.
"Of course, my lord," said Ruen, "we could, perhaps, reach a compromise. My aid in return for yours."
"You have it," said Brekla quickly. "What is it you want?"
"The man Dumarest."
"The stranger?" Brekla frowned. "Is that all?"
"Yes, my lord. Place him into my hands and I will advise you as to the steps you must take to achieve your ambition." It was a request the cyber had already made to the Technarch and Vargas had abruptly refused. Brekla would not.
"Dumarest," he mused. "He was questioned. You know that?"
"I know it."
Then he was placed in a cell. "You know that also?"
"Yes, my lord. It should not be hard for you to arrange his release. The probability of his attempting to escape is ninety-three percent and so it would be wise to render him unconscious before the cell is opened."