And so the imported labor from Loame. Let them do the filthy jobs, the dirty but essential tasks, lifting by their presence the egos of those above. Yet it was an uneasy solution, for it would lead directly to a slave culture with all that implied. Better to dispose of them all even though that was wasteful and emotionally unscientific. They were a smoldering bomb which would one day explode.
Subconsciously her hands roved over her body, feeling the firm contours beneath the clinging gown. The touch wakened memories and aroused again the biological reaction she had felt on the train. The reaction brought him vividly to mind.
Impatience drove her to the phone, sent her fingers punching a familiar number. On the screen a face, hygienically clean, looked at her.
"Madam?"
"Please report on the progress of patient nine eighteen."
The face dipped, rose as the woman completed her scanning of a file. "Progress is steady, madam. The injuries were intense and grafts had to be made. The spleen, a kidney and a section of intestine. There were also broken ribs and a punctured lung."
"How long before he is well?"
"The patient is in deep sleep and his progress is satisfactory. He-"
"How long?"
"Another few days, madam."
"Very well. Send him to me when he has fully recovered."
There was no point in being impatient, she thought, breaking the connection. Even the magic of slow-time which increased the speed of the metabolism so that an hour's healing could be compressed into little more than a minute took time.
The impatience of youth, she thought, and smiled. The impetuousness, too. It had been simple to order a guard to keep a discreet watch on the stranger, changing him for less conspicuous men when the chance arose. They had followed him: to the chemists, the library and then to the apartment of the woman. Almost they had lost him, but the accident had put him firmly in her power. A private nursing home and he was safe until she should need him.
As a lover?
She faced the question squarely, responding even to the concept, the reaction of her body telling her that it was the basic reason for her actions. He had appealed to her and she wanted him. The fact that he was something of a mystery enhanced his attraction. A whim, she thought. A romantic interlude. But why shouldn't she indulge herself?
She turned as the door chimed. Dek Brekla stood outside. He entered, smiling, glancing at the subdued illumination.
"Sitting in the dark, Mada? But then you have a fondness for shadows, don't you." Lifting one hand he touched her gently on the cheek. "I wonder why?"
"What do you want?"
"To talk." Deliberately he selected a chair, sat, folding his legs and resting his hands on the dark fabric of his thigh. "Did you know that Krell has retired from the council? He considers that his health would be better if he remained away from the capital. Naturally he retains his status and full pension. It simply means that he will no longer have a vote." He paused and then said gently, "I wonder if you also have considered the benefits of retirement?"
"No."
"Perhaps you should," he urged.
She controlled her mounting anger. "I see no reason to do so. Is that all you came to talk about? If so, I suggest you leave. It is not a subject which interests me."
"To be efficient the council must be a viable entity. Surely you can see that? If we are to become static then it will be good-bye to all progress. Tell me, how would you have felt when young if you had known that there would never be an opportunity for you to achieve your ambition?"
She met his eyes. "I wouldn't have liked it."
"Exactly."
"Are you suggesting that each council member retires on reaching a certain term of office?"
"I think it a fair suggestion," he said. "We are entering a period of potential unrest and should have younger minds to deal with the problems which will arise. You are a clever woman, Mada. I think you can see which path is best for you to follow."
To how many had he carried the suggestion? Krell gone and how many more to follow? Frightened by a shadow, terrified by the hint of a suggestion. But the council ruled and Vargas was only one man. If the Technarch sought dictatorial power then she wasn't going to help him get it. Even so it would be wise to be discreet.
"I'll think about it," she said. "There is truth in what you say; the young should be given their chance. But what of those who retire? Will they continue to-"
"As before," he said quickly. "I assure you, my dear, that you won't lose a thing. Just the right to vote. Everything else will be as before." He rose, teeth bright in a smile. "I'm glad we had this talk. I like you, Mada, and I would hate to see you hurt. Be wise. You won't regret it."
"As long as you promise that nothing will change? Aside from the vote, I mean?"
"You have my word on it." He glanced at the watch on his wrist. "I must hurry. There is a council meeting due. Are you joining us?"
"No. I want to think."
"Good for you, Mada." Again he touched her cheek. "Nice," he said. "Very nice."
A dog, she thought as he left. A slavering hound running at the heels of his master and hoping for a share of the feast. More. Doing Vargas's work for him; seeing the members of the council, whispering, setting one against the other. How long before he would turn assassin?
* * *
Yendhal said, "I am sorry, sire, but I am doing the best I can. The tests are stringent but essential if I am to offer more than an eighty percent chance of success."
One chance in five-it wasn't enough. Others had taken it, those more desperate than himself, but the odds were too low. Vargas scowled as he stared at the screen and the miniature figure depicted on it. Even via the electronic transmission he could sense the man's fear.
"Five and a quarter minutes," said the physician. "He has been lucky but it cannot last."
"Why not?" Vargas turned from the screen. "Isn't luck an essential factor for survival? It could be that you are looking for the wrong attributes. Why can't you test them for luck?"
"If they are lucky they wouldn't be here," said Yendhal flatly. "That is the first thing to consider if we are to seek their relative potential in that area, As for the rest, how do we test them? On the spin of a coin? On their ability to select certain favorable combinations? And, if they test high, wouldn't the sequel invalidate the findings?"
"Doesn't the same objection apply to the labyrinth?"
"No. They do not know what the final outcome will be if they survive. If they did it would affect their performance." Yendhal glanced at the screen. "Six minutes."
Vargas was ironic. "Still lucky?"
"Luck has an important part to play in survival," admitted the physician. "But it is too intangible a factor for us to be able to isolate. If a man lives he is lucky because he has lived. But it takes more than luck to pass through the tests I have devised." He grunted as a red light flashed from the screen. "Six and a quarter minutes. Failure."
Another one, thought Vargas. And one of how many? Would the result always be the same? Had Yendhal made certain that it would be so?
"Perhaps the test is too severe," he said. "Would lessening the dangers show an advantage?"
"It would increase the chance of survival, true, but it would invalidate what we are trying to determine."
Vargas was insistent. "A series of tests then, each harder than the ones before."
"That would prove nothing except the ability of the subject to learn from experience."