He frowned, remembering the youth of her body, the childish solution she had found to social problems. Kill the Technarch and everything would be wonderful! It was the answer a primitive would think of, not an educated and sophisticated woman. And she was a member of the ruling council. An infant prodigy, perhaps? In such a society he guessed it was possible.
His foot slipped and he strained against his other leg, sweat beading his face at the thought of the emptiness below. He concentrated on the pressure of steel against the soles of his feet and the area of his back. He seemed lower than before, his body less cramped, and he realized that the shaft was widening as it descended. Soon it would be too wide for him to support his weight.
His foot slipped and met emptiness. A joining shaft or the mouth of a chute? He could have passed a dozen of them, missing them all in the thick darkness and he could miss a dozen more. But the lower he went the harder it became to straddle the shaft. Halting, feet and back pressed against the metal, he felt to either side with his hands.
Nothing. The shaft was unbroken. Crablike he moved in a circle, hands testing the metal, pausing as he felt the upper edge of an opening. It was smooth, rounded and slick with some covering. Grease, perhaps, or a plastic film to protect the metal from corrosion. In any case, it was too wide for him to gain a strong purchase; if he tried to thrust his body into the opening he would slip and fall.
Grimly he began to climb back up the shaft. He had to reach a point where it was narrow enough for him to enter one of the openings without losing his balance. His shoulders met the lower rim of a chute and he moved away from it, climbing still higher. When the shaft had narrowed so that his knees were pressed against his chest he searched for another opening.
Sweat oozed from his skin as he fought a mounting fatigue, the strain on his muscles turning them into fire. A foot met no resistance and he circled, back scraping the wall. Reaching the opening he positioned himself, hooking his left elbow into the chute. Tensing his muscles he kicked out, turning at the same time, the pressure forcing his head and shoulders into the opening before he could fall. Desperately he rammed both elbows against the sides, fighting the pull of gravity as his legs fell from the support of the wall. He kicked, meeting the upward bend, using elbows, chest and chin to gain traction. A knee caught the lower edge of the chute and he thrust upward, back arched and head rising toward the mouth of the chute.
His face bumped into hardness and he reached upward, fumbling at the smooth surface, pressing, feeling resistance and knowing that the door was locked. He tensed, ramming the sides of his legs against the walls of the chute, his back, one arm and hand. With the other he pressed against the top of the door, gritting his teeth as he felt himself begin to slip. Drawing back his hand he slammed the palm hard against the upper edge and, as something yielded, lunged forward and gripped both sides of the mouth of the chute.
A heave and he was through the opening and falling into darkness.
Chapter Ten
IT WAS A bathroom. He could tell by the scent of soap and lotions, the touch of tile and humid warmth. Carefully he felt along the walls, finding a switch and narrowing his eyes against a flood of light. From a wall a mirror threw back his reflection.
He was filthy, covered with greasy dirt, his face streaked, his hands grimed and his clothes a ruin. If he hoped to escape the building he would have to wash and change. As he was, he would be arrested on sight.
Dumarest turned, switching off the light and gently opening the door of the bathroom. Beyond lay a chamber dim with subdued illumination, a bed resting in the center, a wardrobe to one side. From an outer room came the sound of voices.
"My lord, my extrapolations show that there is a probability of ninety-two percent that insurrection will break out on Hardish within a few weeks. I advise that extra troops be sent from Cest and Wen to reinforce the occupying garrisons."
"I know what you advise, Ruen." Vargas was impatient. "But there are things of greater importance. Five members of the council have agreed to retire and three others will probably join them. Brekla has secured a favorable vote to grant me extraordinary powers for the duration of the war. How long will it be before I am in absolute command?"
"You are that in fact if not in name already, my lord." Ruen's even monotone was in direct contrast to the Technarch's emotional outburst. "The prediction that a cabal will be formed to act against you is of a very low order to probability, seven point eight percent. It cannot be ignored but the probability can be lowered to two point three percent if Dehnar is sent on a special mission to Loame."
Vargas scowled. "And to eliminate it totally?"
"That is not possible, my lord. The potential danger will always remain. Even if you destroy all the members of the council a junta of the military could seek power at your expense. The most that can be accomplished is to reduce the probability factor to a point where it can be safely ignored."
His calmness infuriated the Technarch. How could the cyber be so cold, so calculating? Events were dark clouds piled before a rushing wind, sweeping relentlessly toward him, monstrous with hidden dangers. Restlessly he prowled his room, his brain trying to grapple with a dozen facts, make a score of extrapolations and failing to determine even one. Now it seemed that the euphorias had lost their power to soothe. Sleep was a thing of nightmare to be taken in small doses and even the darkness brought by the closing of his eyes held peculiar terrors.
The things which could happen in such a moment of inattention! A laser could blast his life, the roof fall, an assassin strike in a host of ways. And Ruen spoke of danger to be safely ignored!
His hands felt sticky, slimed with sweat and he headed towards the bathroom, caution slowing his feet. Yet he was reluctant to summon the guard. The apartment had been checked before he had entered with Ruen and, each time he called the man he risked a blast from the weapon hired to protect him.
Ruen watched his hesitation, gauging the extent of the Technarch's fear, feeling the glow of mental achievement at the success of his predictions. Vargas was medically insane and would soon totally disintegrate. Vargas would leave chaos: the council disrupted and the state in turmoil. From the wreckage he, Ruen, would fashion a new council, guiding it with his advice, steering it the way it must go.
"My lord," he said as Vargas reached the door of the bedroom, "let me summon your guard. It is not wise to take chances."
"Could an assassin come through the walls?"
"The probability is extremely low, my lord, yet it does exist." Make him afraid of darkness, of shadows, of the very beat of his own heart. A man poisoned by terror was unable to think, to plan and determine. A creature of blind, unthinking emotive reaction was a predictable tool. "The guard, my lord?"
He came at the call, laser in hand, eyes searching the rooms. It was a ritual he had performed a thousand times before and he acted with a trained economy of movement. A foot opened the bathroom door, lights blooming in automatic response, the panel swinging back as he entered.
Dumarest struck with the heavy bottle of lotion he had snatched from a shelf.
He dropped it as the guard slumped, snatching the laser and springing through the door into the other room. Vargas screamed his terror, hands lifted to protect his face, eyes bulging with the fear of imminent death.