Dumarest said, dryly, "I assumed that."
"You are astute. Incidentally I must congratulate you. The prediction that you would fall victim to the trap presented by the Evoy was of a high order of probability. By escaping you demonstrated your unusual abilities. I am confident we can arrive at a satisfactory arrangement."
"Who are you?"
"The representative of the Master Ryon, the Cyber Prime. Think of me as an extension. I suggest you consider the implications of what that means."
Not just an agent. Not an ordinary cyber as his appearance made obvious; the thin, skeletal features born of a stringent diet had yielded to a fuller, more rounded appearance graced with wide-set eyes, a sculptured nose, finely moulded lips. The beauty was incidental. The product of functional design.
A surrogate, he guessed. A creature manufactured as an experiment or to serve a specific purpose.
"Do you have a name?"
"I am Tryne. I am a product of the Cyclan laboratories. My body is stronger than that of any human. My brain is constructed of a sponge-metal alloy which emulates the cerebral cortex. On it can be impressed the memories, knowledge and directives of a human brain. Cellular laminates provide synaptic unions. The outward appearance can be altered as required. Need I explain to you what this means?"
The end of his special status. While the Cyclan had needed his secret they had taken care to guard his life. Now they had found an alternative way of extending their domain he had lost his unique importance. Or was that what he was meant to believe? The face on the screen could be the mask it seemed. The entire story designed to soften his resolution.
Dumarest said, "If I had nothing you wanted we would not be having this conversation. It is both illogical and inefficient to waste time and energy. Therefore I assume you want to obtain the correct sequence of the fifteen units forming the affinity twin."
"That is correct."
"If I refuse to give it to you?"
"Your ship and all it contains will be totally destroyed. I assure you the probability of that prediction is close to certainty. You are a gambler, Dumarest. Do not make the mistake of thinking this is a bluff."
"It would be illogical to kill me."
"We now have a viable alternative as you must have realized. It will serve until the sequence can be rediscovered. It is only a matter of time."
A long time, or it could be a day.
"A secret is useless to a dead man," said Dumarest. "I'm willing to trade. It's yours for the ship and the lives of the crew. For myself, safety, power and wealth."
"Agreed."
"One more thing. Tell me about Earth."
"That would serve no purpose."
"What harm would it do? I was born on the planet." Dumarest leaned closer to the screen. "Logically you have no reason to refuse me."
"What has logic to do with you and Earth? To it you are a stranger. You stowed away when little more than a child on a ship which broke the proscription. Instead of evicting you the captain allowed you to work your passage. You stayed with him until he died. We know about you, Dumarest. Your wanderings, your search, your killings. You are a true product of your world. Yet what do you know about it? Your journeys were limited."
The truth and he had found nothing of paradise.
He said, "A monk told me Earth was anathema. He begged me not to find it."
"You should have taken his advice."
"Why should he have given it?"
"Because he thought it best." Tryne paused, then continued. "You have traveled, touched on a host of worlds, seen the brutality and depravity of petty rulers, their lust for power, their greed. Imagine that vileness multiplied, condensed, introduced into an overcrowded world. Logic, sanity, reason, restraint, all were denied. The entire planet was afflicted with a madness which defied belief and it led to a terrible end. The monk warned you against Earth because, to him, the planet is abomination."
"Diseased with an affliction which could still survive," said Dumarest. "He told me that, too. Does the Cyclan subscribe to that belief?" As the surrogate made no answer he quoted, "From terror they fled to find new worlds on which to expiate their sins."
The creed of the Original People. Did it hold the answer? Had they run from an insane world, the populace clashing in a frenzy of mutual destruction, the very air poisoned by lethal contamination? Had the Cyclan? Scientists escaping global catastrophe to establish the organization now spread across the galaxy. Promulgating the pursuit of logic and reason as the Church preached tolerance? Each, in their own way, working to ensure the survival of the human species.
Dumarest said, "What happened? Did something go wrong? An experiment get out of hand? A technology which devastated the world. Did all men originate on one planet? Was that planet Earth? Did the environment itself induce the lunacy you speak of? Is that why it was proscribed?"
Questions which gained no answers.
"You have one chance to save your life." The surrogate maintained the even modulation of tone which was the mark of every cyber, but the smoothness held an iron determination. "You must place yourself in our hands. Don a suit, leave your vessel and head to where we are waiting. You have seven minutes."
The ultimatum was no bluff. Yet the surrogate had made a mistake Instead of addressing him alone it should have spoken to the crew, offering riches in return for handing him over, bound and helpless. Or had it been a mistake? The Kaldari, curious, could have learned the value of his secret. An unwanted and unnecessary complication.
Chapman turned from his instruments as Dumarest returned to the bridge. "Well?"
"We're in trouble. They — "
"Why did they ask for you? How did they know your name?"
"I don't know. It doesn't matter. They want everything we have in return for our lives. We'll spend them wearing a collar. They want me to go over and talk."
"No!" Chapman was emphatic. "I don't like this. They know you and that makes for problems. They can talk to me direct."
"They want me." Dumarest snarled his impatience. "You don't trust me, but I've no time to argue. We can't afford to waste time."
"If you go you'll be giving them a hostage."
"That worries you?" Dumarest gave the captain no time to answer. "Let me get at the board." A button sank beneath his thumb. "Badwasi? Stand by. Have everything loaded and ready to fire. Mauger?"
"Here."
"Get ready." Dumarest checked the time. "You've got exactly four and a half minutes."
"Everything's set." The engineer added, "You want to see it go?"
"I'll be with Badwasi."
"What the hell's going on?" Chapman glared as Dumarest straightened from the screen. "You going out there?"
"No, but a suit is. One fitted with a bomb and a proximity fuse. The faceplate's been darkened and we've incorporated a device to emulate heartbeat and respiration. A recording," he explained. "If they listen they'll think it a man."
"You didn't just make it."
"No, but I thought we might need it." Dumarest headed towards the door. "I had it done hours ago."
"You knew they'd be waiting?"
"I guessed they might be."
More than guessed. He had sensed it, feeling a premonition so strong it was almost clairvoyant, one which had driven him to act as he had.
In the gunnery room Dumarest studied the other vessel, the planet against which it was framed.
"Earl!" Badwasi was sweating. "It's going to be damned close!"
Dumarest ignored the comment, concentrating on the screen. Earth — to the monk it represented abomination, but that had to be a judgment based on emotive reaction. The Cyclan would have a different frame of reference. Logic and reason would only accept conclusions based on solid evidence. They would have made a thorough investigation.