"Have him wait."
More papers, further assessment-to operate on speculation and guesswork was unthinkable. Why had the prosecutor allowed Dumarest to volunteer for quarry? The case against him had been incontrovertible and murderers were not normally given such a chance. A need to enhance the games? The advocate's influence? Why hadn't Indart moved to prevent it?
A touch on a button and a screen flared to life on the projector at his side. It was blurred, unsteady, but the figures were plain. Dumarest and Indart, the latter busy with words. Clarge watched as the scene ended, replayed it, darkened the screen as he sat assessing what the record had yielded.
A man obsessed, who had a monstrous ego- whoever had chosen Indart had been unwise and would pay the penalty for his negligence. As Hagen would pay for knowing more than he should. Had Dumarest guessed the scene was being recorded? Had his question as to the Cyclan been as superficial as it seemed? And the reminder that he was only valuable to the Cyclan if alive-to whom had that been directed?
Certainly Hagen hoped to gain from it.
"I came as fast as I could," he said after the acolyte had admitted him into the cyber's presence. "If there is anything I can do to help just let me know. I want to help-that's why I sent you the recording. Just the part of it I thought would be of interest." Pausing he added, "I know how generous the Cyclan can be."
Clarge said, "Tell me of the woman."
"The one who was murdered? I didn't really know her but-" He broke off, quick with an apology. "I'm sorry. You mean Karlene, don't you? Karlene vol Diajiro. Right?"
"Tell me about her."
"She was a help. Not much of one but she had the looks and the poise and it made it easier to get close to prospects and to make contacts. Window-dressing, mainly. I felt sorry for her. I even offered to take care of her but she didn't take to the idea. Now she's gone."
"Is that all?"
Clarge didn't alter his tone. It remained the same, level modulation devoid of all irritating factors but, as Hagen was about to nod, he felt the impact of the deep-set eyes. A stare which made him feel as if he was transparent and he shifted uneasily in his chair. To lie to the Cyclan was to ask for trouble. To strike a cyber was to commit suicide.
He said, "Not quite. I'll be honest with you. She has a talent. It's pretty wild but I found it useful. She can scent the approach of death." He elaborated the explanation, ending, "That's why she was really useful to me. The rest of it, too, but once we had located a death-node I could really go to town."
"Then why-"
"She cheated!" Hagen's anger spilled over. "The bitch cheated then ran out on me. Just when things were going well and were going to get better. She let me down. Took what she had and left. No warning. Nothing. No chance for me to arrange things. She just ran off with that quarry."
"Dumarest?"
"Who else?"
"You are certain?" Clarge pressed the point. "Absolutely certain?"
Hagen wasn't, he couldn't be, but he lacked the cyber's analytical mind. The pair had vanished and, as far as he knew, had shipped out. That was an assumption, but Clarge estimated it to be correct. He glanced at the reports the acolyte had left; details of ships and their complements, but none carried the names of either the woman or Dumarest. An elementary precaution.
"She sold her furs," said Hagen. "I checked. Took her jewels and all the money she had. Even borrowed on my credit and from my crew. They expect me to pay them. I'll have to see them square even if I have to sell that recording to do it." A hint, one he clumsily emphasized. "It's all I have, you understand. All I've got new."
Clarge said, "Tell me more about the woman. Where did you meet her? When? On which worlds have you operated? Has she any idiosyncrasies? Particular likes or dislikes? Allergies? Habits?" He listened then summoned the acolyte to show his visitor out.
Hagen lingered at the door. "You'll think about my problems? I mean-"
"You will be rewarded."
He, his crew, all who had knowledge of the recording, but it would be a reward they would not appreciate. An accident, an infection, sudden and unexpected death-the Cyclan settled its bills in more ways than one.
Alone Clarge dismissed the matter from his mind as he concentrated on things of greater importance. The woman had accumulated money, probably on Dumarest's advice, and he had cash of his own now augmented by that won with the trophy. Money enough and to spare, money to waste, to burn. Certainly enough to have left false trails.
Had they traveled together or apart?
On which ship?
Heading where?
Questions the cyber pondered as he sat at the desk oblivious to the snow which now hurtled against the window. The probability that they were traveling together was high, in the region of eighty-nine percent; she would not have left without him and would have seen no point in a later rendezvous. On which vessel? Three had left before his own ship had landed; two close together; the last only recently. Dumarest would not have waited. The Tsuchida or the Gegishi? Hagen had contacted the woman on Ryonsuke and the Gegishi was headed toward that sector of space.
Would Dumarest abandon the woman once they had landed?
A probability of high order-but his lead was small, his destination known and he could not be certain he was being followed. Even when dying, Indart had held his tongue.
The woman, Clarge decided. Find the woman and Dumarest would be close.
* * *
There was fire beneath the ice; a burning, hungry demand which left them both exhausted. He had first known such on Erkalt, then on the vessel in which they had traveled, now again here on Oetzer. Rising, Dumarest looked down at her where she sprawled on the bed. Even in sleep Karlene was beautiful, the planes of her face bearing an odd, detached serenity, enhanced by her pallor, the gleaming mass of her hair.
Silver repeated on her nails, her lashes, the intricate tattoo above her left breast. A design almost invisible against the flesh, revealed in gleams and shimmers when she moved and light reflected from the metallic ink buried beneath her skin. The pattern of a flower; slender petals set around a circular center, the whole adorned with curlicues-twelve petals and a circular area quartered by two crossed lines.
A symbol Dumarest had seen before.
"Darling!" She woke as he touched the tattoo. "I've had the most wonderful dream."
"Of home?"
"Of you." Her arms rose to embrace him, pulled him close. "Darling-hold me!"
She sighed contentedly as he obeyed, cradling her head on his shoulder, naked flesh glowing in the diffused sunlight beyond the window of their room. The chamber was large, set with a wide bed and adorned with objects of price. One soft with luxury, scented with delicate odors from cooled and perfumed air that wafted through fretted grills.
The Hotel Brisse was noted for its comfort.
He said, "It's time I was moving. Do you want to sleep longer or-?"
"I'll join you in the shower."
She stood before him beneath the aromatic spray, her fingers touching his torso, following the thin lines of old scars. Brands earned in a hard school where to be slow or weak was to be dead.
"Did it hurt, Earl? When these were made, I mean."
"Did that?" He touched her tattoo.
"I don't know. I can't remember." As before, she dismissed the subject. "But a needle isn't a knife and doesn't cut as deep." Her fingers lingered on his body. "Darling, you must never fight again. Promise me."
"How can I do that?"
Honesty she had learned to admire. Hagen, a score of others she had known would have given the promise without hesitation; lying, treating her like a child. Now, she realized, she was acting like one. Did love always make a woman so stupid?
"I was thinking of the arena." Her hand fell from his chest as she changed the subject. "What are your plans? The book?"