And what could he or the Council know of rebellion?
What could these of Zabul?
Lim would ignore them as troublesome vermin. If they defied him he would threaten to destroy their world and would do it without compunction. To rely on popular support was to invite destruction.
Dumarest said, "You are too intelligent to resist advice when your survival is at stake. It is true that one man cannot be set against the value of a world, but do not make the mistake of underestimating the Cyclan. Against a cyber the Council are like ignorant children. He will use and manipulate them all along the line. You must have sensed this."
"So?"
"The Council are wrong and you know it. They are old and clinging to power. They don't want to find Earth-do you?"
Volodya said, stiffly, "We all long for the Event."
"You, Althea, some others. You could name them better than I. And the young, of course. The young are always impatient." Casually Dumarest added, "What are they doing? Demonstrating? Shouting and making a noise? Clogging the passages? Neglecting their duties? What happens if they refuse to obey orders? You need them to maintain the system. What happens if they demand to retire to their caskets?"
He gave Volodya time to ponder the question as, again, he leaned his shoulders against the wall. His initial reaction had been wrong; Zabul had no separate working class. The young of the Terridae maintained the artificial world, not being entitled to a casket unit they had reached full maturity. Even then custom dictated they use them rarely until advancing years gave them the right to extend their lives to the full.
A nice, neat, well-organized culture but brittle as such cultures always had to be. His arrival had cracked it and now Lim threatened to shatter it with his demands. A fact Volodya recognized.
He said, "What can I do? Cyber Lim has warned he will destroy Zabul unless you are handed over to him. He could be bluffing but I dare not take the chance."
"The Cyclan does not bluff."
"So I gathered. It helps that you understand. For you, as a person, I have only respect. If circumstances were different I would like to be your friend. As it is-" Volodya broke off, shrugging. "Now you must come with me."
"Of course," said Dumarest. "But hadn't we better work out how to get things back to normal first?"
Volodya hesitated, looking at his prisoner. A man almost naked, certainly unarmed, knowing what his fate would be yet sitting with a relaxed ease he found hard to understand. As he found it impossible to know how Dumarest could quell the unrest his arrest had created.
"What can I do?"
"You alone? Nothing." Dumarest was blunt. "You stand for the Council and the power of the Cyclan. They have no reason to trust you. But there are others, Demich, Althea Hesford. Althea," he decided. "We were close and they would know it. They will trust what she has to say. What I will tell her to say. Send for her and let us be alone."
A trick? What could Dumarest do? Volodya hesitated, then, knowing he had no alternative, nodded his agreement.
"I'll give you ten minutes-Lim will be getting impatient. But can you guarantee to restore peace and order?"
"How can I? I'm in no position to guarantee anything." Dumarest hardened his tone. "But one thing is certain- unless I try, Zabul will tear itself apart Now hurry and get Althea!"
They were taking too long; the prediction he had made as to when Dumarest would be in his hands had turned out to be at fault. An error Lim found unpleasing and he quested for reasons to account for it. Had he underestimated his adversary? Judged the capabilities of the Council too highly? Forgotten some small but significant factor which should have been included in his assessment of the situation?
If the last, it was proof of his failing capabilities but, with cold detachment, he examined the possibility. An exercise conducted with the speed and skill of long training and longer experience and the summation was satisfactory. The reason had to lie elsewhere. Dumarest was clever and resourceful but limited by his situation, and his capture was inevitable. Those responsible for taking him, then, were to blame for the delay.
Leaning forward, he touched a communicator and, as it flashed into life, said, "Contact Zabul and find why the delivery of Dumarest is taking so long."
"Yes, Master."
As always the acolyte was respectful and as always he would be efficient-should he be otherwise then he would have proved himself unfit to don the scarlet robe. A hard apprenticeship and one every cyber had to take.
Lim looked at the papers lying before him: data on a score of problems on the world he had left to pursue Dumarest. Some of them would now have been resolved, while others must have risen, but, while waiting, it would be inefficient to waste time. Quickly he studied the reports, made his assessments, noted the predictions as to the order of probability. The salon was quiet, the ship carried no passengers other than himself and his acolytes, and the crew wore padded shoes.
A soft chime and his communicator flashed for attention. The face of Hulse stared from the screen.
"Master, a report from Zabul. Dumarest has been taken but had to be gassed before capture. He has now recovered consciousness and will be dispatched as soon as arrangements have been made."
"Why the further delay?"
"Shipping sacs have to be prepared. The alternative would be to move the ship and make physical contact with Zabul."
After a moment for assessment Lim said, "No. The possibility of danger is small but there is no point in taking risks without cause."
"The demonstrators are dispersing."
"Even so our presence may excite them to take action to protect Dumarest." And the violence could result in accidental injury to the man concerned. "Full instructions have been given?"
"Yes, Master."
The screen died and Lin made a mental note to recommend Hulse's elevation. The acolyte had showed his ability and demonstrated his efficiency. No wasted words. No repetition of the obvious. If he had arranged for the transfer to be handled correctly he would be ready for the final tests.
Lim checked the last of the papers and set them in their file. Now he had nothing to do but wait and yet not even a moment should be wasted. Dumarest was in custody; soon he would be on his way to the vessel and, once inside, his journeying would be over. Drugged, bound, locked in a cell, he would be helpless to escape. Not even his clothes had been left to him and, almost naked, what could he do?
Rising, the cyber crossed the salon and made his way to his cabin. Here, on the ship, there was no need for an acolyte to stand guard but even so he locked the door before activating the broad band he wore on his left wrist. Mechanisms within the wide bracelet created a zone of electronic privacy which no prying eye or ear could penetrate. Lying on the narrow cot, Lim stared at the ceiling. To wait or to report?
The temptation to wait was strong but even stronger was the experience he knew awaited him. He had cause-it was his duty to report, and the charge of inefficiency could be laid against him if he did not. To wait was to seek personal aggrandizement.
Relaxing, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the Samatchazi formulae. Gradually he lost the power of his senses; had he opened his eyes he would have been blind. Locked in the confines of his skull, his brain ceased to be irritated by external stimuli. It became a thing of pure intellect, its reasoning awareness its only thread of life. Only then did the engrafted Homochon elements become active. Rapport quickly followed.
Lim became vibratingly alive.
He felt himself expand to fill the universe while remaining a part of it. Space was filled with light: sparkles which spun and created abstract designs and yet had a common center. One to which he was drawn, to be engulfed in the tremendous gestalt of minds which rested at the heart of the headquarters of the Cyclan. There, buried beneath miles of rock, set deep in the heart of a lonely planet, the Central Intelligence absorbed his knowledge like a sponge sucking up water. There was no verbal communication, only a mental communion in the form of words: quick, almost instantaneous, organic transmission against which the speed of light was the merest crawl.