But they would be used, for to ignore them was to invite disaster and, once used, they would be impossible to reject. To have the knowledge of what would happen if certain actions were taken. To foresee difficulties. To be able to predict the future-a lure hard to withstand and, dazzled by the possibilities, few reckoned the price.
To hire the services of the Cyclan was to yield power to the organization. A fact rarely displayed and mostly unsuspected but which worked to meld each gained world into a part of the Great Plan. The aim and object of the Cyclan: to achieve total domination over all the galaxy.
Against that design Zabul was of no importance. An artificial world housing those lost in emotional dreams, it could contribute nothing of advantage. It held no financial influence, controlled no affiliated planets, was associated with no strong allies. A world alone that could be treated with disdain.
But Lim knew better than to voice the obvious. Devoid of pride himself, yet he could appreciate how the emotional poison affected others. Knew, also, how to manipulate those prone to longings of grandeur.
"One man," he said. "A single individual against the welfare of your world. Have the Terridae worked so hard and waited so long for one man to bring them ruin?" He paused, waiting for the words to register. Then added the other half of the idea. "The Cyclan is generous to those aiding its servants. Help me and, in turn, you will be helped."
Volodya said, "The question is academic. We neither want nor need help from the Cyclan. I'm afraid, Cyber Lim, you have had a wasted journey."
"Are you saying that Dumarest is not here?"
"No," snapped Logan. "He is not saying that." She glared at Volodya. "He merely forgets who are the Elders of Zabul."
"The Council must decide," rumbled Vole. "These are matters to think about."
But not for long and Lim knew what the answer would be. Dumarest was a stranger but obviously had sown discord. The woman wanted to be rid of him and she had support. Against it Volodya could do little. Soon now, Dumarest would be in his hands.
Luck, he thought. The unpredictable workings of chance, which could work both ways. Now it was running for him and his future would be assured. A higher sphere of influence would place him closer to the summit of the Cyclan hierarchy. A step to the ultimate position in which he could be elected Cyber Prime. It was possible; proven merit was always rewarded but at the least he would have earned the right to join the massed brains which formed Central Intelligence. To rest among them, divorced from weak and hampering flesh, to spend endless millennia in the gestalt of freed intelligences.
If nothing else, the capture of Dumarest would give him that.
The place had an acrid smelclass="underline" the stench of acids and chemicals and metallic substances together with the residue of vaporized alkaloids. Dumarest finished closing the box which lay before him on a bench and carefully wiped his hands. They quivered a little and his face was sticky with sweat. Before continuing he washed at a sink, letting water gush over his head and the nape of his neck. The muscles above his shoulders were knotted with strain.
"Earl?" Nubar Kusche called from outside the door as Dumarest made the final adjustment. "Can I come in?"
"A moment." Dumarest wiped the top of the bench, threw the swabs into a disposal bin, and checked the seals of the box. "Right!"
Kusche was suspicious, his eyes searching the room, halting as they rested on the box. "You crazy bastard!"
"Who told you?"
"No one, but I heard you'd asked to be provided with a test lab and some assorted chemicals. Medwin mentioned a couple and said something about a switch." He gestured at the box. "Is that it?"
Dumarest nodded.
"How the hell did you know how to make a bomb?" Kusche didn't wait for an answer. "You've been a miner, right? And a mercenary? Maybe an engineer? All get to know something about explosives. Man, you're crazy! Why not just wait it out? The youngsters are with you and will stand firm. Why risk your neck?"
"To save it," said Dumarest. "And it's yours, too, remember?"
"You don't have to remind me." Kusche scowled. "One way or the other my neck's on the block. But why not see what happens? The Council may refuse to let you go."
A chance Dumarest had assessed and one he couldn't rely on. To hand him over to the Cyclan would be good policy from the point of those who held power. Given more time he might have been able to command greater support but Lim had arrived too soon.
And he could guess at the threats the cyber would make.
He reached for the bomb and looked at Kusche as the man picked it up.
"You made it, Earl," he said. "At least I can carry it. Place it too if you tell me where."
"There's only one place."
"On the Cyclan ship?" Kusche nodded as if he'd already thought it out and was pleased at Dumarest's verifying his conclusion. "Now I know you're crazy. It's veered off, didn't you know?"
"I've been busy."
"Damned busy." Kusche hefted the box. "This thing's big enough to blow the top off a mountain and I'll bet every grain cost a gallon of sweat. Triggered?"
"Time and radio impulse."
"Safety?"
Dumarest said dryly, "I didn't intend committing suicide. It's safe until primed."
"This thing?" Kusche looked at a small, red knob. "Pull it and she's ready, is that it?"
"Why the questions?"
"I want to know what to do." Kusche touched the back. "Limpet-layer. Strip and apply. You make that too?"
"No." Dumarest headed toward the door. "It came from stock. And why do you want to know what to do?"
"We're partners, Earl. You made it and I'll fix it." Kusche was serious. He fell into step beside Dumarest as he headed down the outside passage. "Call it pride, if you like, but I've ridden on your back long enough. It's time I paid my way."
Dumarest said, "Have you worn a suit? Had experience in the void?"
"Have you?"
"I've done undersea work and held a job on a salvage team. If you want to help, give me a hand suiting up and stand by the lock."
It was at the summit of a pinnacle reached through triple doors and guarded by a combination lock. One Dumarest opened with the information given him by Althea. Beyond lay a chamber walled in screens which gave the impression they were of glass. Depicted in them, space was empty but for stars and a single, drifting mote.
"The ship," said Kusche. "Once the bomb is fixed we call the tune. Go home or go to hell! Now where's that suit?"
It rested in its slot and Dumarest checked it before donning the plastic envelope and sealing the helmet. Air whispered in his ears as he stepped into the orifice of the air lock, Kusche handing over the bomb before rotating the compartment into space. A step and Dumarest was on the slope of the pinnacle, held by the gravity zone of Zabul. Flexing his knees, he sprang upward and was suddenly spinning in free fall as he broke the attraction. A moment later he had corrected the spin to hang drifting while he searched for his target.
It hung against the background of burning stars more majestic now in their naked splendor. A tiny ovoid which occluded the brightness, and Dumarest moved toward it with the aid of the power-jets built into his suit. Against the bulk of Zabul he would be invisible to casual observation and he was moving to slowly to activate the vessel's alarms.
But if the vessel should move while he was within the zone of the Erhaft field he would die.
A real danger; ships moved at the dictates of computer directives and the system could have been set to maintain a constant distance from Zabul, to follow a random flight path as a security precaution, or even to twitch away from any object, no matter how small or slow-moving, heading toward it.