Alone Tosya busied himself with the phone.
It was work better done by an acolyte and he regretted the absence of his usual aides, but one had fallen sick and the other, newly promoted, had left to take up a post on a minor world. He would be given others but, in the meantime, he must work alone.
To the face appearing on the screen he said, "Full details of all arrivals on the last three vessels. Names of captains of those vessels, points of departure and intended destinations."
An elementary check which would be followed by others. The city was relatively small, contained, it would be impossible for anyone to hide in it for long-not when the trained and perceptive mind of a cyber could predict where and when he would be.
A simple problem and one hardly worthy of his talents but Tosya knew the importance of his mission. That had been made clear when he had been instructed to order the diversion of the ship in which he was traveling to Harge. An order emphasized by the authority of the Cyclan and the reward the captain would receive for obedience.
The phone rang; he answered, listened, gave other instructions. Again, as he waited, he reviewed the situation and felt a mounting satisfaction. It was impossible for him to fail or, if not impossible, the probability was so remote as to be negligible. It would be as well, perhaps, to so inform Central Intelligence. And yet he hesitated.
The possibility of failure always remained.
Nothing was or could ever be one hundred percent certain. Always there was the possibility of the unknown factor which could upset the most carefully calculated prediction. And Dumarest seemed to have the faculty of attracting such unknown factors. Too often in the past had unforeseen circumstances enabled him to escape from the traps which should have contained him. Too many agents and cybers had died, paying the penalty of failure even in the moment of imagined triumph.
No, it was better to wait, to be certain.
And yet the temptation remained-to retire to his couch and activate the band locked around his wrist which created a zone of force to baffle any prying electronic eye or ear. Then to relax and concentrate on the Samatchazi formulae and to lose all sensory perception so that, locked within the prison of his skull, his brain ceased to be irritated by external stimuli. Only then would the grafted Homochon elements become active and rapport be gained.
And, with it, communication with the central intelligence which rested buried beneath miles of rock which protected the headquarters of the Cyclan. There would be no verbal delays; his information would be sucked from his mind as water was absorbed by a sponge-almost instantaneous transmission against which the speed of light was a crawl.
And, after, would come the thrilling exuberance of mental stimulation as the Homochon elements sank back into quiescence and the machinery of the body began to realign itself with cerebral control. A brief period in which he would drift in an enveloping darkness sensing strange concepts and novel situations-affected by the scraps of overflow from other intelligences, the residue of other communications. living in the aura surrounding the tremendous cybernetic complex which was the heart of the Cyclan.
One day he would join it. His body would age and his senses dull but his mind and ego would be saved. They would take him and remove the brain from his skull and immerse it in a vat of nutrient fluids. Attached to a mechanical life-support system he would remain alive and fully aware. He would combine with those other intelligences housed in the multitude of brains forming the complex and share in their potential immortality.
The reward of every cyber if he did not fail.
Hine was dead. He lay where Dumarest had placed him, one hand still gripping the bag around his waist, his face beneath the transparency puffed, the eyes staring, blood thick around the mouth.
"Crushed." Santis looked up from where he knelt beside the body. "He was dying when you lifted him, Earl. Dead before we reached the fissure." He forced the bag from the dead fingers. "At least you were lucky-we found nothing. A wasted journey."
One not yet over. From where he leaned against the wall Kemmer said, "God, won't they ever stop? The damned things are still after us."
On the scent and getting close. He could still see the thrusting snouts probing the fissure into which they had run. Remember too the fury of activity as they had fought to get beyond reach of the creatures. His bulk jamming in the narrow opening, Dumarest hauling him clear, Santis standing and firing as they gained distance, Dumarest covering their escape in turn.
But, even now, they had no time in which to rest. Through the conducting material of his helmet he could hear the loudening grinding which told of advancing destruction.
"Earl-"
"Wait!" Dumarest was stooped over the dead man. He handed the trader Hine's belt and lantern. The tent together with the radio and other remains of their supplies had been cached in a small junction. "Carl, take a sounding from that crack." He pointed to a spot facing the trader. "Hear anything?"
"Yes-and close."
An attack from two sides, then, and there could be more. Dumarest lay prone, head twisted so as to rest against the floor. The sound almost deafened him.
"Up!" He rose to his feet. "Take the lead, Carl. Head up that crack and take any tunnel you find heading to the right. We've got to recover the tent. Get after him, Maurice. Move!"
Kemmer hesitated, looking at Dumarest where he stood beside the dead man.
"You're not thinking of carrying him with us?"
"No. Now hurry!"
Hine was dead but could still help the living. Odors rose as Dumarest ripped open his helmet and suit; the scent of meat and moisture, of minerals and bone, an attraction to the sannaks pressing close and one which could fetch others lying ahead to join the feast.
One came writhing from a narrow tunnel a few yards beyond where Santis hugged the rock. A small creature which flopped and twisted like a snake to lunge at the body as the floor rose in splintered shards and pluming dust as another grabbed at the prey.
"Hurry!" Dumarest urged the others on as a mass of scaled and furious shapes began to fight over the dead guide. "Quick-before they scent us!"
They would follow but first they would feed and precious time would be won. Time in which they crept down narrow tunnels, wider cracks, plunged into a broad passage, listening, pressing on, following discovered signs with mounting relief.
"Thank God!" Kemmer, sweating in his suit, voiced his worry. "I thought we'd got lost. That we'd never find the tent and radio. That-" He broke off as he followed Santis around a turn. "Hell!"
They had found the cache but a sannak had found it first. The tent was ripped, the supplies it had contained gone, the apparatus a mass of splintered shards. Some had been devoured, none was usable.
In the glow of a lantern a trannek glowed in silent mockery.
"Consolation," said Kemmer bitterly as Dumarest picked it up. "What the hell do we do now?"
"Climb." Dumarest was curt. "We've got to make our way to the summit."
"And then what? How do we summon a raft to pick us up without a radio?"
"Signal." Tired, the mercenary was curt. "Make smoke, a light, anything."
"Use this, perhaps?" The trader looked at his lantern. "Would it carry? The only use I've found for it so far is to dazzle the sannaks with the ultraviolet. It makes their eye plates glow like a trannek. Why didn't Hine tell us that? Maybe he didn't know. That means we could sell the information-" He was babbling and knew it. With an effort he broke off the monotone and said, "We'll think of something. First we have to reach the open air. Which way, Earl?"