He stood before the exchange, an ornate building facing the square in which fortunes were made and lost, merchants gambling on cargoes which had yet to arrive. He was tall, thin. The face shielded by the cowl was emaciated with deprivation. A beggar without pride and having little success. The chipped bowl of plastic in his hand was empty. The sandals on his bare feet were scuffed, a strap broken and held together with twine. His voice was a droning murmur.
"Of your charity, brother, remember the poor."
Few looked, less lingered, none threw money into the bowl. A plump trader, his hands heavy with gems, his face oiled with good living, laughed as he flung a harlot a coin.
"That for your smile, Mayelle. Today I cleared a big profit. Tomorrow-who can tell?"
"Thank you, my lord." Deftly the coin was slipped beneath a gown slit to reveal glimpses of what lay beneath. "If a smile brought so much, then surely a kiss would bring more?"
"Don't tempt me, girl. I cannot afford the delay. Even while talking a fortune could be made."
"Brother," said the monk, "remember the poor."
"You remember them." The plump man was indifferent. "I'm too busy."
Brother Sayre made no comment, felt no anger at the cynicism. To have done so would have been to verge on the sin of pride, and that would have been a refutation of what he was and what he stood for. Pride and self-indulgence had no place in the Church of the Universal Brotherhood. Each monk shed all thought of personal comfort when he donned the plain, homespun robe, took the bowl of plastic, accepted the privation which would be his normal lot.
A hard life, but none who joined the Brotherhood expected otherwise. To stand, to beg, to give aid when aid could be given, to comfort always. To follow the creed of the Church, to extend the teaching which alone would end all hurt, all pain, all despair. No man is an island. All belong to the corpus humanitatis. The anguish of one is the torment of all. If all men could be brought to recognize one basic truth, to remember as they looked at another-there, but for the grace of God, go I-the millennium would have arrived.
"Of your charity, brother, remember the poor."
Halting before the monk Dumarest said, "Brother, I need your help."
"You are in distress?"
"No." Dumarest dropped coins in the bowl. He was generous, but both knew it was not a bribe. "I need information."
"There are places where answers may be found."
Taverns, shops, agencies, the field itself, the records, the complex which sold computer-time, the men who traded in nothing else. But each question would leave a trail, arouse curiosity, focus unwanted attention on him.
"There is a young man," said Dumarest. "A boy. Leon Harvey. I wondered if you know of him."
"Does he belong to the Church?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"A casual?"
It was possible. A young man, on the run, lonely and perhaps afraid. The Church would have offered him comfort and more. The bread of forgiveness given to all who sat beneath the benediction light when, hypnotized, they eased their souls and suffered subjective penance. There were many who joined the queues for the sake of the wafer of concentrate. The monks regarded it as a fair exchange-food in return for the instilled conditioning which made it impossible to kill. The reason Dumarest had never sat beneath the light.
He said, "Leon is a runaway. He might have been reported and your aid sought."
"A boy, one of so many, how would we know of him?"
"You know, Brother. We both know."
By means of the hyper-radio incorporated into each benediction light. Monks were everywhere, tolerated and befriended by those in high places, in constant touch with the great seminary on Hope. And a parent, desperate, would have asked for help, or at least eased their hearts to listening ears. A small hope, but one which had to be followed.
Dumarest was not disappointed when, after a moment, the monk shook his head. "We have been asked to look for no one of that name. Where did he originate?"
"Nerth. You know it?"
"An odd name-no, I have no knowledge of any such world. The boy, of course, could be lying. You have considered the possibility?"
"Yes."
"Your name?"
Dumarest gave it, adding, "I am not unknown to the Church. If Brother Jerome was still alive he would vouch for me, but you can check the records."
"There is no need." The monk's eyes were direct. "As you say, you are known. If I could help you I would, but that does not seem possible. However, there is one thing perhaps you should know. Cyber Hsi has landed on Tradum."
Chapter Four
Manager Loh Nordkyn was disturbed. His reports had always been on time, work was progressing according to schedule, and the powers ruling the Zur-Sekulich had no reason for dissatisfaction, yet they had sent a cyber to Tradum.
He was housed in an upper suite of the company building, the windows giving a fine view of the town and space field, a view which meant nothing to Hsi as he sat at a desk studying the mass of data provided by the manager's aides.
He was tall, thin, robed as were the monks of the Universal Brotherhood, but there the similarity ended. He wore, not brown homespun, but scarlet fabric of fine weave, the Seal of the Cyclan prominent on his breast. His head was shaved, accentuating the skull-like appearance of the deep-set eyes, the skin drawn taut over bone. A living machine of flesh and bone and blood, all capacity for emotion eradicated by training and an operation performed during his youth, his only pleasure that of mental achievement.
A man who had dedicated his life to the pursuit of coldly logical reason. One to whom food was a tasteless fuel. A creature who could take a handful of facts and build a sequence of events from them culminating in a predicted eventuality.
He glanced up as the door opened, leaning back in his chair, his eyes watchful.
"Manager Nordkyn." The inclination of his head was perfunctory. "It is late. I had not thought to see you until tomorrow."
"I was curious," admitted the manager. "To to frank, I cannot understand why the company should have chosen to employ the services of the Cyclan. We have our own computers and the operation programs are proving successful."
"As yet, perhaps."
"A trend?" Nordkyn frowned. "I have run a complete series of analogues and have found nothing to pose any serious problems."
"And perhaps none will be found." Hsi touched the sheets before him, the reams of data, incidents, reports all compressed into symbolic language. "However, I notice that your progress per man-hour is falling."
"A seam of adamantine rock which delayed progress," said Nordkyn quickly. "It was anticipated and, now that we have penetrated it, lost time will be regained."
"Casualties seem to be high."
"Carelessness due to untrained labor. We are operating under a tight cost-schedule, as you must know. But is is unimportant, men are cheap." He added, incredulously, "Surely the Zur-Sekulich are not concerned over the loss of a few vagrants?"
"No."
"Then, with respect, I fail to see what you can achieve."
"You doubt the efficiency of the Cyclan?" Hsi's voice was a smoothly modulated monotone devoid of all irritant factors, yet Nordkyn was swift to refute the accusation.