The man Dumarest was on Loame? You are positive?
Ruen emphasized his conviction.
And has departed to Choal?
If the information received from the computer had not lied the man he had been instructed to watch for had done exactly that. But his training qualified the answer. Lacking personal knowledge he could only relate the information available.
He must be apprehended. Agents will be instructed to intercept him on Choal. Others will watch on a predicted basis of fifty percent probability of movement. You, yourself must be even more alert. It is of prime importance that the man be constrained.
The subject discussed was dismissed. Brevity was the hallmark of such communication, but other matters needed clarification.
Cybers have been sent at the invitation of the ruler of Rhaga. You will divert any attempt at expansion in that direction. Extrapolation of the civil unrest on Hardish shows that insurrection will break out within one month. Acceleration of the program designed for Technos is desirable.
The rest was sheer intoxication.
As communication ceased Ruen felt that he was suspended in an infinity of diamond glitters, each tiny fragment of sparkling light the cold, clear flame of a living intelligence, and each aligned, one to the other so that all were composed of a universal whole, an incredible vastness which stretched across the entire galaxy. And, at the center, unified by nearly invisible filaments of brilliance, reposed the glowing heart of Central Intelligence, the hub and mind of the Cyclan.
Voices echoed in Ruen's mind as he drifted in the glowing vastness, scenes, snatches of unfamiliar shapes, alien, unknown, and yet somehow belonging to the gestalt of which he was a part. The overspill of other minds, other memories, the interplay of living intelligences all serving the organization of which he was a fragment.
One day he would be more than that. At the end of his active life he would be taken to where the assembled brains rested miles deep beneath the surface of an ancient world. There he would join them, freed of all physical limitations, resting in a world unhampered by bodily ills, his detached brain joined with those of others there, living and aware for countless years.
It was the highest reward any cyber could hope to obtain. To become an actual part of Central Intelligence. To work for the complete domination of the galaxy and to solve all the problems of the universe.
The aim and object of the Cyclan.
* * *
It could have been a theater or a concern hall but Dumarest guessed that it was a lecture room, massed seats facing a dais backed with screens and boards, the low roof grilled with speakers, soft light diffused from the juncture of walls and ceiling. Cramped in the third row he turned, looking over a sea of olive faces to the rear of the hall. The doors were closed, locked no doubt, but there was no sign of the guards who had ushered them from the ship and across the field, down a tunnel into this place. No sign of the red and black uniforms but he knew they would be there. Out of sight behind loopholes, perhaps, or waiting in the corridor outside.
Beside him a man stirred, restless, anxious.
"What are they going to do with us?" he muttered. "Why are we here?"
"I'm hungry," said another further down the row. "When are we going to get fed?"
"What are we waiting for?" said someone from behind.
Like the rustle of ripe corn in a breeze the murmur of questions swept over the auditorium.
Dumarest ignored them, conscious of the rising tension. They had ridden packed like fish in a barrel, doped with quick-time and given no food. Hardened to travel he had slept most of the way but his companions had spent the time in worried speculation. Now cold, tired and hungry, they were growing restless. The murmur died as a man came from the side door and strode to the center of the dais.
He was a balding, plump, middle-aged man in civilian clothes with a ruddy face and a benign expression. He stood facing the assembly, hands locked behind his back, exactly as if he were a lecturer about to teach his students.
He said, "Welcome to Technos. I appreciate that you have had an uncomfortable journey and that you are probably worried as to your future. It is that I am going to explain, but first, are there any among you who are the sons or relatives of growers?"
One man lifted his hand. Dumarest did not.
"One only?" The speaker looked over the auditorium. "Thank you, sir. Will you please rise and go to the back of the hall. Right through the door which you will find open." He waited until the man had gone. "One only. It seems that the growers of Loame are very selective in their choosing. That man is the first in the past four contingents. Natural enough, I suppose, but hardly fair to their workers."
It was, thought Dumarest, cleverly done. Without making an issue of the matter the man had clearly demonstrated how unfairly those present had been treated. He relaxed a little, guessing what was to come.
"And now," continued the lecturer, "I would like to dispose of some of your preconceived notions. You are not going to be sold into slavery. You are not going to be slaughtered for meat and neither are you going to be used for medical research. The sole aim and object of you coming here is for the purpose of education. Let us, for a moment, talk about war. What is war? The efforts of one power to force its will on another. You may have been told that Technos is at war with Loame. This is not true. If it were you would now be in uniform, fighting and dying to protect the land of others. Instead you are here, safe, warm and comfortable. Soon you will be going back home."
He paused as a whisper raced across the assembled men.
"Does that surprise you? The truth often does. You must remember that the growers of Loame are, at the moment, in a position of feudal power over you and your families. That position will not last long. Already the economic system is beginning to crack. Soon it will utterly disintegrate and the old ways be forever gone. When that happens the thorge will be destroyed and the land reclaimed. Your land," he emphasized. "Fresh soil to be shared among those at present denied the opportunity to become free growers. Clean dirt for you and your families."
There was more: slides, pictures and elementary diagrams, smooth explanations and facile extrapolations, all designed to paint a glowing picture of the future to come. Technos was a crusading power eager to help the underprivileged. The old system had to be broken before the new could be installed. It was being broken and those who had been chosen to fill the tribute were the lucky ones. To them, once trained, would fall the newly cleared land. Each of them soon would become a grower.
Dumarest didn't believe it.
Not the basic premise of economic disruption. In a society such as existed on Loame it was the quickest and easiest way to shatter the old pattern, but to restore it under new ownership didn't make sense. And it would not be restored. Glancing at the rapt faces to either side of him Dumarest could appreciate the cleverness of what was being done. The dangling carrot to keep them eager, to break their spirit and make them amenable to whatever Technos wanted to do with them. And that was?
He wasn't sure and it didn't matter. He would not be a part of it. Now that he was on Technos the sooner he broke away from the rest the better. And it would have to be fairly soon. The dye which stained his skin to a matching olive would not last long and when it faded he would be too conspicuous.
From the auditorium they went to eat. Good food piled in generous portions, high protein substances kind to mouth and stomach. Facing Dumarest across the table a man belched and helped himself to more.
"This is the life," he said. "Better food than I ever had back home. Grower Westguard was a mean man with his luxuries. Mean, and it was us that used to provide them!"
"It'll be different now," said the man at his side. "I had a girl and was due to get married. Had my grower's promise of a house and everything. Then I was chosen." He paused, digging a scrap of meat from between his teeth with a blunt finger. "At first I was sick about it but not now. Now, when I get back home, I'll have the girl and a real good house. My grower's house. I might even consider letting him work for me."
Laughter echoed the remark. It had taken, Dumarest estimated, less than three hours to convert them from potential enemies into willing servitors.
Chapter Five
THE VOICE was a thin, insistent whisper impossible to ignore.
Technos is a wonderful planet, its rulers wise, kind and understanding. It is a great thing to be able to serve Technos. Those who are chosen to do so are fortunate. Yow are fortunate. You are very…
Dumarest rolled from his bunk and stood, head tilted, listening. The insidious voice came from all directions carried on the diffused light which illuminated the dormitory or transmitted by the metal supports of the bunks themselves. Its purpose was obvious; more conditioning to make the new arrivals obedient.
Quietly he padded around the tiered bunks. The party had been split after taking a shower and only a fifth of the contingent was within this room. All were asleep, the sound of their breathing loud in the stillness, at times blurring the whispering voice. The wine, he decided, the brimming jugs which had been given to them after the bath. The food could have been drugged but he'd had no choice but to eat it. The wine was a different matter. He had avoided it, suspicious of the motive behind the apparent generosity, and obviously it had been drugged. Of them all he was the only one awake.
A door broke the wall at the far end of the room. He headed toward it and cautiously tested the latch. It yielded and he stepped into a corridor. The lights were brighter here, gleaming from the scar tissue which traced paths on his shoulders, back and sides. Fainter lines showed against the olive on his forearms. He was naked but for shorts, his bare feet soundless as he moved down the corridor.
A guard waited around the turn. He was neat in red and black, his young face shadowed beneath his helmet, unarmed but for a two-foot club swinging from his right wrist. He looked at Dumarest without surprise.
"You want something?"
"The toilet." The man was standing too far away for an attack to be successful. He would have time to shout before being overcome. And Dumarest was too unsure of his whereabouts to make a break. He turned, gesturing back the way he had come. "I woke-you know. I couldn't find it."
"This way."
The guard stepped back, gesturing with his club, the tip, as if by accident, pointed at Dumarest's stomach, A shadowed place showed in the rounded end, an orifice capable, perhaps, of spitting a numbing dart or lethal pellet. He was perfectly composed, almost as if he had expected someone to walk down the corridor, falling behind as Dumarest passed.
"All right," he said as they reached a junction. "That door to your right. Hurry."