"Eye-witness accounts," said Marie. "Irrefutable testimony substantiated by mechanical lie-detectors. And yet you were not satisfied."
"I needed to be certain."
"Of what? To check the lagoon was wasted effort if you believe the testimony. Time and expense used to no purpose. Could Cardor have lied?"
"No. His findings have been checked."
"So he told the truth as he knew it. As others could have done."
Avro caught the implication and stepped forward, noting, with vague detachment, that the figure he faced remained at the same distance.
He said, "The possibility that a man could lie and yet not know that he lied is credible. Hypnotism could produce such a condition. But there were eight witnesses, not including the owner of the circus. All eight had seen the bodies and all swore as to the deaths. Also Cardor took steps to guard against such conditioning. I have checked the detectors and the results are conclusive. The men saw what they claimed to have seen."
"Tron dead? Valaban?"
"And Dumarest. All three the victims of a klachen which had run wild."
"And the animal?"
Avro hesitated. "Dead, I think."
"You are not positive?"
"No mention was made of it. The fate of the beast was not considered important."
Against the greater loss that was understandable but it was an oversight which could not be forgiven. Avro revised his decision as to Cardor's fate. He would be questioned, tested, checked-then disposed of. Marie, by his question, had cost the man his life.
As, by his decision, he could cost Avro his.
As Avro watched, the figure before him seemed to blur, to dissolve into smoke which writhed and plumed to dissipate against the bizarre landscape. An illusion added to illusion, or reality which his limited senses could only convert to familiar terms. Then the return of the wind, the confusion, the mind-wrenching turmoil as the universe gyrated around him and his ears were filled with the thin, hopeless screaming of the damned.
"Master!" Someone was pounding at the door. "Master! Is all well?"
Byrne, his face anxious as Avro broke the total seal, Tupou behind him carrying wine. Ruby fluid which he gushed into a goblet and handed to Avro without a word. Liquid he drank without thinking then dismissed them both with a curt gesture. Alone, he sank on the bed and buried his face in his hands.
And heard the song of wind, the thrum of pinions, the thin, keen hiss of parting air.
Madness and he reared, looking at the walls, the ceiling, the familiar shapes of ornate furnishings. Things to be despised for their nonfunctional design but now objects of comfort.
What had happened?
Coincidence, Marie had said, or the figure he had taken to be the Cyber Prime. But it was a coincidence which must have happened many times before. Why had this been different?
Avro examined the problem with trained mental efficiency.
Central Intelligence was the sum total of the massed brains which formed the heart of the Cyclan. Living intelligences, released from the hampering prisons of fleshy bodies when age had made those bodies no longer efficient. Locked in sealed capsules, fed with nutrients, hooked in series, the brains rested in darkness and total isolation from external stimuli. An ideal state in which to ponder the problems of the universe. A tremendous organic computer of incredible complexity; with its aid the Cyclan would rule the galaxy given time.
But the tool had revealed a flaw. Certain of the brains had shown signs of aberrated behavior and had to be destroyed. Was the sickness continuing?
Was Central Intelligence going insane?
A possibility loaded with frightening implications, for if the brains could no longer be trusted then what of the Cyclan? And what would be the reaction of cybers denied their reward for dedicated service? The potential immortality granted at the end of their useful physical life?
"Master!" Byrne turned as Avro opened the door to his chamber. "Is all well?"
A question Avro dismissed with a wave of his hand.
"Go to the field," he ordered. "I want all details of every vessel movement from Baatz from the time Tron landed here. Names, cargoes, destinations, complements, operating velocities-everything." To Tupou he said, "Bring all the records of the examinations made by Cardor together with a complete record of all circus workers." A near-impossible task but one which had to be attempted. "When you have done that, relieve Cardor and have him report to me."
Effort and expense with little hope of reward but Avro was beyond counting the cost. If Dumarest was dead he must be certain of it. If, despite all the evidence, the man had managed to survive then he must know that too. The future of the Cyclan depended on it.
Chapter Two
From his seat at the table Helith Lam looked at the prospects in the salon. They weren't encouraging, the usual assortment of deadbeats and cheap riders, but he had a place to fill and Krogstad was getting ugly. The gambler thinned his lips at recent memory, seeing the captain's face in his mind's eye, the cruel, determined set of the mouth. The ultimatum had been brief.
"Up the take or quit the Thorn!"
Dumped on Cadell or Bilton or another of the small worlds forming the Burdinnion. Garbage dumps mostly with little trade, no industry, scant farming and a viciously savage native life. Once kicked off the Thorn on such a world and he would starve. Too old to sell his labor, too inexperienced to wrest a living from the local terrain, he'd last only as long as his money. And the captain, damn him, would leave little of that.
A bleak prospect and one he had to improve. A decent cut from the table would grant him a reprieve and he could pad the captain's fifty percent share of the profit from his own cut. But first he had to fill the vacant seat.
"Come on!" Lissek, seated to his left, was impatient. "You're letting the deck grow cold."
"It'll warm." Cranmer was cynical. "Why be in a hurry to lose your money?"
"That's right." Varinia touched a handkerchief to lips painted a lurid scarlet. "Why be in a hurry over anything? But why the delay?"
"We need seven," said Lam. A lie and one he justified.
"It makes a better game and adds spice. Also it brings in fresh money."
"You should have told that to Deakin before he got skinned." Yalin, a wasp of a man, rapped a finger on the coins piled before him. "Come on, man, deal!"
Lam obeyed; a moving game attracted attention but his eyes weighed those lounging in the salon. The monk was out; no Brother of the Universal Church would waste time and money at the table. The young married couple had other things to interest them; after they'd swallowed their ration of basic they would vanish into their cabin. The gaunt-faced seller of symbiotes was immersed in his books and the old woman with the artificial gems had already used up her luck. Which left only two others.
"Damn!" A raddle-faced miner swore and threw down his hand. "That decides it! I'm out!"
"And me." A pale youngster followed his example. "Varinia?"
"Stays," said Lam, then, softening his tone, added with a smile, "We need her to make up the number and to add a touch of beauty to the company. And I don't think she'll regret it. See?" The cards riffled in his hands, falling to lie face upward. "Four Lords-could you hope for better? Your luck is about to change, my dear."
"It had better." Her eyes met his in mutual understanding. "But who else will join us?"
"Our friends." Lam lifted his voice as he made the appeal. "Please, you two, accommodate us. A small game to while away the time." Then, as the younger of the pair turned toward him, "Angado Nossak, isn't it? I think we have met before."