“Well, you got it, though?”
“We got it.” I had already explained the terms and conditions, spelling out the protections in pretty absolute terms.
“The boss isn’t gonna like this,” he growled. “Too much to go wrong. Tell you what, though. Both of you come out to the island this afternoon. Bring your things—it might be a long stay.”
I nodded and switched off.
“You really think Laroo will buy it?” Dylan asked worriedly. “After all, he’s putting himself in the Confederacy’s hands.”
“He’ll buy it,” I assured her, “although cautiously. He doesn’t have any choice, as you know who assured us.”
“Imagine. The most powerful man on Cerberus, one of the four most powerful in the Diamond, and maybe one of the most powerful men around today, period—and he’s scared to death.”
“Oro/ it,” I responded. “Let’s go pack.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Final Scam
Dumonia and his psych computers had built a tremendously impressive psychological profile of Wagant Laroo over the years, back from when he first appeared on Cerberus. Like all the world’s most powerful men throughout history, his one fear was assassination or even accidental death. This fear had actually been compounded, on Cerberus, where one had the potential of eternal life—and that was the kicker. By now Laroo felt almost omnipotent, but to feel like a god and know you were potentially mortal was unthinkable. The robot was the closest thing to total security he could ever hope to achieve. Even more, it would allow him to leave the Warden Diamond—and return—at will, thus making him certainly the most powerful man our spacefaring race had ever known. Surrounded by a small army of the more obedient sort of organic robots, he would be virtually invulnerable. Freed from all wants and needs of the flesh, and armed with a mind that could operate with the swiftness and sureness of a top computer, he would be a monster such as mankind had never known.
He knew this, and knowing this, his psych charts said, he had to take the risk. Add to that the knowledge that one Lord had already been done in, a Lord he obviously respected and feared—and you had the clincher.
I couldn’t help but think that Dumonia had had a lot to do with my decisions. I’d been seeing him—and he’d made sure it would be him—about Sanda and Dylan before I ever made the Project Phoenix move, and then I’d done nothing until just the right psychological time—for Laroo. Then and only then had I been willing to take the ultimate risk and had done so practically without hesitation, and with Dylan’s full support. I couldn’t help wondering how many little pushes and suggestions I’d gotten from him even before I ever heard of him.
It really didn’t matter now, though. Now everything would come together—or it would all come apart. Either way, I had no doubt he was protected. And I suspected that if we did fail there was a cruiser even now prepared to come in close to Cerberus and fry Laroo’s Island to a crisp and us with it.
Dylan and I spent almost a full week in the Castle, mostly enjoying ourselves, although always under the watchful eyes of guards and scanners. She was fascinated by the broad, green lawn, something she frankly had never even conceived of before, and by the museums of stolen goods, many of which I could take pleasure in explaining both the history and something about the culture they came from.
When we first arrived we were taken to Dr. Merton, who ran some tests to verify our psych commands and blocks, as expected, and had done so. Unlike the first time I’d come to the Castle, I wasn’t bluffing now, and they confirmed it.
We also revealed, without really knowing or understanding what it was we were describing, the type of equipment necessary for the deprogramming process. Merton checked the information over with interest; obviously understanding it, and assured us that it could be assembled quickly.
Finally, though, and without any real warning, a big transport landed on the front lawn. Out stepped five people as before, only these were far different. Dylan surveyed them curiously from the window. A teenage boy and girl. A tough-looking woman pushing forty, with short gray-brown hair. A short, wiry man of very dark complexion. And finally, a young executive type in full dress suit and black goatee.
“He has quite a collection,” I said approvingly. “Nobody there I recognize, from last time or any other time.”
“They walk alike,” Dylan noted. “Even the women walk just like the men.”
“I see what you mean. They’re good actors. Damned good.”
“How will we know which one is the real Laroo? Or if any of them are?”
“That’s simple,” I replied. “The real one will be the one left alive and kicking at the end.”
We were summoned by National Police to the downstairs lab complex, and left immediately. All five of the newcomers, plus Merton and Bogen, awaited us in the lab, where seats had been provided—five seats.
“They even cross their legs the same,” Dylan whispered, and I had to suppress a laugh.
We stopped. The goateed businessman proved the spokesman this time.
“Well, well. Qwin Zhang, I hadn’t intended that we meet a second time, but you made it unavoidable.”
“I’ll make it worth your while,” I promised him.
“You better,” he growled. “I don’t like people who make themselves indispensable. You should understand that.”
I nodded. “You have a choice. We can call this off and all go home.”
He ignored the comment and looked over at Dylan. “A pleasure. I trust all is satisfactory with you now?”
“Extremely,” she responded with that old confidence. I could almost read her mind, and I loved her for it. Wagant Laroo would be a pantywaist in a bork hunt.
“You understand there’ll be some, ah, tests first?”
We both nodded. “We’re ready when you are,” Dylan told him. “The truth is, we no more understand this than you do.” She looked them all over. “Who goes first?”
“None of us. Yet.” He nodded at Bogen, and the security man went out. Two technicians wheeled in a device that was pretty much what we’d described several days before to Merton. It was a hybrid, and obviously had been knocked together, but if Merton thought the thing would work, well, I was willing to trust the expert.
The machine looked essentially like three hair driers on long, thick gooseneck poles leading into a rear electronic console. They brought it in, and with Merlon’s help fitted it against the instrument cluster that was a permanent part of the lab. Cables—lots of them—were taken from the top rear of the console part and plugged into the instrumentation, and switches were thrown. Merton checked the whole thing out, then nodded. “It’s ready.”
I looked at the gadget and couldn’t shake the feeling that I was about to be electrocuted. According to Merton, it was a variation of the basic psych machine itself, although without a lot of the electronics and analytical circuits. In effect, it would allow Dylan and me, if we concentrated, to send impulses from our own minds to a third. What we were going to do could have been done by computer, of course, but then they wouldn’t have needed us. Chairs were brought in and placed under the gadget, and the helmets or whatever were adjusted to hover just over each one.
“Now what?” Laroo demanded.
“We need a robot,” I told him. “First we feed the signal into the robot, then you slide a mind in there any good old Cerberan way.”
“Merton?” he said expectantly.
The doctor walked over to one of those booths and opened it, obviously prepared for this. The robot inside didn’t look like a cadaver this time, but was fully propped and animated. Still, it had a totally vacant look that would be impossible for a human being to duplicate.