Servants of the Cyclan of which Hine was one. He had been starving, covered with sores, rotten with a wasting disease and willing to do anything for a bowl of soup or a crust of bread. Insanity had driven him to attempt to steal from a cyber, careless of the dire penalties which all knew befell those caught. And he had been caught-even now he could remember the terror which had engulfed him at the thought of being turned into a living horror, his limbs distorted, amputated, grafted into new positions on his body so that he would walk backward and upside down-fears born of whispers which peopled the unknown with nightmare. Instead he had been washed and fed and tested. And healed and taught and tested. And watched and probed and tested again and again by those for whom such work was a specialty. Food had become something to be taken without enjoyment and without thought as to its source. Emotions were to be controlled, diminished, negated. The mind was paramount at all times at any cost. The body was a machine.
Of his class some vanished without explanation. Others were punished with merciless application. A few reached a desired proficiency.
At puberty he was operated on; an adjustment to the cortex which took from him the ability to feel emotion. Never would he know hate or love, hope or fear, joy or despair. Freed of the hampering effect of such disturbing afflictions he could concentrate solely on the expansion of his mind and the trained talent he possessed. One which gave the Cyclan its awesome power.
"Necho, come here." The boy had scored high. Now Hine gestured to the shapes lying before him. "One is different from the others. Which?"
A boy, awed, would spend long minutes looking for the difference which he couldn't see, too timid to accuse his master of deception. Another would find a difference where none existed; doubting his own judgment.
Necho said, "Master, they are the same."
Silently Hine reached out and turned the pieces over. One held an indentation.
"Master, I thought-"
"You assumed," corrected Hine. "You did not listen or, listening, you failed to understand. Twelve strokes of the birch will impress the lesson on your memory. That and going foodless to bed."
A harsh punishment, but a good tool needed to be tempered. One day, perhaps, the boy would become an acolyte and even be elevated to a cyber. Once accepted, there was no limit as to how high he could rise. Given time he could become the Cyber Prime himself and certainly, if proven worthy, he would end as a unit of Central Intelligence.
As would all who wore the Seal.
The reward of a lifetime of service when, the body failing, the brain would be removed from the skull and immersed in a vat of nutrient fluids. There, in series with countless others, it would live on, aware, conscious, working to solve problem after problem until the smallest secret and the largest had been made clear. Until all things were united into a common whole.
The aim and object of the Cyclan.
Higher in the building Cyber Buis sat neither brooding nor permitting himself the indulgence of memory. Such things were the natural irritations of youth, and between himself and Hine stretched half a century of dedicated effort. Time enough for him to have climbed to the summit of the Cyclan on Juba and more than time for him to have sharpened his talent to the fine point of keenness which gave its own reward in terms of mental achievement. The only true pleasure any cyber could know aside from the heady intoxication of communication with Central Intelligence.
A time when the engrafted Homochon elements would be stimulated by the Samatachazi formulae and mental contact achieved with the tremendous complex lying at the heart of the headquarters of the Cyclan. A form of near-instantaneous mental transmission which bridged the gulf between the stars and made all cybers basically one.
But such communication was used only as a necessity aside from the regular schedules and there was other work to be done. Buis glanced at the sheaf of reports lying on his desk, flipping papers as each was scanned, its content assessed, correlated, intermeshed, with the whole. Others would have filtered the data but still the sheaf was thick, for who could ever be certain that some minor detail, some apparent trifle might not hold the key to a far more complex situation.
A button sank beneath his finger as Buis spoke into a recorder.
"Action on report 354782. Manufacture of synthetic drug HXT 239Z to be discontinued. Hints to be spread of mutations discovered in Jelman's Sickness. New drug HXT 5Y to be introduced as a substitute for that withdrawn."
At double the price and the bankruptcy of the plant packaging the discontinued compound. Another would get the contract and the Cyclan would gain not only wealth but a grateful client. And, as a bonus, a lesson would have been taught to those who opposed accepting the services of the Cyclan and the advice the cybers gave.
A small victory, perhaps, but battles were won because of small victories and, with the battles, the war.
Another sheet, a decision, another, a momentary hesitation as Buis assimilated the information it contained. Data apparently unrelated to another problem but facts which filled a gap. Mentally he reviewed the situation, building from a known base, extrapolating the logical sequence of events, selecting those of the highest order of probability and arriving at a prediction which was as certain as anything could be in a universe afflicted by unknown factors.
His talent, the ability of every cyber, the skill of being able to take a handful of facts and, from them, extrapolate what most likely would take place. The service offered to those in high places where decisions needed to be made. To those in industry who had to gain knowledge of market trends. To politicians and rulers and those who aspired to power. The subtle, unseen, hidden power which guided the destiny of worlds as if they had been puppets on a string.
More sheets, scanned, put by; situations which could wait, others developing as planned, items of no relevant interest Then one which caught his attention.
Into a communicator Buis said, "Mharle, with reference to report 382534. A client requesting computer time at the Cha'Nang Institute. One concerned with spectroscopic determination."
A moment then, "I have it. In view of the general directive I judged it best to refer the matter to you."
"As you should. The report gives no name."
"None was given."
"Elaborate."
"It was a simple inquiry as to available computer time as appertaining to a stellar search to match an existing spectrogram. The information given was, of necessity, of a general nature such as cost per minute of use of installation and the probability of narrowing the search by eliminating obviously unsuitable stars. The usual fee for such initial inquiries was paid. The inquiry was not unusual in the light of the commerce attached to Juba. Only the general directive made it significant."
"No name? No address?"
"No."
"And, of course, no description? As I expected." Buis's voice carried no hint of irritation but mentally he made a note to reassess Mharle's standing. The man had overlooked the obvious. While it was true that a port with heavy traffic could expect such inquiries yet they would originate from shipping companies or from captains owning their own vessels. Neither would make idle investigations. And neither would fail to have registered their names so as to offset the initial fee against the cost of any later search.