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."

He waited outside, blocking the passage as Dumarest made to return the way he had come.

"No. This way."

Another corridor, another turn and a door faced with a single star in glowing yellow. The guard halted, pointing with his club.

"Go in there and wait."

It was a bleak chamber fitted with a single long bench and an inner door. Three men sat uncomfortably on the bench. All had olive skins and were naked but for shorts. Ten minutes crawled past and the inner door opened, a uniformed guard jerking his head at the man closest to the end of the bench.

"Inside, you. Close up the rest."

Fifteen minutes later the same thing happened. The remaining man next to Dumarest licked his lips. His skin bore a faint sheen and he almost stank of fear.

"What's this all about?" he whispered. "I was restless, couldn't sleep, and thought I'd take a shower. A guard grabbed me and led me here. You?"

"Almost the same."

"What do they want with us? That guard acted like I was a prisoner or something. I tried to explain but he didn't want to know. I-" He broke off as the door opened. "Well, I guess I'd better go."

Twenty minutes passed and then it was Dumarest's turn. The inner room contained a wide desk, an angled spotlight, a hard chair and a panel of electronic equipment. Two guards stood like statues against the rear wall. The one who had summoned Dumarest stood just behind the wooden chair. At the desk sat a dark-haired, sleek looking individual with a thin, lined face and penetrating eyes.

He gestured toward the hard chair. "Sit. Your name?"

"Hgar."

"Your grower?"

"Yaltoun."

"His address on Loame?"

"Seventh decant, segment eight."

"And you wanted to go to the toilet, right?"

"Yes" said Dumarest, and added, "Sir."

The officer nodded. "That is better. My name, incidentally, is Keron. Major Keron of the Security Division. You have heard of me?"

"No, sir. I haven't."

"No," mused Keron. "Of course not. How could you have?" He sat back and rested both hands on the desk before him. They were small, white, womanish in their slenderness. "The law of averages states that out of each thousand men some will not conform to a regular pattern. You did not drink the wine. Why not?"

"I've a poor head for wine," said Dumarest. "And my stomach was upset. I find it unpleasant to drink at the best of times."