"To be efficient the council must be a viable entity. Surely you can see that? If we are to become static then it will be good-bye to all progress. Tell me, how would you have felt when young if you had known that there would never be an opportunity for you to achieve your ambition?"

She met his eyes. "I wouldn't have liked it."

"Exactly."

"Are you suggesting that each council member retires on reaching a certain term of office?"

"I think it a fair suggestion," he said. "We are entering a period of potential unrest and should have younger minds to deal with the problems which will arise. You are a clever woman, Mada. I think you can see which path is best for you to follow."

To how many had he carried the suggestion? Krell gone and how many more to follow? Frightened by a shadow, terrified by the hint of a suggestion. But the council ruled and Vargas was only one man. If the Technarch sought dictatorial power then she wasn't going to help him get it. Even so it would be wise to be discreet.

"I'll think about it," she said. "There is truth in what you say; the young should be given their chance. But what of those who retire? Will they continue to-"

"As before," he said quickly. "I assure you, my dear, that you won't lose a thing. Just the right to vote. Everything else will be as before." He rose, teeth bright in a smile. "I'm glad we had this talk. I like you, Mada, and I would hate to see you hurt. Be wise. You won't regret it."

"As long as you promise that nothing will change? Aside from the vote, I mean?"

"You have my word on it." He glanced at the watch on his wrist. "I must hurry. There is a council meeting due. Are you joining us?"

"No. I want to think."

"Good for you, Mada." Again he touched her cheek. "Nice," he said. "Very nice."

A dog, she thought as he left. A slavering hound running at the heels of his master and hoping for a share of the feast. More. Doing Vargas's work for him; seeing the members of the council, whispering, setting one against the other. How long before he would turn assassin?

* * *

Yendhal said, "I am sorry, sire, but I am doing the best I can. The tests are stringent but essential if I am to offer more than an eighty percent chance of success."

One chance in five-it wasn't enough. Others had taken it, those more desperate than himself, but the odds were too low. Vargas scowled as he stared at the screen and the miniature figure depicted on it. Even via the electronic transmission he could sense the man's fear.

"Five and a quarter minutes," said the physician. "He has been lucky but it cannot last."

"Why not?" Vargas turned from the screen. "Isn't luck an essential factor for survival? It could be that you are looking for the wrong attributes. Why can't you test them for luck?"

"If they are lucky they wouldn't be here," said Yendhal flatly. "That is the first thing to consider if we are to seek their relative potential in that area, As for the rest, how do we test them? On the spin of a coin? On their ability to select certain favorable combinations? And, if they test high, wouldn't the sequel invalidate the findings?"

"Doesn't the same objection apply to the labyrinth?"

"No. They do not know what the final outcome will be if they survive. If they did it would affect their performance." Yendhal glanced at the screen. "Six minutes."

Vargas was ironic. "Still lucky?"

"Luck has an important part to play in survival," admitted the physician. "But it is too intangible a factor for us to be able to isolate. If a man lives he is lucky because he has lived. But it takes more than luck to pass through the tests I have devised." He grunted as a red light flashed from the screen. "Six and a quarter minutes. Failure."

Another one, thought Vargas. And one of how many? Would the result always be the same? Had Yendhal made certain that it would be so?

"Perhaps the test is too severe," he said. "Would lessening the dangers show an advantage?"

"It would increase the chance of survival, true, but it would invalidate what we are trying to determine."

Vargas was insistent. "A series of tests then, each harder than the ones before."

"That would prove nothing except the ability of the subject to learn from experience."

"And that is not survival?"

"It is," admitted Yendhal, "but we are not testing to determine educational ability. As I explained the survival instinct is inherent in the basic pattern. A man can be taught but it is not the same. I assure you, sire, I know what I am doing. Each subject has been selected on the basis of tissue affinity. If you wish I could operate tomorrow but-"

"Only with a success factor of eighty percent?"

"That is so, sire. I strongly suggest that you allow me to continue my researches on the present basis. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain by waiting. The laws of probability must, in time, produce a perfect specimen."

Vargas glowered around the subterranean laboratories. Yendhal was in his element here, a man devoid of morals or conscience, happy to pursue his experiments and, perhaps, forgetful of the main object. Such a man would take no account of the passage of time.

To reassure himself he said, "There is no doubt in your mind as to the suitability of the subjects?"

"No, sire, none. The people of Loame are unique in that they show a total lack of the stress factors induced by higher civilizations. From birth they have eaten a mainly vegetable diet, lived in a relatively gentle environment and have had none of the strains of competition. The results show in their medically perfect physiques. Comparisons with opposed types from Technos show a remarkable diminution in organic wear and arterial blockage. Unfortunately the same environment which has provided the stress free condition has worked against a high survival factor. They are like domestic cattle as compared to those running wild. The domestic types are more healthy in every way."

"But are more easily killed?"

"Exactly, sire. If they were not, the war with Loame would be far different from what it is. The mere fact they agree to the tribute is proof that their natural resistance is low. On a planetary scale war is, of course, an analog of an individual infection. A healthy organism will resist the invader-by healthy I mean one with a high survival factor. It will produce antibodies to fight on its behalf. Loame has not done so. And so we have the apparent paradox of a people perfectly healthy in body but hopelessly unable to resist the infection of war. For our purposes they are ideal."

* * *

At four in the afternoon the palace was a teeming hive of activity with people streaming through the lower chambers, supplicants, examinees, minor officials intent on their business. An ant hill, thought Major Keron dispassionately. A hive. A community of which the whole was greater than the parts.

The activity fell away as he rose to the upper levels, changing elevators to rise still higher, the cage humming as it rose into silence. A guard checked his credentials, another guided him down a mesh of passages, pointing as he reached a turn.

"The third door along, Major. Knock and wait."

Frowning, he obeyed. The panel swung open and a youth, bright in scarlet, gestured for him to enter.

Ruen stood at the far side of the room.

"Major Keron?"

"Yes." Keron stared about the room. "I was summoned to appear before Cyber Ruen."

"I am he. Will you sit?"

Keron obeyed. The acolyte glided silently from the room. For a moment the two men stared at each other, Keron frankly curious, the cyber calculating as he studied his visitor. A typical product of Technos culture, he thought. A man who considered himself to be highly intelligent because he had passed various exams, not suspecting that wisdom, intelligence and book learning were not the same.