Dumarest turned, switching off the light and gently opening the door of the bathroom. Beyond lay a chamber dim with subdued illumination, a bed resting in the center, a wardrobe to one side. From an outer room came the sound of voices.

"My lord, my extrapolations show that there is a probability of ninety-two percent that insurrection will break out on Hardish within a few weeks. I advise that extra troops be sent from Cest and Wen to reinforce the occupying garrisons."

"I know what you advise, Ruen." Vargas was impatient. "But there are things of greater importance. Five members of the council have agreed to retire and three others will probably join them. Brekla has secured a favorable vote to grant me extraordinary powers for the duration of the war. How long will it be before I am in absolute command?"

"You are that in fact if not in name already, my lord." Ruen's even monotone was in direct contrast to the Technarch's emotional outburst. "The prediction that a cabal will be formed to act against you is of a very low order to probability, seven point eight percent. It cannot be ignored but the probability can be lowered to two point three percent if Dehnar is sent on a special mission to Loame."

Vargas scowled. "And to eliminate it totally?"

"That is not possible, my lord. The potential danger will always remain. Even if you destroy all the members of the council a junta of the military could seek power at your expense. The most that can be accomplished is to reduce the probability factor to a point where it can be safely ignored."

His calmness infuriated the Technarch. How could the cyber be so cold, so calculating? Events were dark clouds piled before a rushing wind, sweeping relentlessly toward him, monstrous with hidden dangers. Restlessly he prowled his room, his brain trying to grapple with a dozen facts, make a score of extrapolations and failing to determine even one. Now it seemed that the euphorias had lost their power to soothe. Sleep was a thing of nightmare to be taken in small doses and even the darkness brought by the closing of his eyes held peculiar terrors.

The things which could happen in such a moment of inattention! A laser could blast his life, the roof fall, an assassin strike in a host of ways. And Ruen spoke of danger to be safely ignored!

His hands felt sticky, slimed with sweat and he headed towards the bathroom, caution slowing his feet. Yet he was reluctant to summon the guard. The apartment had been checked before he had entered with Ruen and, each time he called the man he risked a blast from the weapon hired to protect him.

Ruen watched his hesitation, gauging the extent of the Technarch's fear, feeling the glow of mental achievement at the success of his predictions. Vargas was medically insane and would soon totally disintegrate. Vargas would leave chaos: the council disrupted and the state in turmoil. From the wreckage he, Ruen, would fashion a new council, guiding it with his advice, steering it the way it must go.

"My lord," he said as Vargas reached the door of the bedroom, "let me summon your guard. It is not wise to take chances."

"Could an assassin come through the walls?"

"The probability is extremely low, my lord, yet it does exist." Make him afraid of darkness, of shadows, of the very beat of his own heart. A man poisoned by terror was unable to think, to plan and determine. A creature of blind, unthinking emotive reaction was a predictable tool. "The guard, my lord?"

He came at the call, laser in hand, eyes searching the rooms. It was a ritual he had performed a thousand times before and he acted with a trained economy of movement. A foot opened the bathroom door, lights blooming in automatic response, the panel swinging back as he entered.

Dumarest struck with the heavy bottle of lotion he had snatched from a shelf.

He dropped it as the guard slumped, snatching the laser and springing through the door into the other room. Vargas screamed his terror, hands lifted to protect his face, eyes bulging with the fear of imminent death.

"Be quiet!" There had been two voices. Dumarest ran to the door of the bedroom, narrowing his eyes as he saw the scarlet of the cyber's robe. "You! In here. Quickly!"

Calmly Ruen obeyed, standing beside where Vargas had slumped in a faint, his eyes bright within the shadowed sockets of his skull. "Your name must be Dumarest," he said. "You are making a grave mistake."

"Perhaps."

"This man is the Technarch. How do you hope to escape?"

Dumarest ignored the question. He had managed to wash the dirt from his face and hands but had been unable to do anything about his clothes. He stepped to the wardrobe, sliding back the doors, tensing as he saw a threatening figure. It was a reflection; the cabinet was backed with mirrors. He turned as he noticed the movement of Ruen's hands.

"No. Keep your hands away from your sleeves. Away, I say!"

"You are being irrational," said the cyber, obeying. "Logical deduction should tell you that you have no hope of avoiding the guards." He watched as Dumarest changed, tearing clothes from the cabinet, dressing awkwardly but keeping the laser trained on the scarlet figure. "If you leave here with that weapon the probability of your being killed is ninety-nine percent. Certainty. Your only hope for life is to surrender yourself to me."

"Inside!" Dumarest gestured to the wardrobe. It had a catch and would hold for a while. "Quickly!"

"And if I refuse?"

"That would be illogical. I am a desperate man and it would be simpler to kill you than to argue. Your hands!" snapped Dumarest sharply as Ruen lifted them to his wide sleeves. "I shall not warn you again."

"You are desperate without cause. Yield yourself to me and I guarantee that none on Technos will harm you."

"Move!" Dumarest closed the panel as the cyber entered the wardrobe. He engaged the catch and glanced at Vargas. Unconscious the man was no problem. He had a few minutes at least before the alarm could be given.

Opening the door, he stepped into the corridor outside. The Technarch's paranoia had kept it free of guards. At the far end a man in red and black glanced at him, curious but reassured by Dumarest's air of confidence.

Fifteen seconds later he ran directly into Major Keron and six of his men.

* * *

Yendhal said, "I want you to be certain as to what we are doing. You have heard of lie detectors?"

"Yes," said Dumarest.

"Then you will understand what this is." The physician gestured toward the assembled apparatus. "It is a development of my own with certain improvements over the standard model. Electrodes will register the tensions of your body, the degree of emitted sweat, the minute, muscular contractions impossible to avoid when uttering a lie. The truth needs no consideration and can be spoken without hesitation. A lie, no matter how well rehearsed, requires concentration and there is usually a small but measurable delay. You understand?"

"Yes," said Dumarest again. He was naked, strapped to a chair, electrodes fastened to a dozen points of his body, more sprouting from a band of metal about his head.

Calmly he stared about the laboratory. The place had a harsh, clinical smell and looked more like a hospital than an interrogation room. Yendhal, fussing over his equipment, seemed more like a schoolmaster about to conduct a routine experiment than an inquisitor. But his eyes held a ruthless dedication which betrayed his true nature.

"There is one other thing." Yendhal rested his hand on a tube aimed directly at a point between Dumarest's eyes. "This is a laser. If you lie it will burn a hole in your brain." He looked at someone beyond the range of Dumarest's vision. "Commence."

"Your name?"

"Earl Dumarest."

"Your planet of origin?"

"Earth."

"How did you arrive on Technos?" The voice was cold, emotionless, the studied modulation of a machine. Dumarest answered without hesitation.