At such times of confusion the Cyclan came into its own.

Had Ruen been able to feel amusement he would have smiled at Vargas's insistence on personal loyalty. A cyber was loyal only to the Cyclan. He was a part of the Great Design and against that all the petty desires of transient rulers were nothing. Vargas would fall. His successors would lean even more on the advice he had to offer. Subtly they would grow dependent and, in time, another sector of space would be under Cyclan domination.

He turned back to the computer on the desk, his fingers dancing over the keys, eyes reading the spinning dials as they settled to form words, spinning again as he tripped the release. A mass of routine information, a thousand items of data to one of potential value, and he would not recognize its significance until he saw it. Hence he must see them all, from Cest, Wen, Hardish and now from Loame.

Fifteen minutes later he rose and stepped to the door of an inner room. An acolyte, young, totally dedicated, rose as Ruen looked into the chamber.

"Master?"

"I am retiring. Total seal. I am not to be disturbed for any reason."

The acolyte bowed. "It is understood, master."

Ruen turned and crossed the outer room to the door of his own, private cubicle. It was small, holding a narrow cot and little else, a windowless niche devoid of decoration. The inside of the door had been fitted with a heavy bolt. Ruen threw it and then touched the thick bracelet locked about his left wrist. From it streamed invisible energies, a zone of force which made it impossible for any electronic eye or ear to operate in or focus on the vicinity. His privacy assured, he lay supine on the cot.

Closing his eyes he relaxed, concentrating on the Samatchi formula, ridding his mind of the irritation of external stimuli. He was deaf, numb and, had he opened his eyes, blind. Triggered by the formula the Homochon elements grafted in his brain woke to active life and, suddenly, he was not alone.

He was a part of the Central Intelligence, the gigantic organic computer at the heart of the Cyclan, the massed brains which resided in a world of pure intelligence. He was of them and with them in an encompassing gestalt which diminished time and distance, mind merging with mind in organic communication so nearly instantaneous that the speed of ultra-radio was by comparison the merest crawl.

Like water from a sponge the information was absorbed from his brain,

The man Dumarest was on Loame? You are positive?

Ruen emphasized his conviction.

And has departed to Choal?

If the information received from the computer had not lied the man he had been instructed to watch for had done exactly that. But his training qualified the answer. Lacking personal knowledge he could only relate the information available.

He must be apprehended. Agents will be instructed to intercept him on Choal. Others will watch on a predicted basis of fifty percent probability of movement. You, yourself must be even more alert. It is of prime importance that the man be constrained.

The subject discussed was dismissed. Brevity was the hallmark of such communication, but other matters needed clarification.

Cybers have been sent at the invitation of the ruler of Rhaga. You will divert any attempt at expansion in that direction. Extrapolation of the civil unrest on Hardish shows that insurrection will break out within one month. Acceleration of the program designed for Technos is desirable.

The rest was sheer intoxication.

As communication ceased Ruen felt that he was suspended in an infinity of diamond glitters, each tiny fragment of sparkling light the cold, clear flame of a living intelligence, and each aligned, one to the other so that all were composed of a universal whole, an incredible vastness which stretched across the entire galaxy. And, at the center, unified by nearly invisible filaments of brilliance, reposed the glowing heart of Central Intelligence, the hub and mind of the Cyclan.

Voices echoed in Ruen's mind as he drifted in the glowing vastness, scenes, snatches of unfamiliar shapes, alien, unknown, and yet somehow belonging to the gestalt of which he was a part. The overspill of other minds, other memories, the interplay of living intelligences all serving the organization of which he was a fragment.

One day he would be more than that. At the end of his active life he would be taken to where the assembled brains rested miles deep beneath the surface of an ancient world. There he would join them, freed of all physical limitations, resting in a world unhampered by bodily ills, his detached brain joined with those of others there, living and aware for countless years.

It was the highest reward any cyber could hope to obtain. To become an actual part of Central Intelligence. To work for the complete domination of the galaxy and to solve all the problems of the universe.

The aim and object of the Cyclan.

* * *

It could have been a theater or a concern hall but Dumarest guessed that it was a lecture room, massed seats facing a dais backed with screens and boards, the low roof grilled with speakers, soft light diffused from the juncture of walls and ceiling. Cramped in the third row he turned, looking over a sea of olive faces to the rear of the hall. The doors were closed, locked no doubt, but there was no sign of the guards who had ushered them from the ship and across the field, down a tunnel into this place. No sign of the red and black uniforms but he knew they would be there. Out of sight behind loopholes, perhaps, or waiting in the corridor outside.

Beside him a man stirred, restless, anxious.

"What are they going to do with us?" he muttered. "Why are we here?"

"I'm hungry," said another further down the row. "When are we going to get fed?"

"What are we waiting for?" said someone from behind.

Like the rustle of ripe corn in a breeze the murmur of questions swept over the auditorium.

Dumarest ignored them, conscious of the rising tension. They had ridden packed like fish in a barrel, doped with quick-time and given no food. Hardened to travel he had slept most of the way but his companions had spent the time in worried speculation. Now cold, tired and hungry, they were growing restless. The murmur died as a man came from the side door and strode to the center of the dais.

He was a balding, plump, middle-aged man in civilian clothes with a ruddy face and a benign expression. He stood facing the assembly, hands locked behind his back, exactly as if he were a lecturer about to teach his students.

He said, "Welcome to Technos. I appreciate that you have had an uncomfortable journey and that you are probably worried as to your future. It is that I am going to explain, but first, are there any among you who are the sons or relatives of growers?"

One man lifted his hand. Dumarest did not.

"One only?" The speaker looked over the auditorium. "Thank you, sir. Will you please rise and go to the back of the hall. Right through the door which you will find open." He waited until the man had gone. "One only. It seems that the growers of Loame are very selective in their choosing. That man is the first in the past four contingents. Natural enough, I suppose, but hardly fair to their workers."

It was, thought Dumarest, cleverly done. Without making an issue of the matter the man had clearly demonstrated how unfairly those present had been treated. He relaxed a little, guessing what was to come.

"And now," continued the lecturer, "I would like to dispose of some of your preconceived notions. You are not going to be sold into slavery. You are not going to be slaughtered for meat and neither are you going to be used for medical research. The sole aim and object of you coming here is for the purpose of education. Let us, for a moment, talk about war. What is war? The efforts of one power to force its will on another. You may have been told that Technos is at war with Loame. This is not true. If it were you would now be in uniform, fighting and dying to protect the land of others. Instead you are here, safe, warm and comfortable. Soon you will be going back home."