Urich Volodya was waiting for him in the lock.

He stood very tall and determined, two of his guards at hand. Young men armed with clubs and guns firing gouts of stunning gas. Short-range weapons but effective in limited areas. Kusche was nowhere to be seen.

"I'm sorry," said Volodya when Dumarest had opened his helmet. "I must ask you to come with me."

"Ask? Have I a choice?"

"No." Volodya sounded regretful. "I could wish things were otherwise but circumstances leave no alternative. Please remove your suit. I must warn you that the guards have orders to restrain you if you are foolish enough to attempt resistance."

Words well chosen-he could resist but never escape.

As Dumarest returned the suit to its slot he said, "I assume that Cyber Lim has persuaded the Council to hand me over."

"That is correct."

"Did you agree with the decision?"

"I am not of the Elders."

"Which isn't answering my question," said Dumarest. "Or perhaps you did answer it after all. And the price? You surely aren't handing me over for nothing?" He turned as if to make a last inspection of the suit, then smiled at Volodya. "You didn't answer. If you sold me cheap you made a mistake. After all, with me goes your hope of ever living to see the Event."

"So you say."

"Why do you think I'm so important to the Cyclan?" Dumarest left the question hanging as he moved toward the door. Volodya stepped back, one of the guards following his example. The other, lingering, went down as Dumarest stunned him with a blow to the neck.

"You fool! Guard-"

Volodya's voice died as Dumarest jumped through the doorway and slammed the panel shut behind him. The combination lock spun uselessly beneath his hand. One of the triple doors opened as the guard came from behind, a writhing cloud of greenish vapor spouting from his gun. It reached Dumarest as, holding his breath, he flung open the door and dived through. Hitting the floor he rolled, sucking air, rising to lunge at the second door. Behind him Volodya snapped his impatience.

"Wait, you fool! Hit the gas and you'll be affected. Don't fire again until he is facing you!"

The guard's inexperience won Dumarest time and he put it to good advantage. The final door yielded and he raced down a passage, turned at a junction, ran on to turn again and lose himself in a complex maze. One stranger to him than to the residents of Zabul but even they would need time to isolate and corner him.

How to escape?

No-how to survive?

A woman stared at him as he rounded a corner calling after him as she recognized who he was.

"Earl! Wait! I want to ask you what the Shining Ones do when-"

The question broke off, unfinished, as he ran on.

Ahead he caught the flash of movement and veered down a nearby corridor, to emerge in a chamber set with arching beams and windows which gave onto a misty vastness apparently as spacious as the nave of a tremendous cathedral. Then he readjusted his orientation and knew the vision to be the product of illusion. The scenes were set behind lensed windows which expanded visual horizons and provided the stuff of endless yearnings.

A moment later he had traversed the area, leaving those enamored with distance hardly aware that he had come and gone.

More movement and the sharp blast of a horn, then he was heading down a long slope past windows set with wide-eyed faces. A cage which parted its door became an elevator which whisked him down to lower levels. An area of chill and softness in which echoes died and his pursuers could be within touch and still remain unheard. To either side caskets rested like waiting sarcophagi and he checked them as he ran, counting, watching, halting when he saw the one he had been looking for.

Althea's casket, and he reached it, fighting for breath, chest heaving as he lifted the lid and stared at the soft padding inside. A moment in which he fought the temptation to climb inside and close the lid and seal himself in a private heaven. One he knew could only be the short prelude to a lasting hell.

Stooping, he lifted the knife from his boot and thrust it up and under the upper rim of the casket to the right of the opened expanse. It lanced into the padding and stayed there invisible to a casual eye. Closing the lid he ran on.

"Halt!" The voice roared flatly before him. "You cannot escape!"

A fact Dumarest knew but the guard went down as a fist slammed into his stomach and Dumarest snatched his club and gun before racing on. Time won to put distance between himself and the casket. Time to head toward the reclamation plant where more guards were waiting. One lifted his gun and fired and Dumarest felt his senses swim as green vapor wreathed his face and head in a stifling cloud. Through it the guards were indistinguishable blurs that ducked as he lifted his hand and arm to send the gun flying to ring on a metal stanchion.

They ducked again as he ran at them with the club and fired as he staggered, shrouding him in emerald mist, watching as, already unconscious, he sank to sprawl helplessly on the floor.

Chapter Thirteen

Dumarest woke to find himself lying naked on a narrow cot in a small room with a barred grill for a door. A cell which could not be mistaken for what it was. The cot lay in a corner and he touched the wall at his side, feeling the faint tingle of transmitted vibration. The quiver grew louder as he rested his ear against the metal: words, the sound of movement, the dull impact of masses colliding, but all merged into a susurration which robbed each of individual clarity.

Against it the clang of the opening door rang like bells.

Urich Volodya said, "It is useless to pretend you are unconscious. I know you are awake."

He stood beside the cot, haloed in a nimbus of light, seeming taller because of his position. One not so close as to be careless but close enough to display his confidence. A guard stood at the opened door, armed, alert, and Dumarest guessed others would be outside.

"Are you ill?" Volodya frowned as Dumarest rolled his head, gasping, pretending a weakness he did not feel. "The gas is harmless but you had a heavy dose." And it could affect those with unsuspected allergies in unusual ways. As Dumarest raised himself, slowly and with obvious effort, Volodya called, "A stimulant! Quickly!"

It came in a container of thin plastic material which would not shatter or hold an edge. A precaution Dumarest could appreciate even as he regretted the lost opportunity. Volodya, with death at his throat, could have provided a valuable hostage.

"Drink," he ordered. "Immediately!"

Dumarest obeyed, sipping the pale azure fluid, feeling strength well from his stomach as the drugs gave him chemical energy. As he finished the drink Volodya threw him a robe of pale amber material.

"Wear this."

Rising, Dumarest slipped on the robe. The fabric was thin, moulding itself to his body and reaching barely to mid-thigh. It was held by an adhesive band on the edge. As Volodya stepped toward the door Dumarest sat on the edge of the cot.

"You are to come with me," said Volodya. "To defy me would be futile and childish."

"I'm not defying you," said Dumarest. "But those who gave you your orders."

"The Council-"

"Are dancing to an alien tune. They obey the cyber and you know it. Which means you have become his willing servant. So much for the Guardian of Zabul."

"You have a choice," said Volodya coldly. "You can walk with dignity and pride or you can be dragged struggling every step of the way. Which is it to be?"

A hard man, thought Dumarest, leaning back to rest his shoulders against the wall. One who couldn't be pushed and who justified everything he did. To arrest a prisoner-a matter of obeying an order. To take him where directed-another order to be obeyed. But such a man would never have gained his position if he had been nothing more than an obedient machine. How to stimulate his ambition? His curiosity?