A question which held familiar echoes. Althea had posed it-how many others?

Dumarest said, "You are telling me you believe it better to travel than to arrive."

"For some, yes. For the Terridae, certainly."

A confession and Dumarest wondered why Volodya had made it. The room gave the answer as did the scattered chessmen lying on the floor.

He said, "From the beginning you have been playing a part. Using me for your own purposes."

"Of course. Does that annoy you?" Volodya shrugged, "How else to break the impasse I faced? The Council was old and determined to cling to power. I had no support and no reason for any direct action. You provided them both. It was expedient to pretend to believe you while altering the balance of power. To back you and so gain the adherence of those to whom you were a hero. Once the Council was deposed it was still politic to give you open support. I wanted to avoid all danger of being accused of betrayal. Failure, when it came, had to originate with you."

"You were certain I would fail?"

"It was only a matter of giving you enough time."

"And now?"

"You have had enough time."

"I see." Dumarest rose and crossed the room to where the scattered chessmen lay bright against the carpet. He picked them up, set them in place on the board and, without looking at Volodya, said, "You had it all worked out from the beginning, didn't you? Move after move just like a game of chess. Forcing others to move as you wanted. But you forget something." He turned to face the other man, his face as cold and as hard as the pieces on the board. "Others can play the same game."

"You?"

"Yes," said Dumarest. "Me."

The wine was forgotten, the cakes, the small pretenses which had masked savage determinations. Volodya and Dumarest faced each other like opponents in a ring. Fighters armed with weapons more complex than knives.

"The Corps," said Volodya. "That gang of thugs you've taught to fight. Do you think them a match for my guards?"

"They don't have to be."

"Then-"

"A mistake," said Dumarest. "One of your first. You permitted the formation of the Corps, but you had no real choice. To deny the young a chance to prepare themselves for the Event would be to admit you didn't think it would happen. But you instructed your nephew to join so as to keep you informed. Another mistake; he grew to like his new companions."

"The badge," said Volodya bitterly. "The uniform. The rank. The drill."

"Bait," said Dumarest. "Empires have been founded with less."

"As you would know. What other errors did I make?"

"You underestimated the power of a dream. You still underestimate it. Probably because your own was small. You wanted to become the ruler of Zabul and you've achieved that ambition. The committee is a farce and we both know it. It may amuse you to manipulate the members but they are a facade to maintain a pretense of democratic function. If you hadn't realized that then you are less shrewd than I thought. But others have more ambition than to lord it over a tiny, artificial world. They want what the galaxy can give them. They want Earth!"

As he wanted it; the need blazed from his face, his eyes. Volodya had never seen that yearning before and, for a moment, he was awed by its sheer intensity-the need and the determination to achieve it.

"I've promised them the Event," said Dumarest. "Do you want me to tell them you deny it? Can you imagine what they will do?"

"I can handle any insurrection."

"How? By stationing a guard at each terminal? On every junction and staging point? In every installation? How many would you need? And how can you force people to tend the hydroponic farms and maintain air and power?"

"That threat was used before," said Volodya coldly. "It suited me to persuade the Council to yield to it, but now things are not the same. While I rule in Zabul there will be no defiance. To give in to force is to surrender to the mob. Do you advocate anarchy?"

"Not here."

"I'm glad to hear it. At least we agree on that. And don't imagine the situation you postulate would be allowed to continue. The old outnumber the young and are aware of the need of discipline if the environment is to be maintained. As were the original builders."

They had incorporated pipes to convey paralyzing gas to each essential installation, a precaution, as were the airtight doors, the monitoring alarms, the scanners set throughout the complex of passages and rooms. These details Dumarest had learned from his study of the plans. He said, "Wires can be cut, pipes blocked, doors jammed." Volodya brushed this aside. "None of the Terridae would do such a thing. It is a measure of your desperation that you even mention it."

"Yes," said Dumarest. "A good word. But a desperate man can be dangerous. Tell me, if a ship of the Cyclan were to appear and demand I be handed over to them what would you do?"

"That depends."

"On whether or not they threatened harm to Zabul? Supposing they did. Supposing any ship came with the same threat and the same demand. Would you defy them?"

"Would you expect me to?"

"No. That is why I had to make sure it wouldn't happen. Why you wouldn't have the choice." A phone rested on a small table against a wall. Dumarest crossed to it, picked up the handset and looked at Volodya. "A demonstration," he said. "Just to show you how wrong a man can be." To the instrument he snapped, "Captain Medwin! Immediately." A pause, then, "Operation Five. Commence!"

The phone made a small click as he replaced it in its cradle. Nothing had changed and yet Volodya felt the tension. A knotting of the stomach and an impression as if he stood on the edge of a chasm. Bluff, it had to be a bluff, what could Dumarest do?

But why bluff if it was to be so quickly proven an empty threat?

"What do you want?"

"Wait," said Dumarest.

The man was sweating despite his outward calm. The threat of sabotage, despite his swift rejection, had made an effect. Volodya was a product of his environment. To him as to all the Terridae the safety of Zabul was paramount. The weakness which made them vulnerable to any demand.

"Soon," said Dumarest. "Now!"

It was nothing, the barest flicker of the lights, but it was enough to send Volodya racing to slam his hand against a button.

"Guards! To me! Guards!"

The flicker quickened as men burst through the door. Young, strong, wearing pants and shirts of dull olive, each bearing a club, each armed with a gun capable of spouting a cloud of stunning gas. These were short-range weapons but effective enough in limited areas and without the danger of missile-guns or lasers. Two of them ran to flank Dumarest where he stood, another staying at the door, the fourth halting before Volodya.

"Sir?"

"Hold him." Volodya gestured toward Dumarest. "Stun him if he attempts to move. Send to the generators and see what is going on. Halt all movement and-"

"Why waste time?" Dumarest glanced at the lights, now flickering faster than before. "And why create a panic? An interrupter mechanism has been placed in the wiring and will continue to function for another few minutes. It was activated by my order as you heard. Unless I rescind it the interrupter will fuse at the end of its cycle and burn out half a mile of conduit. Nothing serious-but other devices could be. What do you want to do?"

A bluff, Volodya was sure of it, but the risk was too great to take a chance. The flickering was bad enough-anything interrupting the smooth flow of life in Zabul was cause for alarm. And if irritation should pile on irritation he could guess what would happen.

"I yield," he snapped. Then, to the guards, "Leave us!" At least it had been his men who had answered his summons. To Dumarest he said, "Am I to beg?"

"No." Dumarest reached the phone, spoke, put it down. As the flickering halted he said, "All I want from you is one thing. I want to talk to a previous custodian of the Archives. The oldest one you have."