A communication needing no response. Ryon moved from the desk towards the center of the chamber, halting as light blossomed before him. As he watched the air became alive with a multitude of glowing points as a depiction of the galaxy came into being. A masterpiece of electronic magic, each mote of light held in a complex web of electromagnetic forces. With such diminution detail had to be lost but the stars were present and among them scarlet flecks glowed in scattered profusion.

The power of the Cyclan.

Each fleck represented a world which had lost its self-determination to become a part of the master-plan which would result in the total domination of the galaxy. Flecks which would spread and increase until all worlds worked together in a common unity. Then there would be an end to waste, ignorance, misdirected effort, squandered resources. An end to war, poverty, disease, the idiocy of emotional distraction. Culled of undesirable traits, ruled by reason, bred for genetic advantage, the race would achieve its true destiny.

The plan would work as it had been designed to work, the only variable was time. The only threat was that residing within the massed minds of Central Intelligence.

Too many of those minds had gone insane.

A creeping, insidious, progressive degeneration which had claimed thousands despite the most rigorous efforts to halt its progress. As yet neither a cure nor the cause was known. All affected brains had been destroyed.

To his invisible aide Ryon said, "Report on the progress of Unit R."

"Three hours ahead of schedule, Master."

A satisfying response. Those busy recording the contents of brains as yet unaffected by the strange malady knew the urgency of their task. To lift skeins of knowledge from their organic prisons and impress them on sensitive, sponge-like nodes of fabricated metallic substance. An experiment with tremendous potential. One which could solve the problem.

As it could have been solved long ago if Dumarest had been captured. He alone knew the correct order in which the fifteen biomolecular units comprising the affinity twin had to be assembled. The artificial symbiote which could give the Cyclan irresistible domination.

Injected into the bloodstream it nestled at the brain of the cortex and became intermeshed with the entire sensory and nervous system. The brain holding the dominant half would engulf that holding the submissive. Each move, all tactile sensation, every visual stimulus and muscular determination would be instantly absorbed and assimilated. The effect was to give the host containing the dominant half a new body. A promise and bribe impossible to resist.

An old man could become young and virile. A crone beautiful. The hopelessly crippled and diseased could be whole and healthy again. A cyber could control the body and mind of the ruler of a world and guide it to a chosen future. The deranged brains could be given a life separate from the complex of Central Intelligence, probed, tested, treated, the mental deterioration isolated and cured.

A secret lost on the bleak world of Raniang where Dumarest had died, incinerated in the incandescent fury of an atomic explosion. He had to have died – the probability was ninety-nine point nine percent. As near to certainty as could be achieved.

The sparkling lens of the galaxy died as Ryon turned from the spectacle. He paused at this desk, unwilling to waste even a moment and he had time to spare before joining the Council. A touch and paper spilled from a slot bearing a resume of items considered by Central Intelligence to have special significance. Quickly he scanned them, assimilating details of ship movements, market trends, economic pressures, oddities of personal behavior in important people, the report of a raid.

An item followed by the account of a man having been killed by a thrown knife.

The Sabata was small, old, scarred. Within the hull were leaking tanks, worn filters, aging components, the dirt and grime of careless maintenance. The crew matched the vessel; vulpines who scavenged space for what trade they could find, sharing the profits and bearing the stamp of those who lived on the edge of danger.

Men familiar to Dumarest as was the condition of the ship. He shrugged as Zehava scowled her displeasure.

"Free Traders don't worry about unessentials. A good generator, a sealed hull and fuel to get where they're going is enough. That and a profit at the end of every journey. Just make the best of it."

"It's disgusting!"

"It isn't an hotel though I've lived in some that were as bad."

"There's no room. The walls are filthy. The bed's too narrow." She looked at the bowl and faucet standing between the cot and bulkhead. "Am I supposed to shower in that?"

"There is no shower. You use a sponge and don't use too much water. The other facility is at the end of the passage. You eat in the salon." He added, "I'm going there now. Don't join me. I want to learn what I can."

News, gossip, speculation, all diverted if a beautiful woman provided distraction and claimed attention. Journeys were tiresome even when relieved of tedium by quicktime and shipboard romance was not unknown.

Anjuli lifted a hand in greeting as Dumarest entered the compartment. He was small, round, a barely healed wound on the side of his face. A victim of the raid, the wound received as he ran from the warehouse. His loss had been a half share of a rich consignment of oil.

"We're away at last," he said. "I thought we'd never get settlement of our claim."

"You could have left it to the Hausi."

"For a commission," agreed Anjuli. "Had there been space available we'd have done that but all ships were booked solid." By owners eager to shift their stock, traders to escape the possibility of another raid. "We were lucky to get passage at all. We'd have preferred better but this will do. Schill is a busy world and we'll get passage easy enough. Right, Yusef?"

His partner nodded. "Did you hear the rumor? They figure a transient had something to do with the raid. I can't see it myself – who would work with that scum? My guess is that the authorities are trying to shift attention from their own carelessness. That ship should have been blasted as it landed. It certainly should never have been allowed to leave."

"Collusion." A man spoke from where he sat in a corner of the salon. "The raiders might even be splitting the take."

"Why should they?" Romar, the other occupant of the salon voiced his opinion. "They're heading back home now. We should be following them."

"Where and with what?" Anjuli was bitter. "Even if we had a ship and men with guts we still don't know where to look for them."

"Wrong," said the man in the corner. "I was on Biju when it was raided last year. They ran a computer analysis and decided the raiders came from somewhere in the Lonagar Drift. Not that it did any good. No one did anything."

"As expected," said Yusef. "How about a game?"

"Not poker," said Roar. "Not on this journey." He looked at Dumarest. "No disrespect, but I was in the casino when you had your big win. Polletin was supposed to be good but you took him for all he had. Let's play something less savage."

"High, low, man in between?" Dumarest produced a pack of cards as Romar nodded. "Any objections to my running the bank?"

It was an easy, monotonous, simple game. Three cards dealt face up in any order but the middle card determined the result. Pairs canceled. If a pair included the middle card the bank won all bets. Three of a kind made a void hand.

Dumarest dealt a five to his left, a lord to his right, a ten in the middle. "Man in between." He matched the stake of the winners and dealt again. A seven to his left, a nine to his right, a three in the middle. "Low wins." A four to his left, a lady to his right, a four in the middle. "Bank wins." A trey to his left, another to his right, a deuce between. "Low wins." Three eights and avoid hand. Nines to left and right with a ten between. "High wins."