Doubt

His verification.

Urgency

His understanding.

Insistence

His assurance.

Emphasis

The rest was euphoria.

It was always the same after rapport. A period in which the Homochon elements sank back into quiescence and the machinery of the body began to realign itself with mental processes. Zao hovered in an illuminated void filled with strange memories and alien concepts, dreamlike experiences and flashes of hallucination touched with disorienting vistas-scraps of overflow from other intelligences, the throw-away waste of other minds.

Opening his eyes he looked at the bare whiteness of the ceiling, assessing the information given even as his own had been sucked from his mind as if it had been water placed against a sponge. To capture Dumarest was a matter of prime urgency-Central Intelligence had left him in no doubt. The man must be taken and held at any cost. Against that directive the needs of Rham Kalova held little weight and he and his entire planet could be sacrificed should the need arise.

How best to obey?

The field was sealed and no ships were expected for at least a week, nor were any waiting to depart. Men in rafts watched the holding and reported on Dumarest's every movement. Soon Kalova would commence his plan to wrest sector D 18 from the woman's possession and with it Dumarest, who was resident. He would hand the man over to Zao as promised.

Or would he?

The ceiling was marred with small, almost invisible cracks, a tracery which spread in interwound convolutions like the distorted web of a spider. A mesh which resembled the problem and which Zao assessed even as he considered the variables open to those on whom he must rely. Dumarest was clever and shrewd as he had proven more than once. A man with a seemingly uncanny ability to escape from traps and snares as if sensing their presence; able to manipulate circumstances to his own advantage.

Against him the Maximus had nothing but the power bestowed by the peculiarities of this world's culture.

Already he had shown himself less than able to assess a given situation; the woman was not the dominant factor in her relationship with Dumarest no matter how it might appear. Kalova was basing his assumption on her reaction to men of his own culture but Dumarest was a stranger. She would be slow to tire of him if she tired at all and, long before that, Dumarest would have made his own arrangements to survive.

The pattern of cracks led nowhere, lines merging to meet and branch in an elaborate maze which held no meaning. Zao turned his attention from them, unwilling to spare even the little it had demanded. This time, as never before in his entire life, he must not fail.

What if Dumarest should confide his secret to Kalova? The man would be unable to resist the promise of what was offered, yet even to hint a warning against it would be to arouse his curiosity and turn him against further help to the Cyclan. To kill him would be easy but what would it gain? To replace him? To threaten him with ruin?

How to use what was to gain what needed to be?

A problem which Zao pondered as he lay staring at the ceiling, at the pattern of thin cracks which spread like the skeined threads of a person's life. Factors considered, assessed, evaluated. Others formulated and all woven into bars of metaphorical steel, forging a trap from which Dumarest could never escape.

Chapter Eleven

Between low ridges of agate the water was a pool of emerald held in tiled walls decorated with grotesque fish and writhing creatures, the floor itself a pattern of shells and weed laced in suggestive designs. Dumarest followed it, swimming low, traversing the length of the enclosure before rising, droplets flying as he jerked the hair from his eyes, more cascading as he gripped the wall and reared from the water to sit on the edge.

"You swim well, Earl." Lynne Oldrant stared at him with unabashed admiration. "Fiona is to be envied."

"Her holdings?"

"You."

A flat answer to a deliberate misunderstanding and one Dumarest had expected. The woman had made no secret of her desire, the bait she had offered in her body and eyes, her lips and her smile. A mature woman with generous proportions and a mouth too soft and eyes too wanton. Jaded, as they all were, bored, eager for the stimulation a stranger could bring.

Or one bribed to pretend just that.

Now she turned and gestured a serving girl to her side, taking her time as she studied the dainties offered on the tray, selecting with care two comfits formed of twisted sugar dusted with a powder of spices.

"Here!" She offered one to Dumarest. "You take it, bite it, swallow it down. The results could be-interesting."

An aphrodisiac or some form of hallucinogenic. From her tone the thing could be either or it could be just a harmless sweetmeat. Or something not so harmless-a drug to induce impotence; who knew what she carried beneath her nails?

Dumarest said, "Thank you, my lady, but I must refuse."

"What I offer?"

"Just the comfit." His smile brought warmth to her eyes. "Will you join me in the water?"

A chance to touch, to caress, to leave no doubt as to her extended invitation. An opportunity she used to the full. To win him from Fiona would be a sweet revenge for earlier rejection.

"Earl!" A tall, red-headed girl waved to him from where she stood at the edge of the pool. "Come and join us! We need your advice!"

Men had clustered in a group behind her, youngsters with faces usually masked with boredom now creased in a febrile interest.

"Chargel's man told me of the trick," said one. "He saw it done at a private fight on Emoolt. You feint-so! Then recovering you cut-so! If it hits, you gain a point. If you miss you backslash and thrust-so!" His hand made appropriate gestures, the knife he held glittering as it reflected the light from the ruby sun. "The man who used it had never been beaten."

"Or so he said." Shelia Fairfax, the tall girl with flaming hair, laughed her scorn. "Tell them, Earl. Put the fool wise."

Her tone held familiarity as did the hand she placed on his arm. Instant friendship gained in a matter of a few hours-or what passed for it in this too closely knit culture. Fiona had introduced him to the party-had left him at the pool while attending to a private matter. Lynne had been only one of the women to show more than a casual interest.

The man with the knife said, "Fool, Shelia? Care to back your judgment?"

"A week's allowance," she said. "No, make it a month's."

"That I can't score on Earl?"

"That's right." Her laughter was brittle. "You and your theories, Ivor! What chance would you have if faced with a real man?"

Dumarest saw the flush which rose to stain the sallow cheeks, the tension revealed in the hand gripping the knife. A young man, a minor son of some Orres family, trying to show off a little. A youth eager to command attention and to gain a little respect. The girl had been too spiteful, too cruel.

"May I see the knife?" Dumarest held out his hand, saw the other's hesitation, smiled as, finally, Ivor placed it in his fingers. It was what he had expected; a practice blade, the point and edges protruding a fraction of an inch from masking steel. Heavy, able to deliver bruising blows and shallow scratches, but relatively harmless. "A gift?"

"Not exactly. I'm interested in such things. At home I've a collection of knives each of which has killed a man," A boast quickly amended. "At least that's what I have been given to understand. They were part of an inheritance."

From whom was unimportant if the story was true. Dumarest hefted the blade, examined the edges and point, handed it back to the young man.