And there was another facet he hadn't mentioned-the love of a cat for tormenting a mouse. Kalova hated Fiona as Dumarest had learned. A hate born of her casual rejection of his offer. An affront which he had chosen to regard as an insult and which he found impossible to swallow. Now, determined on revenge, he was prone to error.

But if Zao was advising him, there could be only one outcome.

Dumarest finished the tisane and rose to pace the floor. Swaths of color painted his neutral gray with transient glory, shifting, changing as the signals changed, glowing from the mirrors all around. Catching the face of the woman as she sat, hands clenched, sensing her world edging toward ruin.

If she lost it would she search for it as he did Earth?

Pacing, he remembered the dream, the golden egg teeming with life which had died and the life with it. A dream born of his conversation with Marc Bulem and his supposed ravings. A man tormented with delusions, hopelessly insane and lost in a world of fantasy-according to his brother. But some of what he'd said was familiar to Dumarest-and what if the rest had a grounding in truth?

Had all men originated on one world?

An apparent fallacy as Melvin had said-men came in all shades and styles of hair and nostrils and build. Effects caused by wild radiations or local environments as any intelligent man would swear. How else to account for skins as pale as alabaster and those as dark as jet? Blond hair and brown and black and tresses the color of flame? Blue eyes? Eyes of amber? Eyes which looked like liquid pools of Stygian darkness?

All the children of one, single planet?

He heard again a voice which held the muted thunder of drums: "From terror they fled to find new places on which to expiate their sins."

A voice from a world far distant in time and space. Words he had heard from others as they repeated the guarded creed of the Original People. The same words he had heard from Marc Bulem only a short while ago.

From terror they fled to expiate their sins.

From terror?

Terra?

Another name for Earth and he wondered if the dream had held a deeper significance than he guessed. Something not merely born of a chance encounter but that very encounter serving to trigger latent data into a symbolic whole. Had the egg represented Earth? The parasitic life Mankind?

He remembered the crying, the endless wailing of those lost in a dark eternity. The alarm or a dirge for a destroyed world?

But Earth had not been destroyed.

"Earl!" He turned to see Vardoon staring at him, a peculiar expression in his eyes. The light he had seen before when facing a contender in the arena. The inner glow of a man facing, and loving, combat. "Earl-it's started!"

Nothing but the flashing lights had changed and yet it seemed that something had entered the mirrored chamber with its soft lights and thick carpets, its ornaments and touches of feminine grace. A dark and somber thing with the hue of death.

"A forced auction," explained Fiona as Dumarest came to stand behind her. "A minor holding; Kalova must be mad to have put himself in debt because of it."

A favor owed to the one who backed him with an offer of twice its registered value. And he would want repayment when it suited him.

"Let it go," said Dumarest.

"Relinquish it? Earl-it's a part of my holding!"

Vardoon said, "Let it go, Fiona. Boost the bidding to a third of extra value then duck out."

For a moment she hesitated, the conditioning of a lifetime at war with what, subconsciously, she knew to be good advice. Sweat dewed her face when, after dragging minutes, she slumped back in her chair.

"It's gone," she said dully. "Kalova's won."

A minor conflict but not the war. Dumarest studied the display, wishing he had the skill to read it, feeling ill at ease and knowing why. His life was at stake but the saving of it was beyond his control. Here was no arena with a single opponent but those with faces he could not see careless of the hurt and death they could unwittingly give.

"A fort on a hill," muttered Vardoon. "Remember, Earl? Kalova would have made a good mercenary-he's clearing away potential sources of danger."

Small villages, woods, coppices which could hold armed men. Beating the grounds and warning others to stay clear by his actions. Soon now he would aim his attack at its true target, forcing the use of material, the wasting of resources-the assets which alone could guarantee Fiona her holding.

A crude analogy, for the present situation contained refinements impossible to generalize. Dumarest leaned forward as the woman sucked in her breath.

"Something?"

"A move against Lobel-but why? He presents no threat and rarely takes the initiative." Fiona studied the display, brow creased in a frown, the fingers of her right hand tapping the broad arm of her chair. "And now Cran!"

Another minor holder and easy prey to a ruthless predator. An attack which triggered a pattern in Dumarest's mind, not of a military engagement but a more familiar scene. A melee in which a score of men stood in the arena each against the other. A situation in which the weak could be as dangerous as the strong.

But the arena was a place in which only one law was paramount-to survive. Here the action was hedged with rules and custom, accepted forms of behavior as if the participants were following the dictates of ancient chivalry.

Dumarest said, "Have you those who owe you favors? Contact them and make a deal. They to eliminate one of the weakest in return for you meeting all costs and later support."

"Drive a holder out? By conspiracy? Earl-that's assassination!"

"Do it!"

"But-"

She was thinking of her reputation, the scorn and contempt she would have to face. Dumarest said urgently, "You remember when we played chess? What I did? What I told you? To win is all that counts." He added dryly, "And remember-the winner never has to pay."

A spur which sent her hand to the phone. As she activated it Vardoon drew Dumarest out of range of its scanner.

"A dangerous game, Earl. Kalova could do just what you've advised. Arrange a series of forced auctions and keep milking her until she's too weak to resist."

"How long would that take?"

"It won't be quick but it'll be inevitable. In order to keep that sector she'll have to bid far higher than it's worth."

The balance taken by the bank; a detail Dumarest had learned as he had others. But to know the moves was not to be a master of the game.

Again he began to pace the room, seeing his reflected image grow and diminish, waver and distort as reflection was caught by reflection, the whole painted with shifting hues. What would Zao be doing? If he was advising Kalova then why the delay? The cyber would have no time for elaborate and inefficient maneuverings and any plan he had devised would be apparent by now. Kalova must be operating alone-an unexpected bonus.

"It's done," Fiona called from her chair, face drawn beneath the curtain of hair. Tresses which she lifted to tuck beneath a gemmed band. "Kelman is down and out."

A name without meaning but, somewhere in the city, a man stared at his display and felt the sickness of utter defeat. Dumarest said, "Bid for sector N 89."

"Earl, that holding's useless!"

"Bid!"

A moment then he heard her sharp inhalation. "This is crazy! Maiden's bidding too!"

One of Vardoon's prospects; a minor holder jumping the gun. He was joined by another; Myra Lancing who had demanded more than a kiss.

"Keep the bidding high," said Dumarest. "Force up the price but duck out before you get stuck with it."

To bleed Kalova in a forced auction. To weaken those already weak if he should prove too shrewd. To fight in the terms of the arena where to lose was to die.