The promise meant nothing. The staples were already on their way, sealed in freight cans flung into space by tractors, aimed so as to orbit Jest until they could be collected by this very ship. The revenues would dwindle, the credit likewise as inflation and profiteering greed slashed their value. The engineering corps would turn out to be a handful of advisers strong on suggestion but woefully lacking in application.

All he would have left would be a shrewish woman to sit on his double throne.

All?

He felt his lips twist in their familiar expression, the wry grin he had developed when a boy and which was his defense against hurt, pain and hopeless despair. To smile, to treat everything as a joke-how else to remain sane?

"My dear," he said to Adrienne. "We are faced with the need to make a decision, to go on to Jest or to head for Scar, it is a problem which can be solved in many ways. We could spin a coin; we could arrange a number of random selective-choices, such as the first officer to walk through that door would decide for us by his first word; or we could apply logic and knowledge to guide our choice."

The edges of her thin nostrils turned white as she controlled her anger. "Is this a time for foolish jesting?"

He smiled blandly. "Can a jest ever be foolish?"

"On Eldfane," she said tightly, "we have a means of discouraging those who hold similar beliefs. Life is serious and no cause for mirth."

"And you make it so by the use of whips, acid and fire," said Jocelyn. "But, on Eldfane, laughter has an ugly sound." He shook his head, abruptly weary of the pointless exchange. As long as the woman kept her part of the marriage contract he would be content: food, credit, the help of trained and educated men, and. above all, a son.

He glanced at the captain as the man cleared his throat. "What is it?"

"If I may make a suggestion, my lord?"

Jocelyn nodded.

"The problem could be resolved by one trained in such matters. The cyber would doubtless be happy to advise."

Jocelyn frowned. He had forgotten Yeon, the final part of Adrienne's dowry, added almost as an afterthought by Elgone, which he had reluctantly accepted. He had been reluctant because he had an instinctive mistrust of a man who could not laugh.

"Thank you, Captain," said Adrienne before Jocelyn could speak. "At last we have had a sensible suggestion. Be so good as to ask the cyber to attend us."

"No," said Jocelyn.

She turned and looked at him, fine eyebrows arched over contemptuous eyes. "Husband?"

"Never mind." He surrendered. "Do as Her Majesty commands." She was, after all, his wife.

Yeon came within minutes, a living flame in the rich scarlet of his robe, the seal of the Cyclan burning on his breast. He stood, facing Jocelyn, hands tucked within the wide sleeves of his gown.

"You sent for me, my lord?"

"I did." Jocelyn turned to where Adrienne sat in a chair covered in ancient leather. "Do you wish to state the problem?" He sighed as she shook her head. "Very well, I will do so."

The cyber stood silent when he had finished.

"Are you in doubt as to the answer?" Jocelyn felt a sudden satisfaction in the thought that he had beaten the man, presented him with a problem to which he could find no solution. The satisfaction died as Yeon met his eyes.

"My lord, I am in some doubt as to what you require of me."

"I thought it simple. Do we go to Jest or to Scar?"

"The decision is yours, my lord. All I can do is to advise you on the logical development of certain actions you may care to take. In this case I lack sufficient data to be able to extrapolate the natural sequence of events." His voice was a smooth modulation carefully trained so as to contain no irritating factors, a neutral voice belonging to a neutral man.

A neuter, rather, thought Jocelyn savagely. A machine of flesh and blood devoid of all emotion and the capability of feeling. A man who could experience no other pleasure than that of mental achievement. But clever. Give him a handful of facts and, from them, he would build more, enough for him to make uncannily accurate predictions as to the course of future events.

Adrienne stirred in her chair. "Is there anything you can tell us about Scar?"

Yeon turned to face her. His shaven head gleamed in the lights as if of polished bone, the soft yellow of his skin accentuating the skull-like appearance of his face against the warmth of his cowl.

"Scar, my lady, is a small world with a peculiar ecology. The year is ninety days long and, as the planet has no rotation at all, the seasons are compressed between one dawn and another. There are thirty days for winter, during which it rains continuously and the same for summer, during which it gets very hot; the remainder is split between spring and autumn. The population is transient and consists mostly of tourists."

Jocelyn cleared his throat. "What else?"

"Exports, my lord?"

"That and anything else which may be of interest."

"The natural vegetation is fungoid, both saprophytes and parasites of various types and sizes. Traders call to purchase various spores which have some value in industry. There is also the aesthetic beauty of the planet, which holds strong appeal to artists."

"Spores," mused Jocelyn. He sat, thinking. "Have you yet assimilated the information you required on Jest?"

"Not yet, my lord."

"Then more time would not be a total waste." He reached for the bell to summon the captain. "We shall go to Scar."

"Are you sure?" Adrienne was ironic. "No spin of a coin, or casting of runes, perhaps? Surely you have not based your decision on sheer logic!"

"Sometimes, my dear," he said sweetly, "destiny requires no outward symbol." He looked at the captain as he entered the cabin. "We go to Scar," he ordered. "When should we arrive?"

"On Scar, my lord?" The captain pursed his lips. "Early spring. I could delay if you wish."

"No," said Jocelyn. "Spring is a good time to arrive anywhere."

Later, alone, he took a coin from his pocket and studied the sides. One bore the imprint of his father's head, the reverse the arms of Jest. With his thumbnail he drew a line across the rounded cheek.

"Destiny," he whispered, and spun the coin.

He smiled as he looked down at his father's face.

* * *

Del Meoud stepped out of his office and was immediately blinded by swirling curtains of ruby mist. Impatiently he lifted a hand and swept the infrared screen down over his eyes. At once his vision cleared, the shapes of men showing as radiant phantoms against a luminous haze.

"Sergi!" he called. "Sergi! Over here!"

The engineer was big, thick across the shoulders with a neck like a bole of a tree. He wore stained pants, boots, open tunic and a wide-brimmed hat dripped water. The screen across his eyes gave him a peculiar robotical look.

"Factor?"

"You're behind schedule," said Meoud. "The blowers around Hightown should be operating by now. Why aren't they?"

"Snags," said the engineer bitterly. "Always snags. The pile should have been on full operation by now. The blowers are fixed and ready to go as soon as I get the power, but do those electricians care? Wait, they tell me, no point in rushing things. Hurry now, before a double-check has been made, could result in arc and delay." He spat into the mud. "If you ask me, they're afraid of getting their hands dirty; I could do better with a gang from Lowtown."

Meoud stifled a sigh. It was always the same. Each spring he swore that it would never happen again, but always it did. Little things united to build up into worrying delays. One day time would slip past too fast and summer would find him unprepared. In that case, not even the charity of the guild would serve to protect him.

He turned as a man came stamping through the mist.