Smoke rose from the table beneath the touch of the laser's beam. It sent more smoke rising an inch from Dumarest's boot.

"You will remain silent or I will burn your vocal chords," said Okos. "The woman must not be told."

"Why not? What harm can it do? You will kill her anyway."

"Kill me?" Charisse lifted her arm, stared at the blackened wound, then at the cyber. "Okos! You promised!"

"You will not be harmed if he keeps silent."

"Look at your wrist if you believe that," said Dumarest. "His token of friendship. Do you know why he burned you? Ask him. He'll tell you it was because he feared you might fire and kill me. Or fire and kill him if we had made a deal. As he would still fire if I told him we had. Shall I prove it?"

"No!" She looked again at her wrist. "No!"

She believed him and Dumarest knew he had managed to drive a wedge into their mutual trust. Knew too that he held her life in his hand. Two words would do it. All he need say to the cyber was. "She knows."

Okos would do the rest.

But how to get rid of the cyber in turn?

Dumarest had the advantage of being physically safe as far as a threat to his life was concerned. His value lay in what he knew; the correct sequence of the fifteen units forming the affinity twin. The biological entity which enabled the dominant partner to take over the mind and body of a subjective host. Literally to become that host. With it Charisse could live and act and love and feel and be a young and lovely girl. The reflection she would see in her mirror would be that of the selected host.

Cybers could become the rulers of worlds and knit them into the common plan.

Okos could become the Cyber Prime.

That was the chance he had seen and taken-there could be no other explanation for his actions. The Cyclan had contacted Charisse. After learning he was not aboard why hadn't they concentrated on Podesta?

"I directed them to Quen," said Okos when Dumarest bluntly put the question, "The predictions were of almost equal probability that you could be on there or Ascelius."

And, as he hadn't been reported on Ascelius, they had directed their agents to look elsewhere. But Okos had known and had chosen to retain his knowledge.

The madness which would save him.

Dumarest said, "The coincidence of Charisse's ship? Arranged, I assume?"

"There was no coincidence. From the moment you set foot on Ascelius you were under constant observation. Used, hunted, driven like the animal you are to take the path I chose. It suited my plans to allow you freedom of movement until it was time to end the farce."

"The time in jail," said Dumarest. "Held while you waited for Charisse to arrive. Followed then attacked so as to be rescued." He added, bleakly, "Did Myra Favre have to die?"

An answer he knew; one way or another she had been doomed. Had she not fallen the wine would have killed her and the end would have been the same. He felt a renewed anger against the Cyclan, the organization which treated people as if they were pieces to be moved on a board. Things devoid of needs or feelings. Expendable pawns used in a game of conquest.

He controlled his anger-if he were to live he needed to be calm.

He looked at the woman. The illusion had slipped a little, the pain of her wound taking priority so that her face looked softened as if made of wax. A potential ally and the only one he had. But how to win her aid?

Okos provided the answer. He stepped forward, tall, arrogant, conscious of his power. Already the universe was his. Eyes, deep-sunken beneath ridged brows, stared with a burning intensity.

"You will arrange transportation," he told the woman. "I shall also need restraints and medication. Your own vessel will serve."

"A servant," said Dumarest. "Too bad, Charisse, but I did warn you."

"It is a privilege to serve the Cyclan," said Okos. "Obey if you hope for reward."

"And keep hoping." Dumarest moved to lean casually against the upended table. "What's the matter with your own acolytes, Okos? Did they turn against you when they realized you'd gone mad?" A guess but a good one and he tensed, gambling enough sanity remained for Okos to hold his fire. A risk taken and a gamble won and he was sure now the cyber was alone. "He needs you, Charisse," he said. "But once he's got what he asked for he'll kill you. If you don't realize that you're a fool. I suggest you do something about it."

"Remain silent." Okos leveled the weapon in his hand. "I shall not warn you again."

"Earl-"

"You too, woman." The laser moved a little, halted. "Must I teach you another lesson?"

She screamed as the laser fired, flame bursting from the mass of ebon hair, the wig catching, smoking, burning as she tore it from her head. The winking gems flared and died, robbed of life by the savage blast, only those at her throat struggling to maintain the illusion. A wasted effort and her parody of a face twisted in rage at the affront to her pride.

"You bastard, Okos! You'll pay-"

Again he fired, smoke rising from her shoulder, her scream echoed by something from above. A black shape which dropped from the clustered shadows to swing on a line of silk, to poise, to drop with scrabbling claws and gnashing mandibles on the head of the cyber.

A mutated spider set to keep the area free of other life forms, a guardian, an observer-a thing now wild with ravening fury.

Okos reared, his free hand tearing at the creature which covered his head and face. Blood ran in thick streams beneath the scrabbling limbs, staining the scarlet with a deeper carmine, dripping on the floor as, wildly, he fired and fired again.

Dumarest flung himself down, reached for his knife, lunged forward with it in his hand, the edge rising, touching, tearing through the flesh and bone of the wrist to send the hand and laser flying to one side. Blood fountained to join the rest, more following as he stabbed, the blade driving between the ribs into the heart. As the cyber fell the scrabbling shape rose, running back up its silk to hide and lurk in shielding darkness.

"Earl!" Charisse had been hit, blood welling from between the fingers she clasped to her side. The wound on her shoulder showed charred bone, that on her wrist had started to bleed. "Help me, Earl."

She was dying and knew it. She stared into his face as he knelt, shaking her head as he tried to examine her side.

"Leave it, Earl. The bastard got me."

"I'll call someone. Sayer-he could help."

"He could keep me alive, maybe," she corrected. "But alive for what? I don't want to be a freak, Earl. It's better this way. But call him. Tell him to help you clear up the mess. He's a good man. He'll-" She gulped and, with sudden clarity, said, "Earl. On Podesta. When we-did you love me then?"

"I loved you."

"You're a good liar, Earl." Her hand fell away to be stained by a gush of blood. "A good-"

"Charisse?"

She made no answer. She was dead.

Dino Sayer snuffled and touched his throat and said, "She was good in her way, Earl. I'll miss her."

"But not me?"

"No." The man was honest. "You've given me enough to remember you by. And I can't help but think if she hadn't met you she'd be alive now. Well, that's the way it goes. If it were left to me-but you won the wager and I guess you've earned the right." He gestured at the door. "The library. You'll find everything indexed. Armand's papers are in the end file. If you want anything just press the bell. It's at the side of the desk."

The room was filled with the scent of moldering paper, dust, dank air, neglect, creeping decay. The ubiquitous shadows masked whatever might be lurking in the molding running beneath the ceiling, but if any existed they would be harmless. As would be any eavesdropping devices such as Charisse had fitted to the bedrooms. How else had she known of his interlude with Linda Ynya? How better to gain an idea of distrust or need?