Technos dot-7

by E. C. Tubb

  * * *

  The silence grew, deepened by the drifting shadows from the open door of the bedroom, the glow of artificial moonlight from the vaulted roof. Dumarest looked at his hands, raising his head to meet the woman's eyes.

  Quietly he said, "I am not an assassin, my lady."

  "You are a fugitive, on Technos without legal right, subject to punishment when caught. Hard punishment." she emphasized. "Interrogation and, perhaps, death. Unless I aid you, capture is certain. And you admit that you owe me your life."

  "Is that why you saved it, my lady?"

  "No," she spoke without thinking, but it was true enough. At first she had obeyed the promptings of a whim and the desires of her body. But then had come the interview with Brekla, the thinly disguised threats, the knowledge that she stood alone against Vargas and his ambition.

  Shergan, Alica, Marmot, Dehnar, all had turned against her. The Supreme Council were rats each scuttling for safety. Or, perhaps, they had formed a cabal from which she was excluded. With the Technarch dead they would think again, and at least she would have time to secure her position.

  Dumarest had to agree!

  Leaning forward she spoke quickly before he could refuse. "Vargas is an old man, terrified of his shadow. He trusts only a single guard. I can arm you and guide you to his chamber. Two shots and the thing is done. In return I will give you money and arrange a passage." Her voice rose, grew thin and querulous. "Why do you hesitate? What have you to lose? Your mind carries the knowledge of violence. You have killed before so why not again? It is such a little thing I ask. Two shots and you will have repaid your debt. Do it, Earl. For me. Please!"

  A little thing! To kill the head of a state! And afterward would she keep her part of the bargain or would she arrange to have him killed so as to close his mouth? And when he refused, what then? Poison in the wine?

  Slowly he said, "My lady, you are distraught. You cannot realize what you ask."

  "I ask you to kill a man," she said. "A mad dog who will drag us all to ruin. An ambitious fool blind to everything but his own lust for power. Kill him and Technos will have cause to be grateful."

  "I have little cause to trust the gratitude of princes," he said dryly. "And less to rely on the thanks of a nation. What you propose, my lady, is unwise."

  "You refuse?"

  "To kill a man I have never seen? Yes, my lady. As I said, I am no assassin."

  Dumarest rose, stiffening as a sudden knocking came from the door, seeing by the woman's eyes that the interruption was unexpected. It came again, sharp, imperious.

  "Hide," she said quickly. "In there." She gestured toward the bedroom. "Make no sound."

  The knocking increased as he stepped into the room, closing the door all but a crack. Through it he saw Mada cross the chamber and open the door. A flood of light from the corridor beyond lined her figure with a halo of brilliance.

  "Your pardon, madam," said a familiar voice. "I crave your indulgence on a matter of planetary security. Have I your permission to enter?"

  Keron! And from the sound of his voice, he would brook no refusal. Dumarest turned and ran toward the bathroom. Inside he scanned the walls. They were solid, broken only by grilles too small to allow the passage of his body. A disposal chute opened at his touch and he stared into darkness. It would lead to a shaft, dropping to the lower levels and ending, perhaps, in a furnace. As he hesitated he heard the sudden rise of Mada's voice.

  "How dare you! To burst into my apartments! Have the members of the Supreme Council no rights?"

  Keren's answer was firm. "Not when planetary security is at risk, madam. I must insist that you allow me to search your rooms."

  The chute bent at a sharp angle two feet from the opening. Dumarest felt the scrape of the rim against his back as he wriggled around the bend, elbows extended to brake his passage. His legs dangled free and he followed them, hanging by his hands at the lower edge of the bend, reaching back with one foot to find the extent of the shaft. It was about four feet wide, narrow enough for him to press his feet against one side, his back against the other, lowering himself with cautious motions.

  From above he caught a flash of light and heard a muffled voice.

  "Nothing here, Major."

  The light vanished and the darkness was complete. Cramped in the chimney Dumarest cautiously eased his way down. To return to the woman's apartment was to take an unnecessary risk. Keron would have stationed a guard in the corridor if nowhere else and the man would probably have orders to shoot on sight. And the woman was another problem. His refusal would not have endeared him to her, and if she was wise she would kill him to close his mouth.

  He frowned, remembering the youth of her body, the childish solution she had found to social problems. Kill the Technarch and everything would be wonderful! It was the answer a primitive would think of, not an educated and sophisticated woman. And she was a member of the ruling council. An infant prodigy, perhaps? In such a society he guessed it was possible.

  His foot slipped and he strained against his other leg, sweat beading his face at the thought of the emptiness below. He concentrated on the pressure of steel against the soles of his feet and the area of his back. He seemed lower than before, his body less cramped, and he realized that the shaft was widening as it descended. Soon it would be too wide for him to support his weight.

  His foot slipped and met emptiness. A joining shaft or the mouth of a chute? He could have passed a dozen of them, missing them all in the thick darkness and he could miss a dozen more. But the lower he went the harder it became to straddle the shaft. Halting, feet and back pressed against the metal, he felt to either side with his hands.

  Nothing. The shaft was unbroken. Crablike he moved in a circle, hands testing the metal, pausing as he felt the upper edge of an opening. It was smooth, rounded and slick with some covering. Grease, perhaps, or a plastic film to protect the metal from corrosion. In any case, it was too wide for him to gain a strong purchase; if he tried to thrust his body into the opening he would slip and fall.

  Grimly he began to climb back up the shaft. He had to reach a point where it was narrow enough for him to enter one of the openings without losing his balance. His shoulders met the lower rim of a chute and he moved away from it, climbing still higher. When the shaft had narrowed so that his knees were pressed against his chest he searched for another opening.

  Sweat oozed from his skin as he fought a mounting fatigue, the strain on his muscles turning them into fire. A foot met no resistance and he circled, back scraping the wall. Reaching the opening he positioned himself, hooking his left elbow into the chute. Tensing his muscles he kicked out, turning at the same time, the pressure forcing his head and shoulders into the opening before he could fall. Desperately he rammed both elbows against the sides, fighting the pull of gravity as his legs fell from the support of the wall. He kicked, meeting the upward bend, using elbows, chest and chin to gain traction. A knee caught the lower edge of the chute and he thrust upward, back arched and head rising toward the mouth of the chute.

  His face bumped into hardness and he reached upward, fumbling at the smooth surface, pressing, feeling resistance and knowing that the door was locked. He tensed, ramming the sides of his legs against the walls of the chute, his back, one arm and hand. With the other he pressed against the top of the door, gritting his teeth as he felt himself begin to slip. Drawing back his hand he slammed the palm hard against the upper edge and, as something yielded, lunged forward and gripped both sides of the mouth of the chute.

  A heave and he was through the opening and falling into darkness.

  Chapter Ten

  IT WAS A bathroom. He could tell by the scent of soap and lotions, the touch of tile and humid warmth. Carefully he felt along the walls, finding a switch and narrowing his eyes against a flood of light. From a wall a mirror threw back his reflection.

  He was filthy, covered with greasy dirt, his face streaked, his hands grimed and his clothes a ruin. If he hope
d to escape the building he would have to wash and change. As he was, he would be arrested on sight.

  Dumarest turned, switching off the light and gently opening the door of the bathroom. Beyond lay a chamber dim with subdued illumination, a bed resting in the center, a wardrobe to one side. From an outer room came the sound of voices.

  "My lord, my extrapolations show that there is a probability of ninety-two percent that insurrection will break out on Hardish within a few weeks. I advise that extra troops be sent from Cest and Wen to reinforce the occupying garrisons."

  "I know what you advise, Ruen." Vargas was impatient. "But there are things of greater importance. Five members of the council have agreed to retire and three others will probably join them. Brekla has secured a favorable vote to grant me extraordinary powers for the duration of the war. How long will it be before I am in absolute command?"

  "You are that in fact if not in name already, my lord." Ruen's even monotone was in direct contrast to the Technarch's emotional outburst. "The prediction that a cabal will be formed to act against you is of a very low order to probability, seven point eight percent. It cannot be ignored but the probability can be lowered to two point three percent if Dehnar is sent on a special mission to Loame."

  Vargas scowled. "And to eliminate it totally?"

  "That is not possible, my lord. The potential danger will always remain. Even if you destroy all the members of the council a junta of the military could seek power at your expense. The most that can be accomplished is to reduce the probability factor to a point where it can be safely ignored."

  His calmness infuriated the Technarch. How could the cyber be so cold, so calculating? Events were dark clouds piled before a rushing wind, sweeping relentlessly toward him, monstrous with hidden dangers. Restlessly he prowled his room, his brain trying to grapple with a dozen facts, make a score of extrapolations and failing to determine even one. Now it seemed that the euphorias had lost their power to soothe. Sleep was a thing of nightmare to be taken in small doses and even the darkness brought by the closing of his eyes held peculiar terrors.

  The things which could happen in such a moment of inattention! A laser could blast his life, the roof fall, an assassin strike in a host of ways. And Ruen spoke of danger to be safely ignored!

  His hands felt sticky, slimed with sweat and he headed towards the bathroom, caution slowing his feet. Yet he was reluctant to summon the guard. The apartment had been checked before he had entered with Ruen and, each time he called the man he risked a blast from the weapon hired to protect him.

  Ruen watched his hesitation, gauging the extent of the Technarch's fear, feeling the glow of mental achievement at the success of his predictions. Vargas was medically insane and would soon totally disintegrate. Vargas would leave chaos: the council disrupted and the state in turmoil. From the wreckage he, Ruen, would fashion a new council, guiding it with his advice, steering it the way it must go.

  "My lord," he said as Vargas reached the door of the bedroom, "let me summon your guard. It is not wise to take chances."

  "Could an assassin come through the walls?"

  "The probability is extremely low, my lord, yet it does exist." Make him afraid of darkness, of shadows, of the very beat of his own heart. A man poisoned by terror was unable to think, to plan and determine. A creature of blind, unthinking emotive reaction was a predictable tool. "The guard, my lord?"

  He came at the call, laser in hand, eyes searching the rooms. It was a ritual he had performed a thousand times before and he acted with a trained economy of movement. A foot opened the bathroom door, lights blooming in automatic response, the panel swinging back as he entered.

  Dumarest struck with the heavy bottle of lotion he had snatched from a shelf.

  He dropped it as the guard slumped, snatching the laser and springing through the door into the other room. Vargas screamed his terror, hands lifted to protect his face, eyes bulging with the fear of imminent death.

  "Be quiet!" There had been two voices. Dumarest ran to the door of the bedroom, narrowing his eyes as he saw the scarlet of the cyber's robe. "You! In here. Quickly!"

  Calmly Ruen obeyed, standing beside where Vargas had slumped in a faint, his eyes bright within the shadowed sockets of his skull. "Your name must be Dumarest," he said. "You are making a grave mistake."

  "Perhaps."

  "This man is the Technarch. How do you hope to escape?"

  Dumarest ignored the question. He had managed to wash the dirt from his face and hands but had been unable to do anything about his clothes. He stepped to the wardrobe, sliding back the doors, tensing as he saw a threatening figure. It was a reflection; the cabinet was backed with mirrors. He turned as he noticed the movement of Ruen's hands.

  "No. Keep your hands away from your sleeves. Away, I say!"

  "You are being irrational," said the cyber, obeying. "Logical deduction should tell you that you have no hope of avoiding the guards." He watched as Dumarest changed, tearing clothes from the cabinet, dressing awkwardly but keeping the laser trained on the scarlet figure. "If you leave here with that weapon the probability of your being killed is ninety-nine percent. Certainty. Your only hope for life is to surrender yourself to me."

  "Inside!" Dumarest gestured to the wardrobe. It had a catch and would hold for a while. "Quickly!"

  "And if I refuse?"

  "That would be illogical. I am a desperate man and it would be simpler to kill you than to argue. Your hands!" snapped Dumarest sharply as Ruen lifted them to his wide sleeves. "I shall not warn you again."

  "You are desperate without cause. Yield yourself to me and I guarantee that none on Technos will harm you."

  "Move!" Dumarest closed the panel as the cyber entered the wardrobe. He engaged the catch and glanced at Vargas. Unconscious the man was no problem. He had a few minutes at least before the alarm could be given.

  Opening the door, he stepped into the corridor outside. The Technarch's paranoia had kept it free of guards. At the far end a man in red and black glanced at him, curious but reassured by Dumarest's air of confidence.

  Fifteen seconds later he ran directly into Major Keron and six of his men.

  * * *

  Yendhal said, "I want you to be certain as to what we are doing. You have heard of lie detectors?"

  "Yes," said Dumarest.

  "Then you will understand what this is." The physician gestured toward the assembled apparatus. "It is a development of my own with certain improvements over the standard model. Electrodes will register the tensions of your body, the degree of emitted sweat, the minute, muscular contractions impossible to avoid when uttering a lie. The truth needs no consideration and can be spoken without hesitation. A lie, no matter how well rehearsed, requires concentration and there is usually a small but measurable delay. You understand?"

  "Yes," said Dumarest again. He was naked, strapped to a chair, electrodes fastened to a dozen points of his body, more sprouting from a band of metal about his head.

  Calmly he stared about the laboratory. The place had a harsh, clinical smell and looked more like a hospital than an interrogation room. Yendhal, fussing over his equipment, seemed more like a schoolmaster about to conduct a routine experiment than an inquisitor. But his eyes held a ruthless dedication which betrayed his true nature.

  "There is one other thing." Yendhal rested his hand on a tube aimed directly at a point between Dumarest's eyes. "This is a laser. If you lie it will burn a hole in your brain." He looked at someone beyond the range of Dumarest's vision. "Commence."

  "Your name?"

  "Earl Dumarest."

  "Your planet of origin?"

  "Earth."

  "How did you arrive on Technos?" The voice was cold, emotionless, the studied modulation of a machine. Dumarest answered without hesitation.

  "Are you an assassin?"

  "No."

  "Have you killed?"

  "Yes."

  "On Technos?"

  "No."

  "Why d
id you try to kill the Technarch?"

  Dumarest remained silent.

  "Answer the question. The laser will fire if you refuse."

  "I cannot answer because the question is wrongly framed. You are asking me to give a reason for doing something which I did not do and did not intend."

  "Did you intend to kill the Technarch?"

  "No."

  "Did you try to kill him?"

  "No."

  "Could you have?"

  "Yes Vargas turned from where he stood before a sheet of one-way glass as Yendhal came toward him. The man is lying. He has found a way to beat your machine."

  "Impossible!" The physician was emphatic. "No man can control his respiration, muscular response and nervous tension to that degree. I stake my reputation that he is telling the truth."

  "But he was in my apartments! What reason could he have had unless he intended to kill me?"

  Yendhal was patient. "He had no weapon, sire, and an assassin would have to anticipate the presence of your guard. Logic dictates that if he had intended to kill you he would have been armed."

  Vargas frowned, reluctant to accept the conclusion, yet knowing it to be true. And the man had illustrated a weakness. Who would have thought anyone could enter from the disposal chute? Ruen should have thought of it.

  Perhaps he had. The frown deepened as Vargas's suspicions began to feed on his doubts. Who could tell what had happened after he had fainted? Had the cyber hoped that the sudden strain would burst his heart? Had they been interrupted before killing him without trace? The coincidence was too much for him to believe. How had the man known which chute led to his rooms? And Ruen had made certain that the guard had been summoned and sent ahead.

  He scowled, listening to the drone of question and answer from a connecting speaker. Was the man in the pay of some seditious element? Had the cyber lied in his assurance that there was no organized opposition to his plan to gain supreme power? And Yendhal, could he have rigged the machine so as to give harmless answers?