The Temble of Truth dot-31

by E. C. Tubb

  "That's it," said Dumarest. "Now it's yours. I guess it will win you a rich reward."

  The highest. Clarge would be elevated to stand among those close to the Cyber Prime himself. To direct and plan and manipulate the destiny of worlds. To set his mark on the organization to which he had dedicated his life and then, when his body grew too old to function with optimum efficiency, to have his living brain set among those forming the heart of the Cyclan. To gain near immortality.

  And now he had regained the secret of the affinity twin to spend the endless years in body after body.

  If he had regained it.

  Clarge looked up from what he held in his hand, seeing Dumarest seated before him, the casual attitude he wore, the hint of a smile curving his lips. A man who had given in too quickly, demanding nothing more than a bare promise to help save his life. Odd conduct from someone who had run so far, hidden so well, fought so stubbornly to retain what he had now so willingly given.

  Was he so fearful of death? If so why hadn't he demanded stronger guarantees? Why had he so meekly surrendered?

  "Your prize," said Dumarest as again the cyber looked at what he held in his hand. "I wish you joy of it."

  A jibe? Had there been mockery in his tone? Those poisoned by emotional aberrations took a distorted pleasure from illogical behavior. Was Dumarest enjoying an anticipated revenge?

  Clarge moved his eyes from the ampoules to the papers, the symbols they bore. It was as easy to write falsehood as truth-the information so freely given could be worthless. The vials could contain nothing more than colored water. Was he the victim of a preconceived plan? Would Dumarest, even while dying, gloat over his victory?

  "I say I wish you joy of it." Dumarest leaned back in his chair, now openly smiling. "I'm not being generous, cyber but, as I said, what good is a secret to a dead man? You don't really believe they will ever let you leave the Temple, do you?"

  "They have no reason to prevent me."

  "Since when has superstition had anything to do with reason? You know too much. You know where the Temple is and you have been within it. You know what lies inside. You have details of the treasury-they think I will have told you. Now, cyber, be logical-why should they let you stay alive?"

  Logic and the acid test of reason. Clarge remembered the High Priest, the fanaticism dwelling in his eyes. A man, by his standards, hopelessly insane. One dedicated to the Temple and what it stood for. He had been adamant as to Dumarest's release, blind and deaf to the fortune offered for his unharmed body. Dumarest was to die as the others were to die and, in the end, Varne had lost his patience.

  "You may talk to the man but that is all. You will be attended. The interview will be short. Do not ask again for his release. To do so would be to spit in the face of the Mother."

  Would such a man fear the might of the Cyclan?

  Clarge knew the answer-Varne wouldn't recognize any power but his own. Already he could be regretting having yielded to those who had arranged the interview. Torn with religious unease at the thought of having committed sacrilege.

  Dumarest said, guessing his thoughts, "You'll be eliminated. Wiped out before you leave the Temple. You'll never even reach your raft. You have a raft?"

  "I came in one. It was to have waited. The men escorting me are servants of the Temple."

  "So you're alone. An easy victim. Who will miss you? Who can help?" Dumarest added, dryly, "You have the facts, cyber. Now extrapolate the probability of your leaving here alive."

  Too low an order for comfort. Clarge looked at the papers, the ampoules in his hand. Dumarest's revenge: to give him what he could never use.

  "I want to live," said Dumarest. "I assume you want to live also. Together we can manage it. There's a way it can be done. You have it in your hand."

  "What?"

  "The affinity twin." Dumarest was no longer casual, no longer smiling. He spoke hard, quickly, conscious of the passage of time. "Use it on the priest attending you. He will take over my body. Release it, change robes and put his own in the chair. He will be able to guide you from the Temple and take you to your raft."

  "As you?"

  "Yes. He will be confused but tell him he has been blessed by the Mother. Anything. Just get him to obey."

  "And then?"

  "I will be myself again when he dies. That must be arranged before you leave. He will be unconscious, in an apparent coma. Open a vein so that he will slowly bleed to death. That will release me. I'll be alive, you'll have the secret and we'll both be free." Dumarest glanced at his chronometer. "But hurry. You'll only get the one chance. Inject me now then get the priest after you've called him in."

  "Which is the dominant half?"

  "What?" Dumarest's hesitation was barely noticeable. "The green one."

  The truth, but Clarge didn't believe it. Already he had assessed the potential danger of the plan; should Dumarest take control he could kill, free his body, carry it from the room and make his own escape. It would be natural for him to lie and the slight hesitation had betrayed him. The liar's pause in which one answer was changed for another. And another factor influenced his decision; red was the hue of power, of domination, of the robe he wore. Red-the color of victory.

  * * *

  Transition was instantaneous. One second he was sitting, bound and slumped in the chair, the next he was standing, swaying a little, hands lifting as he turned toward the cyber. Hands which were not as he remembered, muscles not as familiar. Instead of clamping on the cyber's throat the fingers missed, tore at the robe, closed on bone and sinew. Before Dumarest could shift his grip Clarge was on the attack.

  He twisted free, eyes betraying his belated recognition of the trick Dumarest had played. One hand dived into his sleeve as Dumarest reached for his throat, reappeared holding the laser as the fingers tightened, fired before they could take his life.

  A shot which would have killed had not Dumarest jerked aside his head, the beam ruining an eye and charring half his face. Dropping his hand he snatched at the weapon, twisted it as again it vented its shaft of destruction. Again it hit, lower this time, the muzzle aimed at the stomach, driving a charring beam into the intestines, searing the liver and creating a lethal wound.

  Dying, Dumarest fought back, grinding the wrist he held, the weapon, turning it, thrusting the muzzle against the body of the cyber as he pressed on the finger riding the release. A moment and then suddenly it was over, the cyber's dead weight sagging against his body, the scarlet robe charred in the region over the heart.

  As he fell Dumarest leaned on the table, gasping, fighting the waves of darkness which threatened to engulf him. The knife caught the sight of his remaining eye and he snatched up the blade, dropping to his knees beside the chair holding his limp body. Ropes parted beneath the edge and he slumped, hovering on the edge of darkness. An oblivion which could last too long- already the priests could be coming for him.

  Turning the knife in his hand he drove the blade into his heart.

  Dumarest rose from the chair, feeling the sweat dewing his face and body, the tension which knotted his stomach. To kill himself, even in a surrogate body, had not been easy. Stooping he pulled the knife from the dead priest's body, frowning at its feel, the loss of balance. Stability regained as he screwed back the pommel. Wiping the steel on the cyber's robe he thrust the knife into his boot then heaved the man into the chair at the end of the table. Quickly he stripped off his thin, plain robe, exchanged it for the blazoned one of the priest, lifted the man and set him into the throne-like chair. Ropes held him, the cowl masked the ruin of his face, the robe covered the blood from heart and stomach.

  If anyone should look into the room they would see the cyber interrogating the prisoner, the priest in attendance standing by.

  One armed with knife and laser-small weaponry to defeat the might of the Temple. And the pretense couldn't last for long. Dumarest cursed the cyber's too-quick recognition of the trap. He should be standing as the priest now with his own body
wearing the scarlet robe cradled in his arms. He could have walked from the Temple to the raft and safety. A plan ruined by the cyber's belated realization that, to the vast majority of emotionally normal people, red is the color of danger.

  Now he no longer wore the body of the priest. The robe with its red touches was stained with even more. To follow the original plan would be to invite death-there had to be another way.

  He looked at the instrument on his wrist, pressed a stud, watched as the hands spun then came to rest. Up and toward the center of the Temple. The place where Altini would have made his opening and set the guiding beacon.

  Dumarest remembered the treasury, the enigmatic door, the inner chambers which could contain the information for which he had searched so long. It could be lying waiting for him. Close. So very close. Too close for him to walk away now.

  He had just one gamble, probably the greatest risk he had ever been forced to take. Now he had no choice but to follow his winning streak.

  The passage outside was wide, flanked with doors, the roof bright with illumination. Servitors moved slowly along busy with polishing cloths, dusters, brooms. Two priests wearing the sunburst insignia passed him without comment. Another, wearing circles, glanced at Dumarest and lifted a hand in an esoteric gesture. One Dumarest returned far too late for it to have been clearly noticed. The priest walked on unaware of how close he had been to death.

  More servitors, a small group of women dressed in ceremonial regalia, a priest wearing a robe blazoned with a quartered circle who strode, head bared, arrogance stamped on his thin features.

  Dumarest hurried on, intent on a task of momentous importance. He reached a junction, chose a path without hesitation, found what he was looking for in a passage less brightly lit than the other.

  "You!" His finger stabbed at a priest wearing a robe similar to his own. One with a face younger than most and with an air of recently acquired importance. "Accompany me to the treasury. Go before."

  In the Temple age carried seniority and the snap of command induced the reaction of obedience. The priest looked at Dumarest, failed to see the face masked by the cowl, took him for what he purported to be. Even so he had questions.

  "The treasury? Is there trouble, master?"

  "The violators. More has been learned. One has confessed to leaving an explosive device." Dumarest had no need to counterfeit urgency. "There is no time to waste. Hurry!"

  He fell into step behind the other as the man led the way. A willing guide through a tortuous labyrinth in which Dumarest would have quickly been lost. As they reached a familiar area he slowed.

  "This will do."

  "You wanted my help."

  "You have given it." Dumarest lifted his hand as if in blessing. "Remain here. Others will be following."

  He moved on down the passage, to the wall where the carved beast crouched snarling, locked in stone. As before the passage beyond was empty. As he reached the room containing the cleaning materials he heard the pad of running feet. Turning he saw the priest running toward him. Recognized danger in his face.

  "You are not of the Guardians!" The priest's voice held triumph. "I had my suspicions and now I am certain. Twice I led you wrong and neither time did you notice. And your robe is soiled."

  "You fool," said Dumarest. "I gave you your chance."

  "To wait while you violated the treasury? How many of you are there? Never mind, you will tell us-and then you will make reparation to the Mother."

  He came in a rush, hands lifted, opened into blunted axes. A man trained in the skills of unarmed combat, using feet, knees, hands, elbows, the battering ram of his skull in order to gain victory. One with his mouth opened to scream a warning and summon aid.

  Dumarest met the rush, blocking the slash of a hand with his forearm, sending the heel of his palm to slam against the other's jaw. A blow which did no real harm but delayed the warning shout. As the priest again opened his mouth Dumarest snatched at his knife and sent the pommel hard against the man's temple. A second blow and the fight was over, the priest slumped on the floor, unconscious, blood on the broken skin.

  Laser in hand Dumarest ran to the far end of the passage, the lighted well, the sunken door. Like a shadow he passed through it into the area beyond.

  Chapter Thirteen

  He had expected mystery, he found enchantment: a curving hall truncated at each end to form a segment, the outer wall rising up and sweeping over to meet a circular central area. The door through which he had passed gave on a narrow gallery which ran up and down the curving wall. Dumarest followed it down, seeing blazing words set into the stone; gold and silver polished to a mirror smoothness and forming abstract symbols, quartered circles, regimented quatrains.

  The floor was of tessellated stone shaped in diamonds of red and grey. Scattered lanterns threw a diffused illumination, creating shadows in high places; pools of dimness touched by gleams of gems and precious metals. The place was almost deserted and he guessed it was a hall reserved for special ceremonies held at predetermined times when priests and priestesses would conduct ancient rituals.

  He trod softly to the nearest wall, to a door set in an arch of stone. It gave on another chamber similar to the one he had just left but larger in that it encompassed more of the central area. The lighting here was brighter, the place crowded with robed figures, and Dumarest turned, hugging the wall, checking the instrument on his wrist.

  It was getting close to dawn when the Temple would wake to thronging activity. The swinging hands pointed up and in as they had before, the angle steeper now. The beacon must be at the edge of the central dome which, he judged, topped the central area. To get into it, to climb, to find the opening and escape before the new day bathed the external area with light. To do all this and discover what he had come to find.

  Dumarest scanned the walls, seeing the flare of gold and gems, the symbols now grown familiar, the marching quatrains. Philosophy repeated in every chamber, inscribed on every wall. Words which like the engraved flowers, the soaring birds, the fish and wide-eyed beasts touched with jewels and delineated with skins and feathers of laminated foil glowed like the denizens of paradise.

  One which held a bloody fruit.

  They hung at the far side of the chamber, arms lifted, wrists fastened to a ring which encompassed an upright pole. Men, stripped, bodies ugly with wounds, faces tormented with the agony inflicted on them. Nighted robes surrounded them as if they had been animals set out to feed predators and the faces turned toward them held expressions Dumarest had seen before. The gloating sadism, the blood-lust, the avid hunger of the degenerate to be found in every ring. But these were not watching men fight with naked steel but spectators reveling in the spectacle of pain. Of the agony of men impaled on cones of polished glass.

  Dietz, Lauter, Sanchez.

  But for the cyber he would have been among them. Would still be among them if he was caught.

  Dumarest moved, edging to one side, careful not to attract attention. A man among others trying to get a better view. His lips moved in emulation of those around him as they droned invective. Shielded by his sleeve his hand clasped the laser as his eyes gauged angle and distance. One chance and if he failed he would be impaled with the others. But it was a chance he had to take.

  He moved again, edging closer, working his way to the front of the crowd. Dietz hung, sagging in his chains, head slumped forward on his chest. The blood between his thighs was crusted and dark but there had been no time for his weight to have driven the pointed cone deep and he could well be still alive. As could Lauter despite his earlier wounds. There was no doubt about Sanchez. The fighter had a virile strength and an anger to match. Even as Dumarest edged into position, Sanchez lifted his head, eyes opening, mouth working to create a gobbet of spittle.

  "To the Mother!" Deliberately he spat. "To the Great Whore of Creation!"

  Dumarest surged forward with the rest, screaming his rage, taking his chance. The laser was a short-range weapon, sil
ent, devoid of a guide beam, efficient only at close quarters. Sanchez slumped as it charred a hole in his heart. Lauter was next, an ooze of blood at his temple showing where the beam had hit. Dietz didn't move as Dumarest shot him in the throat, searing the carotids, releasing a turgid stream.

  Death delivered with mercy-but there would be none to give him the same should he be caught. Dumarest backed, the laser hidden, leaving the crowd as inconspicuously as he had joined it. Within seconds he was clear of the throng. A minute and he was again edging along the wall leading to the central area. An opening gaped in it, high, pointed, surmounted by a quartered circle shining with the gleam of polished gold. Two priests stood before it armed with heavy staves, weapons which clashed together to form a barrier as Dumarest approached. "Halt! None may enter the Holy Place."

  "My forgiveness but the insult done to the Mother-"

  "They have paid and will continue to pay." The robes concealed armor; Dumarest had caught the glint of metal beneath the fabric. Scales which would resist the beam of a laser, the thrust of a knife, and he guessed their faces would be also protected. He stepped closer, his hands lifted, open, obviously empty. A man apparently beside himself with rage.

  "I must pay homage to the Mother. I-" He stumbled and almost fell, lunging forward to regain his balance, rising with the stave of the left-hand guard clutched in his hand. Holding it while the other became a fist which battered the robe, the flexible armor beneath, driving both fabric and metal against the man's throat. As he fell, gasping, spitting blood, Dumarest tore free his stave and sent the end like a spear into the other's cowl. Bone snapped and blood gushed from the shattered nose. A second thrust and the man had joined his companion on the floor.

  Dumarest jumped over them, reached the opening, ran through it and up the stairs which wound in a tight spiral beyond.