The Quillian Sector

Chapter Three

The Entil was a pleasant surprise. Despite what the captain had claimed, Dumarest had expected to see the usual dirt and neglect of those sharing partnership and unwilling to perform more than the essential tasks. A ship run on a shoestring, with patches and stained paint and filters which passed dust and tanks which leaked air. He had worked on such vessels and traveled on them too often to have retained any illusions, but the Entil was the exception to the rule.

Dumarest checked it after Egulus had seen him aboard and then moved on to the control room. The passageway was brightly illuminated, the cabins opening on it clean and neat, the paint shining as if newly washed. The salon was well furnished, the gaming table covered in clean, unworn baize, the light above throwing a neatly defined cone of brilliance. Testing the spigots, Dumarest found they not only supplied the normal water, but also a weakly alcoholic fruit drink. Unexpected luxury in any trader or in any vessel lower than the luxury class.

Allain, his guide, shrugged when he mentioned it. The steward was pushing middle age, his face smooth, bland with the diminution of curiosity. A man who had found his niche and who now observed the universe with cynical detachment and an extended palm.

"Egulus is smart. Advertise free wine and it adds the edge to persuading customers to ride with us instead of another. And it whets their appetites for something stronger!"

"Which you can supply?"

"Naturally, and you, too." Allain glanced at the table. "Get them a little high and they get careless. A smart man can really clean up if he puts his mind to it. Well, you'll learn. Now come and meet Jumoke."

Jumoke was the navigator. He was younger than the steward, with intense blue eyes and a mouth which betrayed an inner sensitivity. He rose from the edge of his bunk as Dumarest entered his cabin, extending his hand, lowering it as Dumarest touched the fingers. They were smooth and cool, the nails rounded and neatly polished.

He said, "So you have learned the old customs."

"On a world far from here, yes."

"The touching of hands," explained Jumoke to the steward. "A civilized act or an act performed among civilized peoples to show they have no hostile intent. On some worlds both hands are extended, on others only the empty palms are displayed." To Dumarest he said, "From Naud, perhaps?"

"No."

"Hagor, then? Fiander? Or even Grett? All three worlds use the old custom. Rumor has it they gained it from the Original People, but so often does rumor lie. Personally, I come from Vult. You know it?"

"The cesspool of the Rift," said Allain, before Dumarest could answer. "Every man is a thief or murderer, every woman a harlot, even the children learn to lie and cheat at their mother's knee. A world of madness."

"And our next port of call." Jumoke looked at the steward. "Aren't you supposed to be checking the stores?"

"It's done."

"Completely? You've checked the sensatapes? The rare and delicate wines? The stronger liquors? The preserved delicacies which fetch so high a price? Be careful, my friend. If, by your neglect, we lose a profitable sale, may God help you, for surely we shall not." Jumoke chuckled as the man hastily left the cabin. "He's good at his work but sometimes doubts his memory. Vult always disturbs him. Mention it and you get a tirade. He had a sister once-but never mind that now. We all have burdens to bear. Allain, myself, you-?" He paused then, as Dumarest made no comment, shrugged and smiled. "The captain mentioned you were close. But so close you are reluctant to give the name of your home world?"

"Earth."

"What?"

"Earth," said Dumarest again. The man was a navigator and must have traveled far. And he could have heard the gossip of others of his kind. It was possible he had heard of the planet, knew where it was to be found. A hope which died as Jumoke laughed.

"A humorist! I knew you were a hard man but never that! Earth!" He laughed again, "You know as well as I that you talk of a legendary world. One of many-El Dorado, Bonanza, Jackpot, Avalon-the list is long. Myths invented by men yearning for paradise. Earth!" The navigator shook his head. "The name alone should warn you of its nature. Every world contains earth. They are made of it. Crops grow in it. Who would name a world after dirt?"

"It exists."

"In the mind."

"In space somewhere. It is real."

"Of course." Jumoke sobered, his tone gentle. "If you say so, my friend. Who am I to argue? We must talk more on the subject, but later. Now I have work to do in the control room; sensors to check and instruments to test. You understand?" Then, as he stepped toward the door of the cabin, he added, "A word of advice. The captain has little use for those who are less than serious. If he should ask about your home world, it would be best to lie a little. Tell him you were born on Ottery, for example. Or Heeg. They, at least, are in the almanac."

Outside, the passage was deserted. As Jumoke headed toward the control room, Dumarest moved in the other direction toward the hold and engine room. As handler, it was his job to check the stowing of cargo and to operate the caskets designed for the transportation of beasts and often used to carry those riding Low; people traveling doped, frozen and ninety percent dead, risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap transportation.

Now the caskets were empty and the cargo, a mass of bales and metal-strapped boxes, already in place. Dumarest checked the restraints, tightening and adjusting as needed. More cargo could arrive before they left, but he doubted it. From what Egulus had told him, the main trade of the Entil was in carrying passengers. Some of them could have personal luggage, and maybe personal packets of stores and cargo, but they would arrive with their owners.

Crouching, Dumarest checked the caskets, tracing the wires and pipes, rising to swing open the transparent lids, closing them and operating the controls and watching the gauges showing the drop in temperature. As he lowered the lid of the last, he saw the woman standing in the open doorway leading to the engine room.

She was tall, with a helmet of glinting blonde hair, the tresses cropped to hug the head and to frame the wide, strongly boned face. The shoulders were wide, a support for the muscles supporting the prominent breasts which thrust unmistakable mounds beneath the tunic of her uniform. Her eyes were oval pools of vivid blueness, her ears small and set tight against the head, the nose a little uptilted above a generous mouth. The chin matched the cropped hair in its masculine determination and when she spoke, her voice held a deep resonance.

"Satisfied?"

"Number two needs some attention to the hinges."

"And?"

"Number four is sluggish on the intake."

"Full marks," she said. "Not many would have noticed that. At least you know your caskets. Ridden in them often?"

"Too often."

"It's a hell of a way to travel." Stepping forward, she extended her hand in Jumoke's gesture. Touching it, he found it soft yet firm and, now that he was close, he caught the scent of her perfume. It was floral, slightly pungent, accentuating her femininity but at variance with her general appearance. A sign that she was not attempting to emulate the male, perhaps. A personal touch which gave her an individuality, and rescued her from the anonymity of a uniform. "So you're the new man. Glad to have you with us. I'm Dilys Edhessa. The engineer. You?" She nodded as he gave his name. "Well, you're an improvement on Gresham. That's his uniform you're wearing. It's too tight at the shoulders and too loose around the waist but I can fix that for you."

"What happened to him?"

"Gresham? He tried to hold out and was caught cheating by a couple of punters. Miners from Cham. He made the mistake of trying to get them and one shot him from under the table. You want to watch out for that, by the way. Make sure they keep their hands where you can see them. We carry some wild types, at times."

"And Gresham?"

"As I said, he'd been holding out on the common fund so when he got himself killed Yarn wasn't too concerned. He took a bribe from the miners to forget what had happened and we dumped Gresham into the void." She made a gesture as if brushing dirt from her hands. "He was no loss."

"Anything else I should know?"

"I doubt it. You've met Jumoke and Allain? And you know the captain, of course. Now you've met me. That's the lot. We run the Entil. Including you, naturally."

An afterthought, and Dumarest could understand it. He, like the steward, was expendable. It would be natural for the woman to regard him as less important than herself. And with reason. Looking past her, Dumarest could see the humped bulk of the engines, the wink and gleam of instruments and monitors. A comforting sight; the neatness would extend to the maintenance of the all important generator.

Following his eyes, she said, "Know anything about engines?"

"A little."

"Good, then you can help me run a check later on. Just routine, but it would help to have someone relay the readings. Someone who knows what it's all about." Then she added without change of tone, "Just in case you've tried a bluff with Yarn, it won't work."

"I know that."

"Listen! What I'm trying to say is if you need a loan? You can pay it back later."

"Thank you, but it isn't necessary. I mean that."

"Good." She stood looking at him, her eyes level with his own. A woman as broad as himself but heavier due to the swell of hips, buttocks and breasts. An Amazon, but one who held an unmistakable femininity, whose eyes held a genuine concern. "I like the captain but, at times, he can be hard. As you can be, I guess. You have the look, Earl, the manner of-hell, what am I talking about?"

"The caskets," he said.

"What?"

"The hinges need fixing, as does the intake. If you'll let me have some tools, I'll take care of it."

"There's no hurry," she said, welcoming the change of subject, the path he had opened from the intensity of the moment when, startlingly, she had felt her body respond to his masculine closeness. "We don't use them often now. On most of the worlds we visit, it's easy enough for anyone to earn the cost of a High passage. And few are interested in traveling Low."

"But they wouldn't be refused if they asked?"

"Of course not. Why turn down a profit?"

"Then I'd better fix the caskets."

"We'll fix them," she corrected. "Together. But why the concern? If a man's too big a creep to gain the cost of a decent passage, why worry about him?"

He said dryly, "Call it a vested interest. That creep could be me."

From where he sat in the narrow confines of the cabin, Leo Bochner said, "In order to survive, an animal needs three essentials; food, shelter and seclusion. It must eat, have protection against the elements and, because no matter how strong or savage a predator it may be, it will need to sleep at times, and so be vulnerable." He helped himself to some of his amber wine. "A pattern which any hunter must bear in mind."

Caradoc said nothing, sitting with his face shrouded in the uplifted cowl of his robe, his hands buried within the wide sleeves. Bochner was a little drunk, or was trying to give that impression. If the former, he was betraying a weakness which could kill him; if the latter, then he must again be trying to get information. An exercise which the cyber would have found amusing if he had been able to experience the emotion.

"A pattern which has won me many a trophy," continued Bochner. "To learn the habits of the quarry, to trail, to anticipate and then, finally, to close in for the kill." His hand tightened around the cap of the ornate bottle. "To win and again affirm the superiority of a thinking mind."

"One fogged with drugs?"

"This?" Bochner lifted the cap and deliberately swallowed what it contained. "You object?"

"To your drinking, no. To the possibility of your failure, yes. Need I remind you that the Cyclan has little patience with those who fail? That when you accepted your present commission you also undertook certain obligations? It would be wise for you to remember them."

"Don't preach to me, Cyber!" For a moment the smooth, almost-womanish features changed, to become those of a feral beast, an animal devoted to the kill. "The Cyclans have hired my skill, nothing more. And why did they hire me? Why, with all the skills and talents you claim to possess, was it necessary to find another to hunt down the man you seek?" Leaning forward a little, he added, "Can't you, even now, guess why Dumarest has been able to elude you for so long?"

"Chance-"

"Luck! The whining excuse of fools!" Wine gurgled as Bochner refilled the little cup. "Shall I tell you why? You persist in thinking of Dumarest as a factor and not as a man. As a unit instead of a thinking, human being. You make your predictions and assess your probabilities and point to a certain place and claim that is the spot at which your quarry is to be found. Yet, the men sent there find they are too late, or get themselves killed, or discover that some incident has negated your prediction. And still you haven't trapped your prey, and still you can't understand why."

Caradoc watched as Bochner emptied his cup and again refilled it from the bottle.

"Dumarest is a man, not a cypher. An animal with sharpened instincts and an awareness of danger. But this time, he must know who is hunting him and why; an advantage he has which I do not. It would help if I did." Pausing, he waited, and Caradoc noted the steadiness of his hand, the absence of glimmering reflections from the glass of the bottle, the surface of the liquid in the cup. A pause which the hunter ended before it became obvious he waited for an answer. "But no matter how clever he is, the rules apply to him as they do to a beast. He has the same need for food, shelter and seclusion. Being human, all can be obtained with the one commodity- money. To get it he must steal, beg or work. To beg would take too long and bring too small a return. To steal is not easy, and to rob others is to take high risks for the sake of little gain. Therefore, he must work and where would a traveler without great skills obtain employment in the Quillian Sector? Work which would provide all a man in his position needs? Well, Cyber, where is he to find it? Where would he feel safe? Where else but among others of his own kind? Transients who ask no questions, employed by those who regard them as nothing but a needed source of labor. A construction site-mines, roads, buildings, canals-but where, Cyber? On which world?"

"Ealius. We arrive tomorrow."

They landed at sunset when the terminator was bisecting the single continent and tattered clouds hung like shredded garlands against the darkening orange of the sky. Bochner paused at the gate as Caradoc went on his way, asking for and receiving audience with the guard-commander, a burly, sullen man who softened as money was pressed into his palm.

"Procedure? It's simple. We don't worry about arrivals and only test people when they leave. We stand them on the detector and ask their names. If they lie, we hold them for further investigation. If they're on the list, the same."

"List?"

"Contract-breakers, debtors, those accused of any crime. We catch them, hold them, pass them on for appropriate action. Dumarest?" He frowned. "No, no one of that name has passed through."

"How can you be sure? Are you on duty at all times?"

"No, but we keep records and I check the lists. Want to check?"

"I'll take your word for it. Sorry to have taken up your time."

"Dumarest!" The commander frowned, musing. "Wait a minute! Dumarest-that name's familiar." He turned to where a man sat at a computer terminal. "Check it, Mallius."

A moment, then, "It's on the list, Commander. Man to be detained if spotted. An accusation of theft by the Hafal-Glych made on the-"

"Never mind that." The commander looked at Bochner. "Satisfied?"

With the thoroughness of the Cyclan, if nothing else. The listing of the name was proof of the efficiency of the organization-they must have alerted agents on every world in the Quillian Sector to keep watch for Dumarest. His respect for the man increased as he realized what difficulties he had to face. Still had to face. A cunning and intelligent quarry who should provide a stimulating chase.

Caradoc, sitting in a room in the foremost hotel, listened to what he had learned, then said, "Your conclusions?"

"Dumarest must be working for one of the construction companies here. Maybe the Fydale or the Arbroth-both are large employers of labor."

"As is the Lenchief."

"You think that is where he is to be found?"

"The probability is high." Caradoc made a gesture of dismissal. "If you hope to gain your reward I suggest you waste no further time. Contact me immediately if you have located Dumarest. Once you are certain you have found the man I will give you further instructions."

Bochner drew in his breath, aware of the rage mounting within him, the anger which must surely burst to reveal itself on his face. A rage triggered by the realization that the cyber had already assessed all possibilities and had arrived at his decision without deigning to consult his partner. His anger was not helped by the knowledge that his inquiries at the gate had been a waste of time. Why hadn't he been told?

Caradoc said, "You have the name of the company and can gain its location if you ask at the desk. They will also arrange for transportation. Is there more you need before undertaking action?"

"No, I- Bochner forced himself to remember that no cyber was ever sarcastic and that Caradoc's inquiry had been genuine. "Aren't you coming with me?"

"There is no need, in fact, my presence could be a disadvantage. In any case, I have other work to engage my attention while you execute your commission." Again came the gesture of dismissal. "Please delay no longer."

Caradoc followed the hunter with his eyes as the man left the room. Bochner had mastered his obvious rage well and that was to his credit, but against that was the fact there had been no rational cause for anger at all. Another demonstration of the futility of emotion; the crippling reaction of the mind and body to external stimuli which destroyed the sharp reasoning power of the intellect. Had he considered the Cyclan to be so devoid of foresight that he had thought it necessary to question those at the gate? Had he no concept of the power of the organization which had chosen to utilize his limited skills?

Yoka had chosen him, and the old cyber had long ago proved his capabilities. Yet, too much importance should not be placed on past achievements. Age could bring more than physical decay; always there was the danger of a mind affected by senility. It was barely possible that all relevant factors had not been taken into account when he had decided on the use of Bochner. He would include the suggestion in his report. In the meantime, as he had mentioned to the hunter, he had other matters to attend to.

A touch on a button and a man answered the summons.

"Master!" The acolyte bowed. One of two sent from a different world on another vessel-what Bochner didn't know he couldn't guard against. "Your commands?"

"Send in Fan Dudinka."

He was of middle height, middle-aged, his face marked with lines of worry, his eyes wary even though his manner was assured. The Head of the Essalian Group, which faced ruin unless the Cyclan could help them.

"Cyber Caradoc, it is good of you to receive me."

"Please be seated." Caradoc waited until the man had taken a chair. "As you have been informed, your bid to engage the services of the Cyclan has been successful. Now it must be clearly understood by you, and those of your group, that I can take no sides, that I am not interested in matters of moral right or legal wrong, that my sole function is to predict the possibility of events resulting from nodes of action."

"And for that, we pay," said Dudinka. "But, unless we pay-" he swallowed, "for God's sake, what can we do?"

"The Essalian Group is composed of those who operate farms running along both banks of the Ess. The river will be diverted once the major cutting into the mountains is completed. Once that happens, then shortage of water will make the land unproductive." Caradoc lifted a hand to still the other's outburst. "I merely review the situation. Now, as to what you can do-your major crop is the narcotic weed used by many of the workers. It grows quickly, cures on the stem, can be harvested and shredded in a matter of weeks from initial planting."

"We could maintain production if we used hydroponic vats," said Dudinka, "but the cost would be prohibitive."

"And the returns nil. Once you raise your prices to compensate, you lose your market. Your problem is with the company digging the cutting. They have no real need to divert the river and could avoid it by constructing an appropriate channel. If you were to guarantee to meet the cost, the probability is ninety-one percent they would agree."

"We haven't the money."

"You have the crop. You could sell it to the company at a set price and deny all free sale. The profits the company would gain from a monopoly would more than compensate them for the expense of the channel." Caradoc added, "The probability they would accept such an arrangement is in the order of ninety-seven percent."

A simple solution to a basically simple problem-the more so when already the construction company had learned to rely on the advice given by the Cyclan. All would be satisfied and all would be eager, when the next problem rose, as it would when the workers left when the channel was completed, to hire again the services of a cyber. And the advice he gave would, as always, be slanted to dependency on the service offered by the Cyclan. Use it and gain wealth and security, and who dared not use it when a competitor might?

And, once a dependency had been achieved, it was only a step to later domination.

"Master?" The acolyte was at his side. "Is there anything you require?"

"No." Caradoc rose from his chair. "I shall rest for a few hours. Should Bochner call, summon me at once."

Fifty miles from the town, the hunter walked through a man-made jungle of rips and tears and steaming mounds of noxious vapors and tormented ooze, of patches of acid vileness and bogs of lurking dissolution. All construction sites were the same; places where nature had been ravaged, the earth torn, the area despoiled in order to wrest wealth or later gain with a casual disregard for the safety or comfort of those who toiled like insects beneath the sun by day and flood lights at night.

A good place in which a man could hide.

Or so a man on the run would think, not seeing beyond the immediate necessity of obtaining shelter and a degree of anonymity. But, in such places, no man was ever truly alone. Always eyes watched him; those of the gambling sharks eager to take his pay, of those who sold food and comforts, of the girls operating in the shacks at the edge of the perimeter; raddled harlots together with their pimps and the sellers of chemical dreams. Only in a city could a man be really alone, and only then if he had the money on which to survive. Without that, he would be forced to work however and wherever he could.

"Dumarest?" The man in the office shrugged. "Mister, they come and they go-how the hell can I remember a name? Check with the wages clerk."

"Dumarest?" The clerk scowled. "Do you realize how many we have working here? How long it will take me to hunt through the files? They get paid on the first of each month. Come back then."

"Dumarest?" A guard rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. "I can't place him. Say, why don't you ask among the girls?"

They knew nothing, and neither did the purveyors of killing delights. Bochner had expected little else. No quarry of any worth would leave so clear a trail or make such a stupid mistake. But he picked up a rumor and followed it, and spoke to a man who had a friend who knew a little more and who was willing to talk, once primed with a bottle.

"Dumarest? Tall, wears gray, doesn't say much? Yeah, I've seen him. Fact is, he got into a little trouble recently and killed a man. A fair fight, so I understand. Didn't see it myself, but I know who did."

"Dumarest?" Carl Devoy was cautious. "Never heard of him. The man who killed Menser? Well, he did a good job, the bastard asked for it, but I don't know who did it. Not Dumarest, you can take that as a fact. Who is he anyway, and why do you want him?"

The official in the morgue was curt.

"Menser? He had an accident. What business is it of yours?" Money mollified his tone. "Well, I guess it would do no harm to let you see him. You're lucky, we were going to dump him but the manager said to wait until dawn. He wanted to get the doctor's report. No doubt about it-accidental death."

An accident which had ruined an eye, broken a knee, crushed larynx and windpipe. Bochner examined the injuries, assessing the force which must have been used, the agility needed to escape the long arms. He checked the hands, the nails with their sharpened points, the paste beneath them. An animal and a dangerous one-how much more dangerous must be the one who had bested him?

Back in the town with a new day brightening the sky, he quested another jungle. One not as raw as the site, but as viciously alive with its own form of predators. Men whom he hunted down with the hard-won skill, the cunning learned over the years. Trees or houses, gutters or rivers, men or beasts, all were basically the same. Note your target, wait by the water hole, watch the feeding ground, the accustomed trail, and then close in for the kill. And if money takes the place of bullets, then it is that much easier. All it took was time.

"Hurt?" The man had shifty eyes which never stared at any one thing for long. "A friend of yours? Hurt, you say?"

"Cut a little." Bochner winced as he moved his arm. "A quarrel that got out of hand-you know how it is."

"A friend?"

"That's what I said." Again Bochner winced as he moved. "A good friend. I'd like to help him."

"Then take him to the hospital."

"Which has doctors who'd ask questions, and guards who'd ask more. Hell, all I want is for someone to bind up a wound and I-my friend-can pay. For the service, and for anyone who guides him to it." Money sang its song of appeal as he dropped coins on the table between them. From the far side of the tavern a man stared, then rose and moved casually toward the door. Following the movement of the shifty eyes, Bochner said, "Him?"

"Yeah." The man snarled as a hand fell to grip his own as it tried to rake up the coins. To crush the flesh against the bone until blood oozed from beneath the nails. "What the hell are you doing? My hand!"

"Him?"

"I-to hell with it." The man whispered a name, gave directions. "You'll find help there but if you tell who told you-"

The man who had sauntered toward the door stepped forward as Bochner approached, fell back as stiffened fingers slammed into the pit of his stomach, again where the heart beat under the ribs. A precaution-but no hunter would allow himself to be hunted.

Afternoon found him with a woman who turned stubborn. At dusk, he had gained a name and had something which was barely alive. Before he left the house, he had a name only.

Caradoc said, "You are certain?"

"I am sure as to my facts. But as you pointed out, there can be no such thing as certainty." Bochner was enjoying his triumph. "I tracked him, do you understand? I followed his trail. From the site to the town, to where he went to find help, to where he gained it, to where he went to find another."

"So easily?"

"He was on the move and relying on speed more than covering his trail. He knew he couldn't do that. There had been a fight and he had killed a man. After that he had to run." His laughter rose. "To here, Cyber. To this town. To a tavern close to the field. A week and we would have lost him. A couple of days, even, but I was hunting him down. Me, Cyber! Me!"

His pride was a beacon, a force which drove him to pace the room, to halt before the uncurtained window, to turn and pace again before the desk at which the cyber sat with poised immobility.

"So you have tracked him down," said Caradoc. "You know just where Dumarest is to be found. All that remains is to reach out and take him. Correct?"

"Not exactly."

"Explain." Caradoc listened then said, "The Belzdek-how can you be so sure?"

"The name the woman gave me. It was that of a captain, large Krell. The Belzdek is his vessel."

"And you assume that Dumarest must be on it?" As Bochner nodded the cyber added, "But, of course, the woman could have lied."

"No!"

"What makes you so certain? Have you yet to learn that nothing is ever certain? How can you be convinced she did not lie? After all, you could hardly have been regarded by her as a friend."

Tortured, dying-no, she would not have considered him that.

Caradoc said, "Assuming that Dumarest killed Menser, we have a time node from which to base extrapolations. If he left the site immediately, he would have arrived in the town by sunset. Allow more for him to have met the woman and be treated by her, more still for him to have gone to any rendezvous she might have arranged."

"To meet Krell."

"He or another. What is of more concern is the ship departures during the relevant period." Caradoc picked a paper from a sheaf on his desk. "Five vessels left in the period between Menser's death and our arrival; the Belzdek, Frame, Entil, Wilke and Ychale. The latter is an ore-carrier plying between Ealius and Cham on a regular schedule. The Wilke is a vessel of a commercial line operating a circular route and touching at Ninik, Pontia, Vult and Swenna. The others are traders going where the dictates of cargo and passengers take them." Caradoc lowered the paper. "Well?"

Bochner said, thoughtfully, "Dumarest didn't pass through the gate."

"He didn't subject himself to the lie detector at the gate," corrected the cyber. "Which means he either smuggled himself through or surmounted the perimeter fence. As that is watched and guarded by electronic devices, and as no alarm was recorded, it is safe to assume that he left Ealius by deception."

"And he had to leave," said Bochner. "An animal on the run can only think of finding a safe place in which to hide. Where, on this world, could Dumarest find that? After killing Menser, he would be marked for assassination by the man's friends. Certainly he would have become prominent, and that would be the last thing he wanted." He frowned, remembering the woman, her tormented eyes, the way she had spat before she had screamed out the name. Had she lied? Would she have retained sufficient resolve? "The Belzdek," he decided. "I say Dumarest is on the Belzdek."

"Which left for Gorion as we landed. The Entil left the previous noon for Vult. The Frame earlier for your own world of Pontia. Five vessels in all and the possibility remains that Dumarest could be on any one of them." Pausing, he ended, "Now tell me, hunter, how would you find your prey?"

"Set traps. Radio ahead and-" Bochner broke off, remembering. "No," he said bitterly, "it's not as easy as that. We're in the Rift. In the Quillian Sector. Damn it! Damn it all to hell!"