His eyes were very close to DeVore's this time. He could feel the force of personality behind them. But was this the real DeVore or yet another fake?

"I like you, Thorn," he said after a moment. "You're a player. And a good one too. But tell me . . . how did you recognize me? I'd have thought you were too young. Hastings and the others . . . they've no idea who I am. Do you like that?" He roared with laughter, as if greatly amused, then grew serious again. "But you, Thorn. You recognized me?"

It was time to be inventive. He conjured a name from memory and used it.

"My father was a friend of yours. He died twelve years ago. I was only seventeen when it happened. His cruiser came down in the mountains, so they say, but they never found any trace of it and it was rumored that Security blew it up. His name was John Douglas and he revered you, Howard DeVore. He left me a hologrammic portrait of you in his will."

"John Douglas, eh?" DeVore nodded solemnly. "He was a great man, your father. It was a tragedy when he died."

He squeezed Thorn's shoulder, then took his arm away.

"As I said, I like you . . ."

"John."DeVore nodded. "I like you, John. You're . . . different."

He walked to the center of the room and stood there pondering one of the doors a moment, then he turned, looking back at Thorn. "Come, John. I've something to show you."

THE ROOM WAS DARK except for a small cone of illumination in one corner. There, beneath a small wall-mounted spot, two men in white scholars' gowns-shaven-headed giants twice Thorn's height- faced one another cross-legged across a wei chi board.

"What is it?" Thorn asked quietly. "A hologram?"

"Come," DeVore said, touching his arm.

As they came close, one of the giants looked up.

"It's all right, Todlich," DeVore said, reassuringly. "I've cleared him."

The giant's eyes-the pupils large as serpent's eggs, dark as ebony- looked down at Thorn, surveying him with a cool, clear intelligence, then, dismissing him, returned to the game.

"Three boards?" Thorn asked, realizing with a start that what he'd thought was a ch'i-thick block of wood was in fact three separate stacked boards.

DeVore smiled. "It adds a whole new element of complexity, don't you think?"

Thorn nodded, but he was unable to keep himself from staring at the giant's arms. They were like corded silk, the muscles huge, the skin tone magnificent. GenSyn? he wondered. Or had these men been bred?

"Neumann," DeVore said, as if he read Thorn's thoughts. "I call them Neumann. New men."

"Their mother . . . ?" he began, but DeVore shook his head.

"Can't you guess?"

"You made these?"

DeVore's smile broadened. Stepping around the board he stood between the two, dwarfed by them, yet still, it seemed, their Master. They looked to him, patient, obedient.

"Thirty years I've worked to perfect them. Can you imagine that? Thirty years. Time and again I've seen my plans disrupted, but I've never given up. I knew, you see. I'd seen them, like this-exactly like this-picked out in the spotlight, playing the game. And having seen it I knew I had only to keep faith with that vision, even when things looked their darkest, because I knew."

"What are they?" Thorn asked, fascinated.

"They're morphs. Enhanced genetic stock. Tank bred."

"Like GenSyn?"

"GenSyn?" DeVore snorted dismissively. "Why, GenSyn's old news! Their methods . . . well, let's be kind and call them primitive. My techniques, on the other hand, are radical, revolutionary! These . . .

these creations of mine are at the cutting edge of evolution. They're the coming thing. The breaking wave. The Inheritors.

1.

""I see." Thorn crouched, studying the boards. The game, it seemed, was finished, the boards filled. He studied them awhile, then looked to DeVore.

"White," he said. "By two . . . maybe three stones?"

DeVore raised his eyebrows, impressed. "Very good. You understand it, then?"

"I've played since I was three," Thorn said, looking back at the patterns of the stones. "My father taught me. It's very pure, neh? What a man is reveals itself in the stones."

"And what do you see, John Douglas?"

Thorn shrugged. "I see minds beyond mine."

DeVore stared at him a moment, then began to laugh, and Thorn, looking back at him, made himself laugh along with the man. Yet deeper down he felt a profound disquiet; that and a fear great enough to eat away the beating heart of his world.

HE TRIED TO FALL BACK, to lag behind somehow, hoping they would overlook him and go on ahead, giving him the chance to slip away, but it was no good, Tak stayed with him no matter what.

"Are you okay?" Tak asked finally, concerned for him.

"I'm fine," he said, deciding to give up on the attempt. Even if he did make a break, they'd surely come after him, and they were armed, he wasn't.

Even so, the compulsion to escape-to fulfil his prime directive and report back with what he'd seen-remained strong in him. Each step back toward the Myghtern's capital seemed not merely a step in the wrong direction, but a betrayal of basic duty.

"He seemed to like you," Tak said.

Thorn nodded, increasing his pace slightly. "An interesting man, Shih Jackson. What was he in the Above?"

Tak hurried to keep up with him. "He says he was a soldier, but that's just a tale he spins for the likes of Tynan. He was really a geneticist. One of the best."

"A geneticist?"

Thorn stared into the darkness thoughtfully; surprised not only that DeVore should give that story to Tak, but that Tak should understand what a geneticist was. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe he just liked the word.

"Who did he work for?"

Tak shrugged. "I don't know. One of the big Companies, I guess."

Thorn smiled. "What do you know of the Above, Tak?"

"I've seen pictures . . . you know, moving pictures."

"And what did you think?"

Tak was silent a moment, then: "I couldn't live like that.""But surely it's better than this?"

"No. You think it's better, but it's all the same. There are big men and small men. Those who rule and those who are ruled. Well, I'd rather be a big man down here than a-what do you call it?-a zao chen, in the Above."

"Hsiao Jen," Thorn corrected him. "But things surely are better up there. The darkness . . . how can you stand the darkness?"

Tak laughed. "How can you stand the light?"

"But what of the changes here? The light is coming to the Clay. The town . . . that's just the beginning of it, surely?"

Tak was silent, but his silence was telling. He didn't believe these changes would last. Or maybe he knew something the others didn't. Maybe DeVore had said something to him on that score.

They walked on, the darkness surrounding them, returning to the Myghtern's capital.

IT WAS LATE in the celebrations. The wine cask was empty, the stripped bones of fowls littered the floor. Raucous laughter sounded, interspersed by the sober tones of Thorn as he translated the Myghtern's words for the benefit of the five outsiders.

A number of the minor chiefs had keeled over and rested against the walls or where they had fallen in the middle of the floor. Their smell was rank, their snoring loud. Only Tak seemed alert, his back to the wall behind his master, no wineglass in his hand.

The Myghtern had drunk more than most, yet he seemed more sharp, more lively than ever. His broad face shone, and his ruddy mouth showed wetly through his jet-black beard. He was talking of his dream again. Of the woman who would be his Queen. Myghternes. Queen under the City.

Even in his cups he maintained the broad accent of his land. Not for a moment had he slipped and let them know he knew their language.

That, more than anything, had impressed Thorn. The Myghtern was a man of strength and cunning. A beast, but also-in spite of all-a king. As once kings had been. Kings who were gods by vividness.

These others were but pale imitations-shadows to the substance.

"She must be big," Thorn translated. But they had seen the gesture that accompanied the words. There was no need really for Thorn to say more.

"I'll die before he touches an Above woman," Franke muttered under his breath. But not quietly enough, for the Myghtern caught the words and turned in his seat, eyes flaring. "Pandra ober an gowek cows?"

It was said to Thorn, but the big man's eyes were on Franke, his mouth curled in disdain. Thorn hesitated, but the Myghtern only repeated his words, adding "Styra!"

His voice was calm, too calm considering the fierceness in his face. Thorn saw how his hands gripped the arms of the narrow chair, his strong, thick fingers flexing and unflexing. What did the liar say? Translate.

1.

"You heard," Thorn said, suddenly tired of the pretense. Let them make what they would of it.

Franke frowned, then looked to Thorn. The fierce expression on the Myghtern's face had clearly shaken him. "What is it? What did he say?"Thorn smiled. "You'd better ask him yourself. He heard what you said. He knows what you're planning."

For a moment there was silence-a tense, heavy silence-then, abruptly, Tak moved. From his sleeve he removed a thin white cloth and threw it over his master's head and shoulders. As if at a prearranged signal Tynan and Nolen leapt forward, struggling to keep the Myghtern in his chair. He threw them back, but sank down into his chair again, his hands going up to grab at the cloth.

Things were happening fast. Franke and Deng Liang had drawn their guns and were turning on the minor chiefs. The explosions were deafening, the smell of cordite strong and bitter.

The Myghtern was on his feet now, his broadsword half drawn from its scabbard, but Tak's blade had slid between his shoulder blades and the tip of it now protruded from the front of the Myghtem's chest, the small man's thrust piercing flesh and metal. The giant's face was distorted in a snarl of agony. He was bellowing, half-formed words froth- ing from his lips. He staggered forward, catching hold of Deng Liang, and picked him up blindly. The young man screamed.

There was a moment's silence after the body fell, then Nolen placed his gun against the side of the Myghtern's head and pulled the trigger.

For a moment nobody did anything. Then Franke went around the body and drew the massive sword from the scabbard. He tested its weight, then swung it high, decapitating the rising body.

It was over. Only five men stood in the room. The rest were dead.

Tynan took a deep breath, then looked about him. "Where's Thorn?"

But the trader was gone.

"Where is he?" screamed Tynan. "If he gets away . . ."

"He'll not escape." It was Tak who spoke now. "We'll track him without trouble. This is unfamiliar territory to him. And then there's the fence. That'll stop him."

Tynan relaxed, but his face still twitched. Hastings stood back from it all, the blood drained from his face.

He was staring down at the butchered king; at the headless corpse that had once been a proud, strong man-the equal of any of them. Then, without warning, he threw up.

Franke laughed; a sour little noise. He was wrapping the Myghtern's head in the once-white cloth. The cloth dripped blood.

"Well, my friend," he said, turning to look at Tak. "So now you're king. King of Hell." And again he laughed-that same sour laugh, more mockery than enjoyment.

The once-lieutenant was watching Hastings, however. Hastings, crouched forward, looked up at him, then turned his head away, disgusted. "You planned this, didn't you?" he said, staring at Tynan. "All of you. Without consulting me." He sounded bitter, close to tears.

"We had to," said Nolen. "There was no other way."

Hastings glared at him. "And we called him an animal." He spat out the last of the bile, then straightened up.

Tak was still watching Hastings, knowing this was the one he would have to deal with. He noted theweakness, the compassion, and kept his own counsel. It was useful to know such things.

Nolen stood over the body of Deng Liang, trying for a pulse at his neck. After a moment he straightened up and shook his head.

"A shame," Tynan said. "He was a good boy." He turned to face Tak. "You've done well today, Tak. As promised, I give you your free- dom. That and custody of this land." He smiled. "These men are witnesses to that."

Tak nodded, then, for the first time that day, he smiled. "I'll not forget this."

"Nor we," muttered Franke, staring at the carnage all about them. "We'll do what we can to help you.

Give you whatever you need to placate the chiefs."