Suddenly there was a loud explosion, and he was once again in the subterranean chamber, and Altair of Altair lay on her back, blood pouring out from a small hole between her eyes, a silver dagger clutched in her hand.

Cain stood motionless, panting, sweat pouring down his body, trying to regain his bearings. It took his hands a full minute to stop shaking, and finally he put the gun back in its holster.

Then he walked over to Altair of Altair and looked down at her.

“There aren’t any brooks on Sylaria,” he said weakly.

He examined her to make sure there were no signs of life, then stood erect, his hands on his hips.

“Great,” he muttered. “Back to square one again.”

“Not necessarily,” said a voice.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, crouching down beside the corpse and drawing his pistol.

“My name is Schussler,” said the voice, and now Cain realized that it was coming from the computer. “If you will retrace your steps, you’ll find me waiting for you at the entrance to the labyrinth.”

“How will I recognize you?” asked Cain.

“You’ll have very little difficulty,” said the voice with a bitter chuckle. “This I promise you.”

12.

He aches for the touch of flesh upon flesh,

He wonders why Fate had to end his beguine,

He longs for a woman, all virginal fresh:

Schussler the Cyborg, unhappy machine.

Black Orpheus met many unique characters during his wanderings on the Inner Frontier. There were killers and gamblers, preachers and bounty hunters, millionaires and paupers, saints and sinners, an entire panorama of outcasts and adventurers and misfits—but not one of them measured up to Schussler the Cyborg, whose tragedy was that he didn’t want to be unique at all.

Father William, for example, loved the limelight; Schussler dreaded it. Socrates enjoyed power; Schussler disdained it. Sebastian Cain sought solitude; Schussler hated it. The Angel had killed men almost without number; Schussler cherished all life but his own. The Sargasso Rose had no use for human contact; Schussler longed for it. The men and women and aliens that Orpheus put into his song were all bigger than life; Schussler was bigger than any of them, and wanted only to be smaller.

Most people saw him as a miracle of science, a shining testament to the melding of man and machine—but Black Orpheus looked beneath the gleaming surface, past the wonders of an alien technology, straight into Schussler’s tortured soul, and wept at what he saw.

They met only once, on Altair III. Orpheus stayed with him for a day and a night, while Schussler poured out his strange, unhappy story. They parted the next morning, Orpheus to continue his journey among the stars, Schussler to serve his mistress and wait, without hope, for the release of death.