"What flaw? The damned thing looks perfect to me."
"He can't leave well enough alone. He can't leave an end loose. If he hadn't tried to kill you, you would probably have gone on, forgetting your suspicions, never making any connections. Admittedly, if his attempt on you had succeeded, that would not be the case. Except for me."
"Yes, I don't think he anticipated you."
"I'm fairly certain of that. Aside from your undoubted talents, you are an unmarried woman known to be living alone. No one to confide in. No one to pursue your mysterious death with the passion of a close relative."
"Yeah." She chewed nervously on a little green plastic spear that had held a bite-sized salmon puff in the shape of a rose. "I don't want to wait for the police. If I'm right—God, I hope I'm not right —my dream may be poisoning that woman's subconscious right now. There's no time. I want to go trolling for that little bastard Kinsey, draw him out of his lair, wherever it is, and make him cough up its destination. But I don't know how to go about it, or what to use for bait."
"Well, you yourself are bait," Chalmys pointed out.
"How so?"
"If the police don't catch up with him soon through the physical evidence, the absence of your death in the news has got to start preying on his mind. He'll wonder if his trap malfunctioned, or failed to go off. It's my belief that sooner or later he will be unable to resist coming back to check"—Chalmys thoughtfully did not add 'and finish the job'— "and then he can be trapped."
"How can I make it sooner?"
"About the only tangible thread you have to him is the check, and the police are working the official channels on that. You want a separate line. You can't reach him privately. How about publicly?"
"That's an idea. Maybe I could put an ad on all the Rio news service personals channels, like, 'Mr. Rudolph Kinsey, the bank refuses payment on your check. Please contact me to straighten this out,' and give him your number. If I can just get him on the vone, chances are I can lure him up here. But it seems so thin, I'm not sure it'll fetch him. What if he doesn't view the personals?"
"I was thinking about that ex-boyfriend of yours, the one who came to interview me when I first met you who answered all his own questions. Anything you can do with him?"
Anias made a face. "I suppose I could get him to give me a blurb on his video magazine. 'Vone interview with composer of Triad, now vacationing in Ohio.' It ought to be good for a five-minute spot. I can appear all cheerful and healthy, and talk about how I'm taking a long break from composing. I can drop some line about how the machine is on the shelf, or back to the factory or something, with maybe a disturbingly vague reference to resting from private commissions just completed. I only hope Helmut doesn't see it—he'd pop an artery. But will Kinsey?" The end of the little green stick was being mashed into a flattened blob.
"He'll be watching for news of you, I should think. I'd say the chances were very good."
"Let's try both, then. Ah . . . what if it works? What if he comes armed? Do you have any guns?"
"No, no, no guns. I suppose I can't blame you for not having the engineering point of view. There are weapons all around us, much better than guns. If you can get him up here, I think you'd better leave that part of it to me."
"Gladly."
* * *
The days that followed were dreadful for Anias. Having no other work to do, her hyperthyroid imagination occupied itself building towering cities and intricate labyrinths of further speculation on the narrow foundation of their facts, which she could not help inflicting on Chalmys. It was a strain on their relationship, fortunately balanced by his sense of proportion and dry humor. In self-defense he ordered and paid for a new synthesizer for her, but as it could not be delivered for at least a week, he had to endure. He finally accused her of being as bad as a kid waiting for Christmas, which restrained her somewhat.
They kept in touch with the police in Rio. The leads from the physical evidence proved disappointing. The dream set had been wired with a common commercial capacitor simply set to discharge when contact was made. Anyone with the most primitive grasp of electronics could have done it. There were no fingerprints, hairs, or fibers. The check had been prepaid a week before at a busy branch of the State bank by a man answering Kinsey's description, but giving a different name. The cash with which he had paid was long since scattered through the system, although attempts were being made to trace it. The name and address proved fictitious, and the voiceprint by which positive identification could be made, in case the check was not cashed within ninety days and its writer turned up to demand a refund, did not check against any known felons. Searches of other files of voiceprints were tediously in progress. A Rudolph Kinsey was discovered in La Plata, and another in Manaos, one a retired bakery technician and the other a young student. Neither appeared to be any relation to their man.
Chalmys also made some private arrangements with a near neighbor, who happened to be the local sheriff. The situation was complicated by the probability that their anticipated visitor had committed no crimes in Greater North America. Arresting him on sight might protect Anias, but could not result in any sort of charge or conviction likely to stick. Even if arrested in Rio, if he kept his head and denied all steadfastly, his chances of brazening it out against the scanty evidence were excellent. Chalmys devoted much thought to this practical point.
Thursday evening Anias was passing the study when she heard the bell from the front gate. Her heart jumping, she went to the screen and keyed it in. Rudolph Kinsey appeared, smiling toothily.
"Oh," Anias managed. "Fancy seeing you here." She mentally kicked at her paralyzed reason, hoping it would produce something less fatuous.
"Good evening, Miss Ruey, I'm so glad to find you here," said Kinsey, with perfect composure. "I wonder if I might have a few moments of your time."
"I'll . . . I'll have to ask Captain DuBauer. He's very peculiar about visitors."
"So I've heard," smiled Kinsey.
"If it's about the birthday card," Anias put in evilly, "I'm very sorry. I had a little trouble with my synthesizer. I've sent it away for repairs. Perhaps I can make it up to you somehow."
That unsettled him slightly. "Ah, no problem, I certainly hope you may. You need not bother your host, if you prefer. I don't wish to inconvenience so famous a man. If you will come down to the gate, I can finish my business in a moment."
I'll bet you can, thought Anias. She smiled brightly, "Just a moment, please," and put him on hold.
"Chalmys!" she wailed, on a dead run. A fifty-yard dash brought her to the kitchen, where Chalmys was annoying his cook by his nightly habit of kibitzing.
"He's here! At the front gate. Kinsey himself. Wants to see me."
"Yes, I know," said Chalmys, dipping his finger into a sauce. "He's been skulking around the perimeter of the force screen for about an hour now. Guess he's given up on sneaking in and has decided to risk a frontal assault."
Anias glared at him. "You knew! And didn't tell me!"
"It wasn't the right time of day yet," he said mildly.
"What'll we do?"
"Well, you may go to the vone and call Sheriff Yoder. Ask him to stop by in about an hour. Then wait in the study. Charles, hold dinner for one hour. That should be sufficient."
"Ooh!" Anias danced around him like a small impatient moon about a Jovian planet. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to take our visitor for a walk."
"All right, be like that," complained Anias bitterly. "But . . . be careful."
"I'm always careful. You agreed to leave this part to me, remember?" He walked out of the house toward the main gate in the failing light.
The 'main gate' was a spidery structure, screened from the house by distance and landscaping. It was one of the few spots where the force screen generating equipment appeared above ground. The intercom was recessed in a panel on the outer face of one upright. Kinsey was waiting by it, leaning against the pylon, scuffing a little pi
le of dirt about with the toe of one pointed shoe. He came to attention when he saw Chalmys, then relaxed slightly when his searching eyes discovered him to be alone.
"Mr. Kinsey?" inquired Chalmys politely.
"Uh, Captain DuBauer?" returned Kinsey. "So sorry to trouble you, sir. I had an urgent piece of business with your, er, guest, Miss Ruey."
"Yes, so I heard." Chalmys keyed the gate open. "Just bring your flyer through the gate and park it over there on that grassy knoll, and I'll take you to her." Kinsey, nervous but hopeful, did as instructed. Chalmys keyed the gate shut, and wandered toward a wooded area of his property. Kinsey caught up with him shortly.
"It's rather a personal matter," Kinsey hinted. "She may prefer to speak to me alone." His tone imputed secret, swampy motivations to Anias. Chalmys appreciated the artistry of the phrasing. It inspired him.
"Quite so," he said heartily. "She's in the summer house, just on the other side of these woods. You can be quite private there. Just the two of you, for as long as you like."
"The business may take some time," Kinsey grabbed the lead with alacrity, obviously planning ahead.
They entered the woods. It was darker there, full of cool, moist hollows, and springy underfoot with years of fallen leaves. They crackled on top but softened to a slippery blackness beneath that deadened the sound of their steps. Undergrowth stretched tendrils, twiggy switches, and hidden hooks across the path.
"Go on ahead of me; the path gets a bit narrow," said Chalmys. He paused and bent to brush some detritus from his shoe, then removed a control device and a recorder from his pocket. He advanced a few more steps, then seated himself comfortably on a fallen tree and made a few adjustments.
"That's probably far enough, Mr. Kinsey. I wouldn't want you to get lost." Chalmys arranged his equipment neatly to hand beside him on the log.
Kinsey whirled, suspicion flaring in his face. "What is this?" His eyes flicked over Chalmys and, discovering nothing that looked like a weapon, started back toward him. He ran abruptly into the tingling, invisible wall of the force screen, and fell back, but kept his head. He cleared his throat. "What's the trouble, Captain?"
"No trouble," said Chalmys genially. "I just thought you might like to talk to me." He tapped the recorder suggestively.
"What about?" asked Kinsey, feeling uncertainly for some solid orientation.
"I thought I'd leave that up to you," said Chalmys. "I'm sure you'll think of something to interest me, after a time."
A long silence fell between them.
"Just to jog your invention, I might point out a few salient features of your situation," Chalmys said helpfully. "I should think you were quite careful to let no one know where you were going. You are now alone, without transportation, afoot in a strange country with night falling. It is at least eight kilometers to the nearest neighbor—forgive me if I neglect to mention in which direction —through some rather uneven terrain, underbrush, swampy areas, and so on; very confusing in the dark. You strike me as a city man—I wonder how long it's been since you've hiked eight kilometers?"
Kinsey glared malignantly, but said nothing. Down the line, the first mosquito of the evening sparked to its death in the screen.
"Ah, and then there are the mosquitoes," Chalmys went on smoothly. "You who live in the civilized south have no conception of the voracity of the insect life here in the wild, irradiated north. Although it isn't true that they can drain a man of blood in fifteen minutes. It would take quite a lot longer. Not as long as it takes a man to walk eight kilometers, though."
"You're insane!" cried Kinsey, and drew an ugly little needler pistol from his jacket. "Let me in," he demanded.
"Oh, dear, I hope you know your physics," said Chalmys, unmoved.
The expression on Kinsey's face indicated he did. Lips compressed, he returned the needler to his pocket.
"Thank you," said Chalmys. "Magnetic resonance is a powerful force. It would make an impressive crater about where you're standing. I suppose I could turn it into a goldfish pond. Still, you do well not to throw it away. You might need it later if you decide to take that hike. Woodchucks, you know."
"What are woodchucks?" asked Kinsey, drawn in spite of himself.
"Well, they used to be rather clumsy little furry animals, when I was a boy, before the war. The war changed so many things. Mosquitoes, woodchucks . . ." Chalmys paused, watching a few more sparkles through the leaves along the border of the force screen through the woods. Kinsey began to swear at him, viciously. He moved away into the woods, but then moved back.
"The mosquitoes," Chalmys went on didactically, "locate their prey by detecting the CO2 in mammalian exhalations. I suppose you could try holding your breath."
There was a nasty buzzing noise by Kinsey's head. With a cry, he whirled and batted the great insect into the screen, where the detector program identified and annihilated it. He leaned against the force screen, which generated a golden aura around him like the vision of a saint.
"What do you want?" he snarled. "A confession? No confession under threats is accepted as evidence in court."
"Not if extracted by the police," Chalmys allowed. "Between two private citizens, it's more of a gray area. Now, I'm glad you perceive that I'm interested in justice. I merely point out that one need not go through the tedious machinery of the courts to obtain it."
"You're talking about murder!" shrieked Kinsey.
A curious angry light appeared in Chalmys's gray eyes for just a moment, so that in spite of the mosquitoes Kinsey fell back from the force screen, as if aware for the first time of just what a large man his host seemed. Then Chalmys drooped his lids, and the mask of ironical good humor returned. "I was hoping we'd come to that subject. I feel I've been monopolizing the conversation."
"You couldn't carry it off," cried Kinsey.
"What, an ignorant city man gets lost in the woods in the dark, and meets a predictable fate? Not only predictable; it happens, regularly. They've had two deaths in the Toledo marshes this year alone—it's been a wet summer."
At an ugly deep whining, Kinsey turned to defend himself again. While he batted two into the screen, a third mosquito attached itself to the back of his leg. He screamed as its venom penetrated, danced around, and tore it off.
Chalmys waited patiently.
Kinsey, shocked into action, began to babble a story about Anias, full of sexual innuendo and plausible lies about their imaginary relationship.
"Fiction bores me," Chalmys interrupted him, "and I am late for dinner. Perhaps I shall go in."
"You're bluffing."
"Mr. Kinsey, I realize that to you the universe seems to turn on your continued existence. Solipsism seems to be a common feature of the criminal mind. But believe me, it is nothing to me."
Chalmys rose. The mosquitoes sang in the undergrowth. Kinsey broke.
"My name is Carlos Diaz," he cried, leaning against the screen. "I was a private inquiry agent in Rio. Lost my license last year. It was a damn frame. Then this big executive in the Portobello Pharmaceutical Company, Dr. Bianca's his name, runs their development section. He offered me a thousand pesodoros to go to Miss Ruey and get that dream made. Not to be traced to him. He gave me this laundered cash for her. Ow! Ow! Get it off me!" He whirled around, hands clutching frantically at the little nightmare embedded in his back.
"Back against the screen," Chalmys advised. Kinsey/Diaz did so, and continued talking even faster.
"I saw a way to make a bundle," he panted. "Put it into a bonded check—wire up her synthesizer—make sure she used it before she could cash it. No reason to connect the check with her accident. Wait three months, go in and pick it up. I had a friend at the shuttleport, from the old days—he thought I was on a case. Got her luggage, took the machine. I wired it up that night and planted it back in her apartment. It was easy."
"So you weren't commissioned to kill her," remarked Chalmys, intensely interested. "It was just a case of great minds thinking alike."
&nb
sp; Diaz paused, confused, apparently realizing that he had just lost an opportunity to cover himself, but not quite seeing what it was.
"And did you deliver the dream?" prodded Chalmys. "What did he want it for? What else do you know about him?"
"He didn't tell me. He's got it now. I gave it to him Monday." Diaz ransacked his mind for more facts with which to appease his tormentor as more mosquitoes buzzed around him.
"I never heard of him before this. He's a rich man, lives in one of those old coffee-fortune mansions overlooking the sea. It was nothing to me that he wanted a pervert dreamie. I supposed he wanted to protect his social reputation. I didn't think his secret vices were my business. He shouldn't have offered her so much money," he justified himself. "For God's sake let me in!"
Chalmys, his face shadowed by the darkness, studied Diaz in the faint glow of the screen and decided he was finally speaking the truth. For one thing, this story was not sufficiently self-serving to be made up. For another, the mosquito venom was starting to make his victim dizzy and ill, surely a bar to any very intricate fictionalizing. Diaz had given him the lead that Anias, at least, most desired. Chalmys, relieved, put from himself the whispering lascivious temptation to revenge that had so mixed itself with the urgent need for information from the little creep before him. Self-righteous violence, however satisfying, was a luxury too rich for a servant of reality.
"Put your needler down by the screen," ordered Chalmys, "and stand over by that tree."
He made some adjustments to his control box and reached through a small glowing window in the screen to scoop up the needier. He then enlarged the circle and motioned Diaz through. He limped and stumbled ahead of Chalmys through the woods to the house.
They found Anias waiting anxiously with Sheriff Yoder and Deputy Schriml in the study. "Good Lord," said Anias, when she saw the strained and already puffing face of her late stalker, then clamped her lips on further comment. Chalmys was as bland and genial as ever. Diaz maintained a hunched and recalcitrant silence.