"Sure I'll buy it. But will Old Man Mose? Feed it in and let's see."
They fed in the last of the punched data, warmed the computer up from 'Idle' to 'Run,' and kicked him into it. Mose's eyes blinked in hard meditation; his stomach rumbled softly; his memories began to hiss and stutter. Powell and the others waited with mounting suspense. Abruptly, Mose hiccupped. A soft bell began to "Ping-Ping-Ping-Ping-Ping-Ping —" and Mose's type began to flail the virgin tape under it.
"IF IT PLEASE THE COURT," Mose said, "WITH PLEADERING OF NON VULTS AND DEMURERS, LEGAL SIGNATURES. SS. LEADING CASE HAY v. COHOES AND THE RULE IN SHELLEY'S CASE. URP."
"What the—" Powell looked at Beck.
"He gets kittenish," Beck explained.
"At a time like this!"
"Happens now and then. We'll try him again."
They filled the computer's ear again, held the warmup for a good five minutes and then kicked him into it. Once again his eyes blinked, his stomach growled, his memories hissed, and Powell and the two staffs waited anxiously. A month's hard work hung on this decision. The type-hammers began to fall.
"BRIEF #921,088. SECTION C-1. MOTIVE," Mose said. "PASSION MOTIVE FOR CRIME INSUFFICIENTLY DOCUMENTED. CF STATE v. HANRAHAN, 1202 SUP. COURT. 19, AND SUBSEQUENT LINE OF LEADING CASES."
"Passion motive?" Powell muttered. "Is Mose crazy? It's a profit motive. Check C-1, Beck."
Beck checked. "No mistake here."
"Try him again."
They ran the computer through it a third time. This time he spoke to the point: "BRIEF #921,088. SECTION C-1. MOTIVE. PROFIT MOTIVE FOR CRIME INSUFFICIENTLY DOCUMENTED. CF STATE v. ROYAL 1197 SUP. COURT 388."
"Didn't you punch C-1 properly?" Powell inquired.
"We got everything in that we could," Beck replied.
"Excuse me," Powell said to the others, "I've got to peep this out with Beck. You don't mind, I hope." He turned to Beck: "Open up, Jackson. I smelted an evasion in them last words. Let me have it..."
"Honestly, Linc, I'm not aware of any—"
"If you were aware, it wouldn't be an evasion. It'd be a downright lie. Now lemme see... Oh. Of course! Idiot. You don't have to be ashamed because Code's a little slow."
Powell spoke aloud to the staffs: "Beck's missing one small datum point. Code's still working with Hassop upstairs trying to bust Reich's private code. So far all we've got is the knowledge that Reich offered merger and was refused. We haven't got the definite offer and refusal yet. That's what Mose wants. A cautious monster."
"If you didn't bust the code, how do you know the offer was made and refused?" the D.A. asked.
"Got that from Reich himself through Gus Tate. It was one of the last things Tate gave me before he was murdered. I tell you what, Beck. Add an assumption to the tape. Assuming that our merger evidence is unassailable (which it is) what does Mose think of the case?"
Beck hand punched a strip, spliced it to the main problem and fed it in again. By now well warmed up, the Mosaic Multiplex Computer answered in thirty seconds: "BRIEF #921,088. ACCEPTING ASSUMPTION, PROBABILITY OF SUCCESSFUL PROSECUTION 97.0099%."
Powell's staff grinned and relaxed. Powell tore the tape out of the typewriter and presented it to the D.A. with a flourish. "And there's your case, Mr. District Attorney... Sewn up and delivered."
"By God!" the D.A. said. "Ninety seven per cent! Jesus, we haven't had one in the ninety bracket all my term. I thought I was lucky when I broke seventy. Ninety seven per cent... Against Ben Reich himself! Jesus!" He looked around at his staff in a kind of wild surmise. "We'll make goddam history!"
The office door opened and two perspiring men darted in waving manuscript.
"Here's Code now," Powell said. "You bust it?"
"We busted it," they said, "and now you're busted, Powell. The whole case is busted."
"What? What the hell are you talking about?"
"Reich knocked off D'Courtney because D'Courtney wouldn't merge, didn't he? He had a nice fat profit motive for killing D'Courtney, didn't he? In a pig's eye he did."
"Oh God!" Beck groaned.
"Reich sent YYJI TTED RRCB UUFE AALK QQBA to D'Courtney. That reads: SUGGEST MERGER BOTH OUR INTERESTS EQUAL PARTNERSHIP."
"Damn it, that's what I've said all along. And D'Courtney replied: WWHG. That was a refusal. Reich told Tate. Tate told me."
"D'Courtney answered WWHG. That reads: ACCEPT OFFER."
"The hell it does!"
"The hell it don't. WWHG. ACCEPT OFFER. It was the answer Reich wanted. It was the answer that gave Reich every reason for keeping D'Courtney alive. You'll never convince any court in the solar system that Reich had a motive for murdering D'Courtney. Your case is washed out."
Powell stood stock still for half a minute, his fists clenched, his face working. Suddenly he turned on the model, reached in and pulled out the android figure of Reich. He twisted its head off. He went to Mose, yanked out the tapes of punched data, crumpled them into a wad and hurled the wad across the room. He strode to Crabbe's recumbent figure and launched a tremendous kick at the seat of the chair. While the staffs watched in an appalled silence, the chair and Commissioner overturned to the floor.
"God damn you! You're always sitting in that God damned chair!" Powell cried in a shaking voice and stormed out of the office.
14
EXPLOSION! CONCUSSION! The cell doors burst open. And far outside, freedom is waiting in the cloak of darkness and flight into the unknown...
Who's that? Who's outside the cell-block? Oh God! Oh Christ! The Man With No Face! Looking. Looming. Silent. Run! Escape! Fly! Fly!...
Fly through space. There's safety in the solitude of this silver-lined launch jetting to the deeps of the distant unknown... The hatch door! Opening. But it can't. There's no one on this launch to swing it slowly, ominously... Oh God! The Man With No Face! Looking. Looming. Silent...
But I am innocent, your honor. Innocent. You will never prove my guilt, and I will never stop pleading my case though you pound your gavel until you deafen my ears and — Oh Christ! On the bench. In wig and gown. The Man With No Face. Looking. Looming. Quintessence of vengeance...
The pounding gavel dissolved to knuckles on the stateroom door. The steward's voice called: "Over New York, Mr. Reich. One hour to debarkation. Over New York, Mr. Reich." The knuckles went on hammering on the door.
Reich found his voice. "All right," he croacked. "I hear you."
The steward departed. Reich climbed out of the liquid bed and found his legs giving way. He clutched at the wall and cursed himself upright. Still in the grip of the nightmare's terror, he went into the bathroom, depilated, showered, steamed, and air-washed for ten minutes. He was still reeling. He stepped into the massage alcove and punched 'Glow-Salt.' Two pounds of moistened, scented salt were sprayed on his skin. As the massage buffers were about to begin, Reich suddenly decided he needed coffee. He stepped out of the alcove to ring Service.
There was a dull concussion and Reich was hurled to his face by the force of the explosion in the alcove. His back was slashed by flying particles. He darted into the bedroom, seized his traveling case, and turned like an animal at bay, his hands automatically opening the case and groping for the cartridge of Detonation Bulbs he always carried. There was no cartridge in the case.
Reich pulled himself together. He was aware of the bite of salt in the cuts in his back and the streaming blood. He was aware that he was no longer trembling. He went back into the bathroom shut off the massage buffers and inspected the alcove wreckage. Someone had removed the cartridge from his case during the night and planted a bulb in each of the massage buffers. The empty cartridge lay behind the alcove. Only a split-second miracle had saved his life... from whom?
He inspected his stateroom door. The lock had evidently been gaffed by a past-master. It showed no sign of tampering. But who? Why?
"Son of a bitch!" Reich growled. With iron nerve he returned to the bathroom, washed off the salt and blood, and sprayed his back with coagulen
t. He dressed, had his coffee, and descended to the Staging Hall where, after a savage skirmish with the peeper Customs Man (Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun!), he boarded the Monarch launch that was waiting to take him down to the city.
From the launch he called Monarch Tower. His secretary's face appeared on the screen.
"Any news of Hassop?" Reich asked.
"No, Mr. Reich. Not since you called from Spaceland."
"Give me Recreation."
The screen herring-boned and then disclosed the chrome lounge of Monarch. West, bearded and scholarly, was carefully binding sheets of typescript into plastic volumes. He looked up and grinned.
"Hello, Ben."
"Don't look so cheerful, Ellery," Reich growled. "Where the hell is Hassop? I thought you'd surely—"
"Not my problem any more, Ben."
"What are you talking about?"
West displayed the volumes. "Just finishing up my work. History of my career with Monarch Utilities & Resources for your files. Said career ended this morning at nine o'clock."
"What!"
"Yep. I warned you, Ben. The Guild's just ruled Monarch out of bounds for me. Company Espionage is unethical."
"Listen, Ellery, you can't quit now. I'm on a hook and I need you bad. Someone tried to booby-trap me on the ship this morning. I beat it by an eyelash. I've got to find out who it is. I need a peeper."
"Sorry, Ben."
"You don't have to work for Monarch, I'll put you under personal contract for private service. The same contract Breen has."
"Breen? A 2nd? The analyst?"
"Yes. My analyst."
"Not anymore."
"What!"
West nodded. "The ruling came down today. No more exclusive practice. It limits the service of peepers. We've got to be dedicated to the most good for the most people. You've lost Breen."
"It's Powell!" Reich shouted. "Using every dirty peeper trick he can dig out of the slime to bitch me. He's trying to nail me to the D'Courtney cross, the sneaking peeper! He—"
"Sign off, Ben. Powell had nothing to do with it. Let's break it off friendly, eh? We've always kept it pleasant. Let's break it pleasant. What do you say?"
"I say go to hell!" Reich roared and cut the connection. To the launch pilot he said in the same tone:
"Take me home!"
Reich burst into his penthouse apartment, once again awakening the hearts of his staff to terror and hatred. He hurled his traveling case at his valet and went immediately to Breens' suite. It was empty. A crisp note on the desk repeated the information West had already given him. Reich strode to his own rooms, went to the phone and dialed Gus Tate. The screen cleared and displayed a sign:
SERVICE PERMANENTLY DISCONTINUED
Reich stared, broke the connection and dialed Jerry Church. The screen cleared and displayed a sign:
SERVICE PERMANENTLY DISCONTINUED
Reich snapped the contact key up, paced around the study uncertainly, then went to the shimmer of light in the corner that was his safe. He switched the safe into temporal phase, revealing the honeycomb paper rack, and reached for the small red envelope in the upper left-hand pigeon hole. As he touched the envelope he heard the faint click. He doubled up and spun away, his face buried in his arms.
There was a blinding flash of light and a heavy explosion. Something brutal punched Reich in the left side, hurled him across the study and slammed him against the wall. Then a hail of debris followed. He struggled to his feet, bellowing in bewilderment and fury, stripping the ripped clothes from his left side to examine the state of his body. He was badly slashed, and a particularly excruciating pain indicated at least one broken rib.
He heard his staff come running down the corridor and roared: "Keep out! You hear me? Keep out! All of you!"
He stumbled through the wreckage and began sorting over the remains of his safe. He found the neuron scrambler he had taken from Chooka Frood's red-eyed woman. He found the malignant steel flower that was the knife-pistol that had killed D'Courtney. It still contained four unfired shells loaded with water and sealed with gel. He thrust both into the pocket of a new jacket, got a fresh cartridge of Detonation Bulbs from his desk, and tore out of the room, ignoring the servants who stared at him in astonishment.
Reich swore feverishly all the way down from the tower apartment to the cellar garage where he deposited his private Jumper key in the Call slot and waited for the little car. When it came out of storage with the key in the door, another tenant was approaching and even at a distance was staring. Reich turned the key and yanked open the door to jump in. There was a low pressure Rrrrrrip. Reich hurled himself to the ground. The Jumper tank exploded. By some freak, it failed to burst into flame. It erupted a shattering geyser of raw fuel and fragments of twisting metal. Reich crawled frantically, reached the exit ramp, and ran for his life.
On the street level, torn, bleeding, rank with creosote fuel, he searched frantically for a Public Jumper. He couldn't find a coin-Jumper. He managed to flag a piloted machine.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
Reich dabbed dazedly at the blood and oil that smeared him. "Chooka Frood!" he croaked in a hysterical voice.
The cab hopped him to 99 Bastion West.
Reich thrust past the protesting doorman, the indignant reception clerk, and Chooka Frood's highly paid chargé d'affaires to the private office, a Victorian room furnished with stained glass lamps, overstuffed sofas and a roll-top desk. Chooka was seated at the desk, wearing a dingy smock and a dingy expression that changed to alarm when Reich yanked the scrambler out of his pocket.
"For God's sake, Reich!" she exclaimed.
"Here I am, Chooka," he said hoarsely. "So let's have the trial run before we feed it to the dice. I used this scrambler on you once before. I'm warmed up for it again. You warmed me up, Chooka."
She shot up from the desk and screamed: "Magda!"
Reich caught her by the arm and hurled her across the office. She side-swiped the couch and fell across it. The red-eyed bodyguard came running into the office. Reich was ready for her. He clubbed her across the back of the neck, and as she fell forward, he ground his heel into her back and slammed her flat on the floor. The woman twisted and clawed at his leg. Ignoring her he spat at Chooka: "Let's get it squared off. Why the booby-traps?"
"What are you talking about?" Chooka cried.
"What the hell do I look like I'm talking about. Read the blood, lady. I've skinned out of three obituaries running. How long can my luck hold out?"
"Make sense, Reich! I can't—"
"I'm talking about the big D, Chooka, D for death. I came in here and strong-armed the D'Courtney girl out of you. I beat hell out of your girl-friend and I beat hell out of you. So you got frabbed off and set those traps. Right?"
Chooka shook her head dazedly.
"Three of them so far. On the ship coming back from Spaceland. In my study. In my Jumper. How many more, Chooka?"
"It wasn't me, Reich. So help me. I—"
"It has to be you, Chooka. You're the only one with a gripe and the only one who hires gimpsters. That adds up to you, so let's get it squared off." He slapped the safety off the scrambler. "Ive got no time for a two-bit hater with coffin-queer friends."
"For God's sake!" Chooka screamed. "What the hell have I got against you? So you rough-housed a little. So you mugged Magda. You wasn't the first. You ain't gonna be the last. Use your head!"
"I used it. If it isn't you, who else?"
"Keno Quizzard. He hires gimpsters too. I heard you and him—"
"Quizzard's out. Quizzard's dead. Who else?"
"Church."
"He hasn't got the guts. If he had he would have tried it ten years ago. Who else?"
"How do I know? There's hundreds hate you enough."
"There's thousands, but who could get into my safe? Who could break a phase combination and—"
"Maybe nobody broke into your safe. Maybe somebody broke into your head and peep
ed the combination. Maybe—"
"Peeped!"
"Yeah. Peeped. Maybe you added Church up wrong... Or some other peeper what's got a eager reason for filling your coffin."
"My God..." Reich whispered. "Oh my God... Yes."
"Church?"
"No. Powell."
"The cop?"
"The cop. Powell. Yes. Mr. Holy Lincoln Powell. Yes!" The words began pouring out of Reich in a torrent. "Yes, Powell! The son of a bitch is fighting dirty because I've licked him clean. He can't get a case together. He's got nothing but booby-trapping left..."
"You're crazy, Reich."
"Am I? Why the hell did he take Ellery West away from me, and Breen? He knows the only defense I've got against a bobby-trap is a peeper. It's Powell!"
"But a cop, Reich? A cop?"
"Sure a cop!" Reich shouted. "Why not a cop? He's safe. Who'd suspect him? It's smart. It's what I'd do myself. All right... Now I'm going to booby-trap him!"
He kicked the red-eyed woman from him, went to Chooka and yanked her to her feet. "Call Powell."
"What?"
"Call Powell," he yelled. "Lincoln Powell. Call him at his house. Tell him to come down here right away."
"No, Reich..."
He shook her. "Listen to me, frab-head. Bastion West is owned by the D'Courtney Cartel. Now that old D'Courtney's dead, I'm going to own the cartel, which means I'll own Bastion. I'll own this house. I'll own you, Chooka. You want to stay in business? Call Powell!"
She stared at his livid face, feebly peeping him, slowly realizing that what he said was true.
"But I got no excuse, Reich."
"Wait a minute. Wait a minute." Reich thought, then yanked the knife-pistol from his pocket and shoved in into Chooka's hands. "Show him this. Tell him the D'Courtney girl left it here."
"What is it?"
"The gun that killed D'Courtney."
"For the love of — Reich!"
Reich laughed. "It won't do him any good. By the time he's got it, he'll be booby-trapped. Call him. Show him the gun. Get him down here." He thrust Chooka toward the phone, followed her and stood alongside the screen out of the line of sight. He hefted the scrambler in his hand meaningfully. Chooka understood.