Anything You Can Do ...

  _[18]_

  The detective pushed his way out of the crowded courtroom before therest of the crowd started to move. The members of the jury were stillfiling in, and he knew that no one else would leave the room until theverdict was in.

  He didn't care. He knew what the verdict ought to be. He knew also thatjuries had occasionally been swayed by histrionics on the part of thedefense counsel, and had been persuaded to free guilty men. He knew,too, that prosecutors had railroaded innocent men. But such things asthat didn't happen often in the Belt. A man doesn't live too long inthe Belt unless he's capable of recognizing Truth when he sees it.

  But even if the wrong verdict had been brought in, there would have beennothing he could do about it now. He had done his part. He had doneeverything he could. He had brought them in. He had testified. All therest of it was up to the Jury and the Court--those two enigmatic halvesof Justice and Judgment.

  The point was that this was the perfect time to leave the courtroom.When he reached his office, he could, if he wanted--and, he thoughtruefully, he probably _would_ want to, in spite of his pretendedindifference--call up to find out what the verdict had been. But, duringthese few moments, all eyes were on the jury box. No one was watchingwho left quietly by the side door of the big courtroom.

  He moved silently and with assurance in the fractional-gee field of theplanetoid. One of the uniformed guards looked at him and smiled,throwing him an informal salute.

  The detective returned both. "If any of those news reporters ask whichway I went," he said amiably, "tell 'em I went thataway." He gesturedover his shoulder with a thumb.

  "I ain't even seen you, Mr. Martin," said the guard.

  The detective waved his thanks and kept going. It wasn't that hedisliked newsmen. Most of them were fairly intelligent, pleasant people.But he didn't want to be asked any questions right now. He had giventhem interviews aplenty during the trial, and they could use those, nowthat the end of the trial had lifted the news ban. They had plenty ofquotations from Stan Martin without asking him what he thought of theverdict itself.

  Ten minutes later, he was in his own office in the Lloyd's Area. Helen,his secretary, was just cutting off the phone as he walked into theouter office. She flashed him a big smile.

  "They just gave the verdict, Mr. Martin! Guilty all the way down theline--conspiracy, extortion, kidnapping, and all the others. The only'not guilty' verdict was a minor one. They decided that Hedgepeth wasn'tinvolved in the actual kidnapping itself, and therefore wasn't guilty ofthe physical assault of the guard."

  "They're probably right," the detective said, "but, as you said, it's aminor point. It doesn't much matter whether he was physically present atthe time the boy was taken or not; he was certainly in on the plot." Hepaused, frowning. "That's over and done with, except for a possibleappeal. And it's unlikely that that would involve us, anyway. Get Mr.Pelham on the phone, will you? I'll take it in my office."

  "The _Morton_ case?" she asked.

  "Yeah. There's something fishy about the wreck of the spaceship_Morton_, and I want Pelham to let me work on it."

  He went on into his office and had barely sat down when the phonehummed. "Yes?" he said, depressing the switch.

  "Mr. BenChaim would like to speak to you, sir," Helen said formally.

  "Oh?" In order to have gotten here so quickly, BenChaim, too, must haveleft before the verdict was delivered. He was hardly more than a minutebehind the detective. And that was unusual in a man who was waiting atthe trial of the kidnappers of his own son. Still, Moishe BenChaim wasan unusual man.

  "Tell him to come right on in," the detective said. "Oh, and Helen ...hold off on that Pelham call for a little while." He didn't want to betalking business while BenChaim was in the office.

  "Yes, sir," she said.

  A few seconds later, the door opened, and Moishe BenChaim came in. Hewas not a big man, but he was broad of shoulder and broad of girth,built like a wrestler. He had a heavy, graying beard, and wore it with apatriarchal air. He was breathing rather heavily as he came through thedoor, and he stopped suddenly to pull a handkerchief from his pocket. Hebegan coughing--harsh, racking, painful coughs that shook his heavyframe.

  "Sorry," he said after a moment. "Damn lungs. Shouldn't try to move sofast." He wiped his lips and put the handkerchief away.

  The detective didn't say anything. He knew that Moishe BenChaim hadinjured his lungs eighteen years before. An accident in space hadruptured his spacesuit, and the explosive decompression that hadresulted had almost killed him. He had saved his own life by holding thetorn spot with one hand and turning up the air-tank valve full blastwith the other. The rough patch job had held long enough for him to getback inside his ship, but his lungs had never been the same, and hiseyes were eternally bloodshot from the ruptured and distendedcapillaries.

  "I noticed you'd slipped out of the courtroom," he went on. "I hope youdon't mind my following you."

  "Of course not, Mr. BenChaim," the detective said. "Sit down."

  BenChaim sat in the chair across the desk from the detective. "I didn'twait for the verdict," he said. "I knew the conviction was certain afteryou testified."

  "Thanks. My secretary got the news just before you came in. Guiltystraight across the board. But your son's testimony was a lot moretelling than mine."

  "Guilty," BenChaim repeated with satisfaction. "Naturally. What else? Iadmit my son's testimony was good," he continued; "Little Shmuela toldhis story like a little man up there in the witness-box. Never lookedscared, never got mixed up. But Shmuela's testimony was your testimonytoo, Mr. Martin. If it hadn't been for you, he wouldn't be here totestify, for which I'm grateful to God." Then he leaned back and spreadhis hands apart in a gesture of dismissal.

  "But that's all over and done with," he said. "I came about a differentmatter." Again he paused, as if picking his words carefully. "Do youknow a man named Barnabas Nguma?"

  "Nguma? Yes; I met him once. Why?"

  "He was in the courtroom today. He came to see me just before courtconvened."

  "Oh?" the detective said noncommittally.

  "Yes. He claims to represent an organization on Earth which has beentrying to hire you for a job there. Is that right?"

  "That's right," the detective said warily. "What did he want with you?"

  "Now, that's a funny thing," BenChaim said. "It seems that he's underthe impression that you turned down his job to take on this kidnapping.Is that right?"

  "Not exactly," the detective said tightly. "I was working on your son'scase before he and a couple of other men came out here to talk to me.But they'd written to me long before that." He wondered what BenChaimwas getting at. He didn't owe any explanations to the industrialist,but, on the other hand, he couldn't be impolite to him.

  "I see," BenChaim said, nodding his head slowly. "Like most Earthies,Mr. Nguma is suffering under a misapprehension. He seems to think that Ihave some sort of hold over you, that I was the one who made you turndown his job, so that you'd take _my_ case."

  "Oh? Was he angry because you'd put your own selfish interests ahead ofhis unselfish ones?" the detective asked with a trace of hard sarcasm inhis voice.

  "Oh, no," said BenChaim. "Oh, no. Not at all. He said he understoodperfectly. But he wondered if, now that my boy had been returned safely,I might not put a little pressure on you to get you to take his case."

  "And what did you say?"

  Moishe BenChaim scowled. "I told him exactly where he could head in. Itold him that I had no power over you whatever, that I hadn't hired youat all, that I didn't even know that you were working on the case untilafter you rescued Shmuel. I told him that even if I held the power oflife and death over you I would never lift so much as a finger againstyou. I told him that it was just the other way around, in fact. I toldhim that you have such a power over me because of what you did forShmuel that it is _I_ who will jump through _your_ hoop if ordered, notthe other way around. I was quite angry." BenChaim relaxed a littlebefore going on. "A
ctually, I'm sorry I blew up. He's a well-meaningman, I think."

  "No doubt," the detective said. "Did he tell you what the job was?"

  "With most heart-rending particulars," said BenChaim. "I was told allabout how this Nipe has been killing and eating people, as if I didn'tknow already. But it wasn't until I heard him talk that I realized howscared people are back there on Earth. You know, Martin, we're insulatedout here. We don't feel that terror, even when we read about it or seethe reports on the newscasts. If everybody on Earth is as scared as thatMr. Nguma is, it's a wonder they haven't all panicked and taken torunning around in circles."

  "As a matter of fact, Mr. BenChaim," the detective said levelly, "theyhave begun to do just that. Mr. Nguma and his friends have been after mefor a long time to take their job. They have pulled every trick they canthink of--including this last one with you--to get me to go back toEarth and find that monster. I have refused them so often and so firmlythat they are convinced I'm afraid to tackle the Nipe. They areconvinced that I know I'll fail. And yet they keep after me. If thatisn't running around in circles, it'll do until a better example comesalong."

  "They're out of their minds," BenChaim said flatly. "Of _course_ no manin his right mind would try to face down that thing! It would be assilly as trying to outrun a bullet or do arithmetic faster than acomputer. That's common sense. That's showing a healthy respect for theNipe--not fear. At least, not fear in the way that those men areafraid."

  Suddenly the detective knew why the industrialist had come. He knew thatMoishe BenChaim wanted to reassure Stanley Martin, to tell him that hewas doing the sensible thing in turning down so dangerous an assignment.He could almost have predicted word for word what BenChaim was going tosay next.

  "Nguma may be here at any minute," said the industrialist. "He told methat he was going to come as soon as the trial was over. What are yougoing to tell him this time? I know it's none of my business, but I'masking, just the same."

  "I'm going to tell him _no_," the detective said. "I will not return toEarth for any reason whatever."

  "Good," said BenChaim. "Good. That's the smart thing to do. And don'tlet him buffalo you. We know you out here in the Belt, Martin. I've beenout here for thirty years, and I know what kind of guts it takes to dothe things you've done. Those men don't understand space. Nobodyunderstands space until he's lived in it and worked in it, and had colddeath only a fraction of an inch away from his skin for hours and daysat a time. No matter what those Earthies say, we know you've got moreguts than anybody else in the Belt--to say nothing of thosestay-at-homes on Earth."

  "Thank you. I appreciate that," the detective said. But they were onlywords. He knew that BenChaim meant exactly what he said--or thought hemeant it. But he also knew that BenChaim and others would always wonderwhy he had turned the job down.

  _God!_ he thought, _I wish I knew!_ The thought was only momentary.Then, as it had done so many times before, his mind veered away from thedangerous subject.

  Moishe BenChaim stood up. "Well, that's all I had to say, Mr. Martin. Ijust wanted to warn you that that man might be coming around and to tellyou how I felt. Remember what I said about jumping through a hoop. Anytime you need me, for anything at all, you just say so. Understand?"

  "I understand," the detective said, forcing a smile. He rose and shookthe industrialist's outstretched hand. "And thanks again," he added.

  After BenChaim had gone, the detective sat thinking, toying with apencil on his desk. Moishe BenChaim, like so many others in the Belt,had come out with nothing but his brain and his two hands and theequipment necessary to keep him alive. In thirty years, he had parlayedthat into one of the biggest fortunes in the Solar System. It was menlike that whose respect he valued, and, on the surface, he apparentlyhad that respect. But refusing the Nipe job would dull the bright sheenof that respect, and he knew it. BenChaim had talked about how foolishit would be to try to beat the Nipe in a face-to-face encounter, but hehadn't meant it. He knew perfectly well that all Stanley Martin would beexpected to do would be to find out where the Nipe's hideout was. Oncethat had been accomplished, men and machines--most especiallymachines--could wipe the monster from the face of the Earth. Onewell-placed bomb would do it, if the authorities only knew where toplace that bomb. If only--

  Again his mind veered away, refusing to consider the Nipe too carefullyor too closely.

  The intercom on his desk hummed, and he pressed the switch.

  "Yes, Helen?"

  "That Mr. Nguma was here while Mr. BenChaim was with you, Mr. Martin. Ifollowed your instructions and told him that you would not see him."

  "Fine. Thanks, Helen."

  "Also, there's a radiogram for you from Earth."

  "If it's from one of Nguma's colleagues," the detective said, "I don'twant to see it. File it in the cylindrical file--under _W_."

  "I don't think it is," the secretary said doubtfully. "I can't make anysense out of it. I'd better bring it in."

  "Okay. And then put that call through to Pelham. I want to get going onthat _Morton_ spaceship wrecking. I'm getting itchy for action."

  She brought in the radiogram and put it on his desk before callingPelham. She had already read it, of course. It was her job to read suchthings.

  The detective picked up the sheet of paper and read it.

  THE OPERATION IS ABOUT TO BEGIN. I NEED

  THE OTHER HALF OF MY FORCEPS. COME HOME

  AND JOIN THE BIG PARADE.

  MANNHEIM

  It took a second for the words to really impress themselves on his mind.He read them over again.

  And the veil began to drop from the closed-off part of his mind.

  Memories began to swarm back into his mind--memories that had beenwalled off and kept away from his conscious mind by the hypnoticsuggestion implanted so long ago.

  Oddly, it did not surprise or shock him. He was an expert at hypnosis,especially self-hypnosis. He recognized the message for exactly what itwas: a series of code phrases designed to break the blockage that hadbeen placed in his mind.

  His only reaction was to laugh aloud. "By God!" he said. "It worked! Itactually worked! Nearly six years, and I never suspected once!"

  The phone hummed. He switched it on. "Mr. Pelham is on the phone, Mr.Martin," Helen said.

  He watched as the florid, smiling face of Pelham, his superior, appearedon the screen. "What can I do for you, Martin?" he asked.

  "I have a favor to ask, Mr. Pelham."

  "Anything within reason," Pelham said. "After this BenChaim affair,you're in good standing around here." He chuckled.

  "I want a leave of absence," the detective said.

  Pelham looked a little surprised. "Well, I guess you deserve it. Youneed a rest, I imagine."

  "No," the detective said. "No, it isn't that. I'm going after biggergame, is all."

  "What's that?"

  "I'm going to Earth to find the Nipe."