Manly Wade Wellman - Chapbook 02 (8 page)

 
          
MALBROOK
TOWER
—GIRRA

 
          
Malbrook’s
tower was to be serviced by a worker named Girra. The time was posted, too:
tomorrow morning, very early. The rest of Stover’s problem solved itself very
easily.

 
          
The boredom of the.
desk-workers
helped. None saw him slip away from the tourist throng at an opportune time,
dart into a dark doorway and down into the lower regions of the repair
department.

 
          
Here,
along a bench, sat metallic, grotesque figures—robots off duty. Each bore on
its ches.t-plate a switch by which the mechanical semblance of life could be
turned off and'con- served when the robot was not in use. Here, too, were
benches with racks of tools, stacks of spare parts. Stover, who knew machinery
well, went to work confidently. Selecting a wrench, he examined robot after
robot, seeking the one which bore the name, in Martian and Terrestrial
characters: Girra. He found it.

 
          
This
was Girra’s helper. As its master was off duty, so also was this robot. Quickly
Stover unbolted its front, and from inside the torso unshipped great quantities
of springs, wires, wheels and other works, rapidly distributing them in the
proper heaps of spare parts. When he had completely emptied the shell, even to
the big mittenlike hands, he got into it as though it
were
indeed the suit of ancient armor it so resembled.

 
          
He
had trouble clasping the jointed arm and leg pieces and the helmetlike head
upon himself, but he finally managed. Then he loosened the radium lamp from its
frontal fastenings a bit, to give himself a little space through which to see.
At last he sat on the bench to await the Martian who owned this robot.

 
         
THE
police officer on duty in Mace Malbrook’s reception hall made disgusted
gestures to quiet all his interrogates.

 
          
“Now
there’s another of you pests at the door,” he groaned. “Why can’t regulations
keep a murder spot from being all
cluttered
up with
High-tower people who wangle special passes?” He crossed to the door and opened
it. “Thank heaven, this is somebody with legitimate business,” he growled.

 
          
“Right,”
said the Martian outside. “I am Girra, from Arrchitecturre

 
          
Burreau,
come to ssurrvey damage and esstimate rrepairrs.
Alsso my
helperr.”

 
          
“I
was told to admit only one man,” said the officer. “Your helper must go back.”

 
          
Girra
snorted in the midst of the petal-like foliage that covered his cranium. “My
helperr iss
a
rrobot, not a man.” His tentacle
gestured to where, behind him, towered a tall, jointed figure of silvery-plated
metal.

 
          
“All
right,” granted the officer, and stepped out of the way.

 
          
In
waddled Girra, and behind him stumped the grotesquely human structure, its
jointed arms loaded with instruments, tool-cases and notebooks. Robots were too
common in Pulambar for this one to attract much attention.

 
          
When
Girra and his companion had entered the wrecked chamber, Reynardine Phogor was
first of the four visitors to speak again.

 
          
“Mace
constantly mentioned a will,” she told the officer. “It’s here somewhere, and
it leaves me a controlling interest in his affairs. As his intended wife, I
have a right to search for it. That explosion couldn’t have blown it out of
existence. Perhaps—” And she glared across at Brome Fielding.

 
          
“If
you suggest that I destroyed it for any purpose—” began Fielding.

 
          
“Oh,
short it,” pleaded the officer. “All requests or complaints must be made to
Special Agent Congreve. I told you he’d be here any time.”

 
          
“Then
why doesn’t he hurry?” rumbled Phogor from his seat beside his stepdaughter.

 
          
The
fourth civilian visitor, Amyas Crofts, kept silent. He looked more haggard than
ever, and more savage.

 
          
All
these things Stover saw and heard through his robot disguise. He tried to
assimilate every word, at the same time being helpful to Girra and maintaining
his machine impersonation. It was a difficult task, but he succeeded.

 
          
His
previous visit to Malbrook’s apartment had been too full of stress and
excitement. Only now was he able to observe and estimate.

 
          
The
room, made cube-form of metal, was bulged in all directions as though it had
tried to become spherical.

 
          
Only
the strength of its material and fastenings had kept it from ripping to shreds.
As to that, only the solidity of the door-panel had saved Stover’s own life.
The furniture was badly wrecked, even its metal frames being twisted and
splintered. Prrala, decided Stover, had been able to live for a few more
moments only because Malbrook must have been standing between him and—and what?

 
          
The
killer must have been tall, blond, and dressed in gold, to have been identified
as
himself
. Stover scowled perplexedly inside the
metal cranium of his disguise.

 
          
GIRRA
was investigating a round hole, little more than thumb-size, on the forward
wall. “Ssmall wrrench,” he ordered, shooting out a tentacle.

           
Stover found the desired tool in a
box and passed it over. With it Girra loosened the device, the mouth- rim of a
ventilator tube. Inside was a tiny fan to blow enough air through so small an
orifice. The tube itself was left whole behind the damaged wall, for it would
not pull out.

 
          
“Rray,”
commanded Girra, and Stover found him a metal-solvent ray projector. Skillfully
Girra cut away an area of the plating.

 
          
The
ventilator was revealed, a down- curved tube, like the trap of a lavatory. At
the lowest point was one of Malbrook’s protective devices, a liquid solvent for
any poisonous or smothering gas. Girra tested it by thrusting in a flexible
probe, which came out wet.

 
          
“Ventilatorr
iss in good orrderr,” he announced.

 
          
As
he turned away to other surveys, Stover dared move close to the opening and
investigate for himself. The ventilator, he saw, fastened to another tube that
led through the outer plating to Malbrook’s hall.

 
          
“Why
do you loiterr therre?” Girra was demanding.
“Iss ssomething
wrrong?”

 
          
Too
late, Stover realized that robot helpers are supposed to be above curiosity or
individuality of any kind. If Girra considered that something was faulty in his
mechanism and started to remove a plate to rectify it —but the Martian, coming
toward him, was suddenly attracted to the piece of plating he had cut away from
the wall and which now swung loose by the rim-attachment of the ventilator
tube.

 
          
“What
iss thiss sstain?” he asked aloud.
“It sseemss local.
The patrrol chemisstss have overrlooked it.
Chemical kit!”

 
          
Stover
handed the kit over. Girra daubed on some liquids, stirred and fumbled, noted
the reaction, and made another slurred pronouncement:

 
          
“A carrbohydrrate of peculiar prro- porrtion.
A
ssynthetic that apprroxi- matess Terrresstrrial rrubberr.
Melted elasscoid, perrhapss.’’
He confronted Stover.
“Now, then, rrepeat back to me thesse findingss.”

 
          
Evidently
the work-robot also served as a sort of stenographer, receiving spoken words
and keeping them like notes on a dictograph. Stover had listened with both his
hidden ears, and was able to comply.

 
          
“Ventilator
in good order,” he repeated. “Stain of carbohydrate resembling synthetic
rubber, probably elascoid.”

 
          
But
he was unable to duplicate Girra’s Martian accent with its doubled s and
r
sounds. Girra was half-intrigued,
half-upset.

 
          
“Have
thosse Burreau mechaniss fiddled with yourr sspeech-vibrra- torr?” he demanded.

 
          
“They
have fiddled,” replied Stover on inspiration, thankful that his voice echoed
inside the metal-headpiece like that of the average speaking robot.

 
          
“Then
they sshall hearr frrom me,” promised Girra balefully.
“Only
I sshall sserrvice my helperr herre- afterr.”
He turned back to his
work.
“All innerr plating of thiss aparrt- ment to be
rremoved and rreplaced.
Lessserr injurriess may have affected adjoining
aparrtmentss. Come.”

 
         
THEY
returned to the outer hall.

 
          
Girra
paused to examine the doorway from which the panel had been blown away.

 
          
“New
jamb needed herre,” he announced. “Had not that rroom been sso sstrongly made,
thiss whole towerr might have been wrrecked.”

 
          
Stover
should have been paying attention like a good robot, but at that moment new
figures entered. Congreve came first, grim and trim and masterful. Behind him
came Buckalew, in brown velvet-faced tunic and half-boots, sober-faced and a
trifle worried in manner. The four visitors all started toward Congreve at
once.

 
          
“Mace
Malbrook’s will—” began Reynardine.

 
          
“My
stepdaughter’s interests—’’ boomed Phogor at the same time.

 
          
“Chief,
these High-tower swells are driving me—” complained the officer on guard.

 
          
“If
you haven’t recaptured Stover by this time—” threatened Fielding.

 
          
All
this made deafening confusion. Throwing up his hands, Congreve fairly roared a
command for silence. It fell, and he spoke coldly.

 
          
“I
told Stover himself, before he escaped, that you idle-richers had things too
much your own way, and that I was going to show, in this case, that the law is
some steps higher than money. If any of you think you’re running this show for
me you’re wrong. I don’t know what authorities got you passes to this place,
but I declare them no good.

 
          
“Your
interests all around will be looked after to the best ability of the police
department, but none of you are more important than the capture and punishment
of the murderer. Now get out, all of you except Buckalew.”

 
          
“How
does Buckalew enjoy a privilege that’s denied us?” wrathfully bellowed Phogor.

 
          
“It’s
not a privilege,” replied Congreve with a frosty smile. “If it will help clear
this place, I will inform you that he’s under suspicion as Stover’s friend and
host, and unable to explain his whereabouts on the night of the killing.”

 
          
Amyas
Crofts, who had not joined the confusion, now addressed Congreve. “Are you
aware,
sir, that
Miss MacGowan has disappeared? I went
to her lodgings an hour ago, and she was gone. Nobody knew when or how she had
left,
or where bound. With Stover at large, I’m afraid for
her.”

 
          
“Save
your fears,” called Bee Mac-

 
          
Gowan’s
clear voice as she entered.

 
          
All
gazed as she walked up to Congreve.

 
          
“They
said at your headquarters that you were here,” she said. “I come to give myself
up.”

 
          
“Give
yourself
up!” echoed Buckalew, Congreve and Crofts
together.

 
          
She
smiled quietly, and nodded.

 
          
“I
must make an admission,” she went on, as if reciting. “I said once that I came
here to interview Mr. Malbrook just at the time of his death. The capture of
Mr. Stover took your minds off me without further questioning. Prrala, before
his death, tried to say that someone had come into the apartment during his
talk with Malbrook. I am that someone.”

 
          
More
silence. Congreve broke it.

 
          
“Do
I understand,” he said, “that you are confessing to the murder?”

 
          
“I
neither confess nor deny,” the girl answered, almost primly. “You are a
criminologist. Find out for yourself.”

 
          
“You’re
under arrest,” Congreve told her.