"Give it to Mose," the D.A. said faintly. "By God, Powell, I'm beginning to
think we've got a case."
"All right. Now, Motive. We picked up Reich's business records, and Accounting's
gone through them. D'Courtney had Reich with his back to the wall. With Reich it
was `if you can't lick 'em, join 'em.' He tried to join D'Courtney. He failed.
He murdered D'Courtney. Will you buy that?"
"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 is 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
wilt 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 coagulent. He dressed,
had his coffee, and descended to the Staging Hall where, after a savage skirmish
with the peeper Customs Man (Tension, apprehension, and dissention 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 any more."
"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.