Manly Wade Wellman - Chapbook 02 (4 page)

 
         
WELL,
the arbiter of Pulambar society was set on getting his blood, thought Stover.
Mace Maibrook, starver of the poor, killer of the thirsty, bully and snob and
tyrant, might think the quarrel had started from a trifle, but Stover’s
unpleasant experience of the afternoon, coupled with the insult to Bee MacGowan
and perhaps stirred up by drink and joy-lamp, had helped launch that blow in
Malbrook’s face. Now since death threatened him, it was imperative that he
strike first.

 
          
A
flying car swooped close, and Stover sprang aboard. “You know where Mace
Malbrook lives?” he asked the pilot.

 
          
“Who
doesn’t? Are you a friend of his, sir?”

 
          
“I’m
an enemy of his — the man who’s going to kill him,” replied Stover. “Take me to
his place at once.”

 
          
“Sure
thing,” chuckled the pilot, plainly wondering what sort of joke this glittering
customer was pleased to make.

 
          
Malbrook
lived in a broad central
tower
of
Pulambar
, one of the four or five tallest, proudly
aloof from the others. Stover disembarked on a terraced balcony.

 
          
A
jointed robot servitor tried to halt him, but a shove of his big hand swept the
stupid thing clanking clumsily aside. He burst into a reception hall, richly
and garishly furnished. Before an inner door sprawled something, another robot,
its silvery body clad in the white coat of a valet. It was quite still and
limp, the front of its glass face-lamp broken. Somebody else had been here, and
in a nasty mood.

 
          
Stover
stepped across the metal carcass, up a hall and into a lighted room beyond. He
came face to face with Brome Fielding, who lounged on a settle outside a heavy
metal panelway.

 
          
“Where’s
Malbrook?” demanded Stover.

 
          
Fielding
jerked his head at the panel.
“Inside his private rooms.
I think Prrala’s with him, trying to talk him out of the duel. No use your
trying the same thing; it’s beyond apologies now.” Fielding’s eyes shifted to
the pistol-butt at Stover’s waist. “Why are you carrying that gun?”

 
          
“It’s
for Malbrook,” said Stover. “Who smashed the robot outside?”

 
          
“You
mean Malbrook’s valet? I posted him there to keep people out. Phogor tried to
get in with that stepdaughter, and one or two others.”

 
          
“The
valet’s wrecked,” informed Stover. “Get out of my way. I’m going in after
Malbrook.”

 
          
Fielding
made a snatch at Stover’s gun, and the young Earthman dispassionately hooked a
fist to his jaw. The fellow spun around and crumpled in a corner. Stover
knocked on the panel ringingly.

 
          
“Open
up, Malbrook,” he called. “Either let me in, or come out. It’s Stover. If we’re
going to fight, let’s do it now.”

 
          
Silence, for perhaps five seconds.
Then:

 
          
A
thunderous crash of sound and force rocked the apartment around like a skiff on
a hurricane sea. Stover was hurled backward, the metal door upon him. He fell,
wriggled out from under the slap, and came groggily to his feet. Where the door
had been set was now an oblong of murky light. He faced it, pistol in hand.
Whatever had happened wasn’t enough to kill him. Let Malbrook show his head.

 
          
“Clumsy
work!” he cried in challenge. “I’m still all in one piece. Show yourself, and
we’ll finish this business.”

 
          
Fielding
was getting up, shaky and half-stunned. “What — what
— ”
he mumbled.

 
          
“Explosion,”
said Stover.
“Inside.
Your friend Malbrook tried some
cheap trick, but it didn’t work.”

 
          
Fielding
darted through the doorway. Inside, he screamed once, loudly and tremulously. A
moment later he sprang back into view.

 
          
“Malbrook!”
he cried. “He’s—dead!”

 
         
THAT
news cleared Stover’s buzzing head like a whiff of ammonia. He bounded past
Fielding into Malbrook’s private apartment.

 
          
The
room was full of hot, choking vapor, the sybaritic luxury thrown into turmoil
by the explosion. Plati- num-and-velvet furniture was overturned, gorgeous
hangings ripped to
shreds,
delicately tinted walls
racked and bulged. Another
step,
and he almost
stumbled over something.

 
          
Mace
Malbrook, judging by the rags of that fire-colored mantle. No person could be
so shattered and live. Beside him lay another still form, a flower-headed
Martain, still moving slightly.

 
          
Stooping,
Stover picked up Prrala’s bladdery body and bore it out into the hall. Fielding
was quavering into a vision-phone.

 
          
“Send
police! We have the corpse, yes—and the killer!” Spinning, he leveled a
ray-thrower.

 
          
“You’re
under arrest, Stover,” he said.

 
          
“
Don’t be a fool
,” snapped the other, laying Prrala upon the
settle where Fielding had first been sitting.

 
          
The
Martian finally appeared to regain consciousness.

 
          
“Sstoverr?”
he slurred feebly. “Why did you do it?”

 
          
“I
did nothing,” Stover assured him. “Just as I knocked—”

 
          
Police
were rushing in, big, hardbodied men in silk-metal tunics of black. Most of
them were of the Lower Pulambar Patrol, but the leader wore the insignia of the
Martio-Ter- restrial League Service. He was gaunt and gray-templed, and his
narrow eyes took in at a glance the still figure on the couch, Fielding with
his leveled weapon, and the baffled, angry Stover.

 
          
“I’m
Chief Agent Congreve,” he introduced himself crisply. “What’s what?”

 
          
Fielding
gestured with the ray thrower. “Stover did it. He charged in, slapped me down,
and—”

 
          
“I
wasn’t even inside,” exploded Stover. “An explosion killed Malbrook and hurt
Prrala here, almost getting me, too.”

 
          
Congreve
faced Fielding. “You saw this man do the killing?”

 
          
“No,
he knocked me down, I tell you. But he and Malbrook had quarreled. He came here
for a showdown.” Congreve turned to Stover. “How much of that’s true?”

           
“All of it, except that someone beat
me to it. I didn’t kill Malbrook.”

           
Two officers were inspecting the
wrecked room. “Almost blown to pieces,” reported one.
“Can’t
be sure of the explosive.”

           
“Then make sure,” snapped Congreve.
“Chemical tests, and hurry before the air freshens. Doctor, how’s that hurt
Martian?”

 
          
A
.Venusian, bending over Prrala, replied gravely.

 
          
“He
is reviving a trifle.
May speak —perhaps for the last time.”

 
          
“Take
a record,” Congreve directed still another man, who produced a dictagraph from
his belt-pouch. Then, to Stover: “If you killed Malbrook, why not save us both
trouble and say so?”

 
          
“I
didn’t,” repeated Stover. “That’s enough for you.”

 
          
“You’re
talking to the law,” warned Congreve.

 
          
“I
seem to be talking to a fool. Fielding’s the only witness, and he admits he was
unconscious when the blast went off.”

 
          
“You
came here to kill Malbrook,” accused Fielding.

 
          
“That
has nothing to do with
it,
I was too late to kill
him.”

 
          
The
Venusian doctor spoke again. “Quiet. This patient is trying to speak.” He
needled stimulant into Prrala’s neck. “Do your best,” he urged the Martian.
“Tell what happened.”

 
         
ONE
of Prrala’s tentacles fluttered up toward Stover. “Thiss man killed Malbrook.
I wass prressent.”

           
“Prrala was trying to make peace,”
volunteered Fielding. “He was in Malbrook’s room when—”

           
“Let him tell it,” bade Congreve.
Prrala managed more words. “We thought
we
werre alone.
But, while we sspoke, ssomeone appeared in the rroom with
uss
.
Malbrrook sspoke: ‘Sstoverr!’
And I ssaw that it wass he.”

           
“Prrala!” protested Stover. “I was outside.”

 
          
“But
I rrecognized you....” Prrala was growing weaker.
“Grreat
height —blond hairr—gold garrmentss—it wass you, Sstoverr.
Why. ...”

           
“He’s close to the brink,” said Congreve.
“Needle him again, Doctor. Prrala, tell us the rest.”

           
“Little to tell . . . Malbrrook
ssaid, ‘Sstand back,
orr
I firre.’
Sstover
sseemed about to leap.
Malbrrook firred an electrro-automatic . .
.explosion
... I know nothing morre.

 
          
His
voice died away Stover knelt beside him.

 
          
“You
say I’m the killer, Prrala. But did nobody come in while you were with
Malbrook?”

 
          
He
thought of his own visitors earlier in the evening. Each had wanted to see
Malbrook. Prrala summoned his last strength.

 
          
“Yess
.. .
one
came . . .
interrupted uss forr a moment. ...”

 
          
“Who, Prrala?
Who?”

 
          
“It wass.
...” The Martian fell limp and silent.

 
          
“Wake
him, Doctor,” urged Congreve. “He can’t die now.”

 
          
The
chief agent was wrong. Prrala was already dead.

 
          
Silence.
Then two more figures entered. A policeman
reported.

 
          
“Look
what I found prowling around,
Chief
. Pretty, eh?”

 
          
He
held Bee MacGowan by one round, bare arm. She was drawn of face, but her eyes
were steady and unafraid. Congreve beckoned her.

 
          
“You
knew Malbrook, young woman?”

 
          
She
nodded. “I wanted to ask a favor. His robot valet wouldn’t let me in.”

 
          
“Are
you the one who wrecked that robot?” asked Congreve.

 
          
Bee
MacGowan said nothing. Stover spoke for her.

 
          
“When
was wrecking a robot such a crime? They’re simple, cheap— fifty value-units
is
plenty to pay for the best of them. And Pulambar crawls
with them.”

 
          
“Take
the young woman’s name,” ordered Congreve. Then, to Stover: “You talk too much.
You’re under arrest. Come to my office.”

 
          
He
slid a hand under Stover’s elbow.

 
         
TORN
between rage and bewilderment, Stover went with his cap- tors to the police
flyer. They sped across the starry night to an opening lower down in another
tower and transferred to an elevator. Again descending, they came to an office.
Congreve took the single chair, leaving Stover on his feet. Another officer
held a dictograph.

 
          
“I
give you one more chance to talk,” said Congreve sternly.

 
          
“I
tell you once more that I’m innocent!” yelled Stover, the hot temper that had
brought him to this plight reasserting itself. “I had had a quarrel with
Malbrook. I went there to fight him. But he died at the hand of some other man,
and a good thing.”

 
          
Congreve
studied his prisoner.
“Gold cloth.
Big,
swell-looking fellow.
Rich.
Popular.
You’ll be
missed up in that high-tower set. They’ve got away with many a rough and silly
thing, those idle-richers, but the murder of an important man like Malbrook is
where simple law officers like me step in. You’ll be made an example.”

 
          
“While
you take out your spite against the rich crowd by insulting me,” said Stover
acidly. “The real killer’s getting far away.”

 
          
“Hard
to crack, this Stover,” said Congreve to the man with the dictagraph. “Lock him
up and let him think it over.”

 
          
Again
Stover was marched away, down a long corridor of gray metal to a row of doors
at the end. One of these doors swung open. Stover stepped in.

 
          
The
cell was metal-lined, about five feet broad by seven long, and barely high
enough to clear Stover’s blond curls. It had no window, only a ventilator, and
the dimmest of blue lights. The sole furniture was a metal cot against the rear
wall.

 
          
Congreve
had followed Stover. “I’ll put my cards on the table,” he said, “because
they’re good enough cards to show. I know these things:

 
          
“You
and Malbrook quarreled and were going to shoot it out. You came to his place,
on your own confession, to have a showdown. He was shut in a special apartment
built to defend him from any attack. The only way in was via the door, if it
could be forced.

 
          
“A
witness died saying that you were the guilty one. Nobody lies on his deathbed,
Stover. Then there’s Fielding’s story, the report of a robot you pushed away to
get in, and an air-taximan who says you told him you were going to kill
Malbrook.

           
“Our tests show that the weapon was
simple old-fashioned nitroglycerin. You’re down on Martian registers as a
research scientist from Earth. You could have brought or made such stuff
easily. You’ve been ugly and threatening to numerous persons and defiant to me.
All you can say now is, ‘I didn’t do it.’ ”

 
          
“And
I didn’t,” flung out Stover once more.

 
          
“I
think you did. I think you smashed that guard-robot at the front door, knocked
down Fielding, and jimmied Malbrook’s door some way. He shot at you, but that
wouldn’t make your plea of self-defense any good. You were invading his
premises. You blew him up. Only the last words of Prrala kept you from covering
yourself somehow. That’s what I’m going to prove against you in a court of law.
You’ll pay for the crime with your own life.
Good-night,
Stover.”

 
          
The
door clanked shut. Stover, alone in his blue-dim cell, sat on the edge of the
cot.

 
          
“They
can’t do this to me,” he said aloud. “I’m innocent. Innocent men aren’t found
guilty—or are they? In Pulambar anything can happen.”

 
         
SUDDENLY
the light turned green, then yellow, then orange, then red.

 
          
Stover
gazed up at it.

 
          
“Joy-lamp!”
he muttered. “Not that I’m very joyous, though. What’s the idea?”

 
          
The
answer came to him. For ages, Martians had used these ever-changing rays as a
pleasant stimulant.