The demolished man (23 page)

"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.