"I knew it was going to be bad when you winked," Reich grinned. "You're tricky, Powell. You really scare me. I never can tell when the punch is coming or which way to duck."
"Then for God's sake stop ducking and get it over with," Powell said. His voice burned. His eyes burned. Once again he terrified Reich with his intensity. "I'm going to lick you on this one, Ben: I'm going to strangle the lousy killer in you, because I admire the saint. This is the beginning of the end, for you. You know it. Why don't you make it easier for yourself?"
For an instant, Reich wavered on the verge of surrender. Then he mustered himself to meet the attack. "And give up the best fight of my life? No. Never in a million years, Linc. We're going to slug this out straight down to the finish."
Powell shrugged angrily. They both arose. Instinctively, their hands met in the four-way clasp of final farewell.
"I lost a great partner in you," Reich said.
"You lost a great man in yourself, Ben."
"Enemies?"
"Enemies."
It was the beginning of Demolition.
7
THE POLICE PREFECT OF A city of seventeen and one half millions cannot be tied down to a desk. He does not have files, memoranda, notes, and reels of red tape. He has three Esper secretaries, memory wizards all, who carry within their minds the minutiae of his business. They accompany him around headquarters like a triple index. Surrounded by his flying squad (nicknamed Wynken, Blynken, and Nod by the staff) Powell jetted through Center Street, assembling the material for his fight.
To Commissioner Crabbe he laid out the broad outlines once more. "We need motive, method, and opportunity, Commissioner. We've got possible opportunity so far, but that's all. You know Old Man Mose. He's going to insist on hard fact evidence."
"Old Man who?" Crabbe looked startled.
"Old Man Mose," Powell grinned. "That's our nickname for the Mosiac Multiplex Prosecution Computer. You wouldn't want us to use his full name, would you? We'd strangle."
"That confounded adding machine!" Crabbe snorted.
"Yes, sir. Now, I'm ready to go all out on Ben Reich and Monarch to get that evidence for Old Man Mose. I want to ask you a straight question. Are you willing to go all out too?"
Crabbe, who resented and hated all Espers, turned purple and shot up from the ebony chair behind the ebony desk in his ebony-and-silver office. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, Powell?"
"Don't sound for undercurrents, sir. I'm merely asking if you're tied to Reich and Monarch in any way. Will you be embarrassed when the heat's on? Will it be possible for Reich to come to you and get our rockets cooled?"
"No, it will not, damn you."
"Sir:" Wynken shot at Powell. "On December 4th last, Commissioner Crabbe discussed the Monolith Case with you. Extract follows:
POWELL:
There's a tricky financial angle to this business, Commissioner. Monarch may hold us up with a Demurrer.
CRABBE:
Reich's given me his word he won't; and I can always depend on Ben Reich. He backed me for County Attorney.
End quote."
"Right, Wynk. I thought there was something in Crabbe's file."
Powell switched his tactics and glared at Crabbe. "What the devil are you trying to hand me? What about your campaign for County D.A.? Reich backed you for that, didn't he?"
"He did."
"And I'm supposed to believe he hasn't continued supporting you?"
"Damn you, Powell — Yes, you are. He backed me then. He has not supported me since."
"Then I have the beacon on the Reich murder?"
"Why do you insist that Ben Reich killed that man? It's ridiculous. You've got no proof. Your own admission."
Powell continued to glare at Crabbe.
"He didn't kill him. Ben Reich wouldn't kill anybody. He's a fine man who—"
"Do I have your beacon on this murder?"
"All right, Powell. You do."
"But with strong reservations. Make a note, boys. He's scared to death of Reich. Make another note. So am I."
* * *
To his staff, Powell said: "Now look — You all know what a cold-blooded monster Old Man Mose is. Always screaming for facts — facts — evidence — unassailable proof. We'll have to produce evidence to convince that damned machine he ought to prosecute. To do that we're going to pull the Rough & Smooth on Reich. You know the method. We'll assign a clumsy operative and a slick one to every subject. The cluck won't know the smoothie is on the job. Neither will the subject. After he's shaken the Rough Tail he'll imagine he's clear. That makes it a cinch for the slicker. And that's what we're going to do to Reich."
"Check," said Beck.
"Go through every department. Pull out a hundred low-grade cops. Put 'em in plainclothes and assign 'em to the Reich case. Go up to Lab and get hold of every crackpot tracer-robot that's been submitted in the last ten years. Put all the gadgets to work on the Reich case. Make this whole package a Rough tail... the kind he won't have any trouble shaking, but the kind he'll have to work to shake."
"Any specific areas?" Beck inquired.
"Why were they playing 'Sardine'? Who suggested the game? The Beaumont's secretaries went on record that Reich couldn't be peeped because he had a song kicking around in his skull. What song? Who wrote it? Where'd Reich hear it? Lab says, the guards were blasted with some kind of Visual Purple Ionizer. Check all research on that sort of thing. What killed D'Courtney? Let's have lots of weapon research. Backtrack on Reich's relations with D'Courtney. We know they were commercial rivals. Were they deadly enemies? Was it a profitable murder? A terrified murder? What and how much does Reich stand to win by D'Courtney's death?"
"Jesus!" Beck exclaimed. "All this Rough? We'll louse the case, Linc."
"Maybe. I don't think so. Reich's a successful man. He's had a string of victories that's made him cocky. I think he'll bite. He'll imagine he's outsmarting us every time he outmaneuvers one of our decoys. Keep him thinking that. We're going to run into some brutal public relations. The news'll tear us apart. But play along with it. Rave. Rant. Make outraged statements. We're all going to be blundering, outwitted cops... and while Reich's eating himself fat on that diet—"
"You'll be eating Reich," Beck grinned. "What about the girl?"
"She's the one exception to the Rough Routine. We level with her. I want a description and photo sent to every police officer in the country within one hour. On the bottom of the stat we announce that the man who locates her will automatically be jumped five grades."
"Sir: Regulations forbid elevation of more than three ranks at any time." Thus spake Nod.
"To hell with Regulations," Powell snapped. "Five grades to the man who finds Barbara D'Courtney. I've got to get that girl."
* * *
In Monarch Tower, Ben Reich shoved every piezo crystal off his desk into the startled hands of his secretaries.
"Get the hell out of here and take all this slok with you," he growled.
"From now on the office coasts without me. Understand? Don't bother me."
"Mr. Reich, we'd understood you were contemplating taking over the D'Courtney interests now that Craye D'Courtney's dead. If you—"
"I'm taking care of that right now. That's why I don't want to be bothered. Now beat it. Jet!"
He horded the terrified squad toward the door, pushed them out, slammed the door and locked it. He went to the phone, punched BD-12,232 and waited impatiently. After too long a time, the image of Jerry Church appeared against a background of pawnshop debris.
"You?" Church snarled and reached for the cut-off.
"Me. On business. Still interested in reinstatement?"
Church stared. "What about it?"
"You've made yourself a deal. I'm starting action on your reinstatement at once. And I can do it, Jerry. I own the league of Esper Patriots. But I want a lot in return."
"For God's sake, Ben. Anything. Just ask me."
"That's what I want."
"And everything. Unlimited service. You know the price I'm paying. Are you selling?"
"I'm selling, Ben. Yes."
"And I want Keno Quizzard too."
"You can't want him, Ben. He isn't safe. Nobody gets anything from Quizzard."
"Set up a meeting. Same old place. Same time. This is like it used to be, eh, Jerry? Only this time it's going to have a happy ending."
* * *
The usual line was assembled in the anteroom of the Esper Guild Institute when Lincoln Powell entered. The hopeful hundreds, all ages, all sexes, all classes, each dreaming that he had the magic quality that could make life the fulfillment of fantasy, unaware of the heavy responsibility that quality entailed. The naivete of those dreams always made Powell smile. Read minds and make a killing on the market... (Guild Law forbade speculation or gambling by peepers) Read minds and know the answers to all exam questions... (That was a schoolboy, unaware that Esper Proctors were hired by Examination Boards to prevent that kind of peeper-cheating) Read minds and know what people really think of me... Read minds and know which girls are willing... Read minds and be like a King...
At the desk, the receptionist wearily broadcast on the widest TP band: If you can hear me, please go through the door on the left marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. If you can hear me, please go through the door on the left marked EMPLOYEES ONLY...
To an assured young socialite, with a checkbook in her hand, she was saying: "No, Madame. The Guild does not charge for training and instruction, your offer is worthless. Please go home, Madame. We can do nothing for you."
Deaf to the basic test of the Guild, the woman turned away angrily, to be succeeded by the schoolboy.
If you can hear me, please go through the door on the left...
A young Negro suddenly detached himself from the line, glanced uncertainly at the receptionist, and then walked to the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. He opened it and entered. Powell was excited. Latent Espers turned up infrequently. He'd been fortunate to arrive at this moment.
He nodded to the receptionist and followed the Latent through the door. Inside, two of the Guild staff were enthusiastically shaking the surprised man's hand and patting him on the back. Powell joined them for a moment and added his congratulations. It was always a happy day for the Guild when they unearthed another Esper.
Powell walked down the corridor toward the president's suite. He passed a kindergarten where thirty children and ten adults were mixing speech and thought in a frightful patternless mish-mash. Their instructor was patiently broadcasting: "Think, class. Think. Words are not necessary. Think. Remember to break the speech reflex. Repeat the first rule after me..."
And the class chanted: "Eliminate the Larynx."
Powell winced and moved on. The wall opposite the kindergarten was covered by a gold plaque on which was engraved the sacred words of the Esper Pledge:
I will look upon him who shall have taught me this Art as one of my parents. I will share my substance with him, and I will supply his necessities if he be in need. I will regard his offspring even as my own brethren and I will teach them this Art by precept, by lecture, and by every mode of teaching; and I will teach this Art to all others. The regimen I adopt shall be for the benefit of mankind according to my ability and judgment, and not for hurt or wrong. I will give no deadly thought to any, though it be asked of me.
Whatsoever mind I enter, there will I go for the benefit of man, refraining from all wrong-doing and corruption. Whatsoever thoughts I see or hear in the mind of man which ought not to be made known, I will keep silence thereon, counting such things to be as sacred secrets.
In the lecture hall, a class of 3rds was earnestly weaving simple basket patterns while they discussed current events. There was one little overdue 2nd, a twelve-year-old, who was adding zig-zag ad libs to the dull discussion and peaking every zig with a spoken word. The words rhymed and were barbed comments on the speakers. It was amusing and amazingly precocious.
Powell found the president's suite in an uproar. All the office doors were open, and clerks and secretaries were scurrying. Old T'sung H'sai, the president, a portly mandarin with shaven skull and benign features, stood in the center of his office and raged. He was so angry he was shouting, and the shock of the articulated words made his staff shake.
"I don't care what the scoundrels call themselves," T'sung H'sai roared. "They're a gang of selfish, self-seeking reactionaries. Talk to me about purity of the race, will they? Talk to me about aristocracy, will they? I'll talk to them. I'll fill their ears. Miss Prinn! Miss Pr-i-nnnnn!"
Miss Prinn crept into T'sung's office, horrified at the prospect of oral dictation.
"Take a letter to these devils. To the League of Esper Patriots. Gentlemen... Good morning, Powell. Haven't seen you in eons... How's Dishonest Abe? The organized campaign of your clique to cut down Guild Taxation and appropriations for the education of Espers and the dissemination of Esper training to mankind is conceived in a spirit of treachery and fascism. Paragraph..."
T'sung wrenched himself from his diatribe and winked profoundly at Powell. "And have you found the peeper of your dreams yet?"
"Not yet, sir."
"Confound you, Powell. Get married!" T'sung bellowed. "I don't want to be stuck with this job forever. Paragraph, Miss Prinn: You speak of the hardships of taxation, of preserving the aristocracy of Espers, of the unsuitability of the average man for Esper training... What do you want, Powell?"
"I want to use the grapevine, sir."
"Well don't bother me. Speak to my #2 girl. Paragraph, Miss Prinn: Why don't you come out into the open? You parasites want Esper powers reserved for an exclusive class so you can turn the rest of the world into a host for your blood-sucking! You leeches want to—"
Powell tactfully closed the door and turned to T'sung's second secretary, who was quaking in a corner.
"Are you really scared?"
Image of an eye winking.
Image of a question mark quaking.
"When Papa T'sung blows his top we like him to think we're petrified. Makes him happier. He hates to be reminded that he's a Santa Claus."
"Well, I'm Santa Claus too. Here's something for your stocking." Powell dropped the official police description and portrait of Barbara D'Courtney on the secretary's desk.
"What a beautiful girl," she exclaimed.
"I want this sent out on the grapevine. Marked urgent. A reward goes with it. Pass the word that the peeper who locates Barbara D'Courtney for me will have his Guild taxes remitted for a year."
"Jeepers!" the secretary sat bolt upright. "Can you do that?"
"I think I'm big enough in Council to swing it."
"This'll make the grapevine jump."
"I want it to jump. I want every peeper to jump. If I want anything for Xmas, I want that girl."
* * *
Quizzard's Casino had been cleaned and polished during the afternoon break... the only break in a gambler's day. The EO and Roulette tables were brushed, the Birdcage sparkled, the Hazard and Bank Crap boards gleamed green and white. In crystal globes, the ivory dice glistened like sugar cubes. On the cashier's desk, sovereigns, the standard coin of gambling and the underworld, were racked in tempting stacks. Ben Reich sat at the billiard table with Jerry Church and Keno Quizzard, the blind croupier. Quizzard was a giant pulp-like man, fat, with flaming red beard, dead white skin, and malevolent dead white eyes.
"Your price," Reich told Church, "you know already. And I'm warning you, Jerry. If you know what's good for you, don't try to peep me. I'm poison. If you get into my head you're getting into Demolition. Think about it."
"Jesus," Quizzard murmured in his sour voice. "As bad as that? I don't hanker for a Demolition, Reich."
"Who does? What do you hanker for, Keno?"
"A question." Quizzard reached back and with sure fingers pulled a rouleau of sovereigns off the desk. He let them cascade from one hand to the other. "Listen to what I hanker for."
"Name the best price you can figure, Keno."
"What's it for?"
"To hell with that. I'm buying unlimited service with expenses paid. You tell me how much I've got to put up to get it — guaranteed."
"That's a lot of service."
"I've got a lot of money."
"You got a hundred Ms laying around?"
"One hundred thousand. Right? That's the price."
"For the love of..." Church popped upright and stared at Reich. "A hundred thousand?"
"Make up your mind, Jerry," Reich growled. "Do you want money or reinstatement?"
"It's almost worth — No. Am I crazy? I'll take reinstatement."
"Then stop drooling." Reich turned to Quizzard. "The price is one hundred thousand."
"In sovereigns?"
"What else? Now, d'you want me to put the money up in advance or can we get to work right off?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Reich," Quizzard protested.
"Frab that," Reich snapped. "I know you, Keno. You've got an idea you can find out what I want and then shop around for higher bids. I want you committed right now. That's why I let you set the price."
"Yeah," Quizzard said slowly. "I had that idea, Reich." He smiled and the milk-white eyes disappeared in folds of skin. "I still got that idea."
"Then I'll tell you right now who'll buy from you. A man named Lincoln Powell. Trouble is, I don't know what he'd pay."
"Whatever it is, I don't want it." Quizzard spat.
"It's me against Powell, Keno. That's the whole auction. I've placed my bid. I'm still waiting to hear from you."
"It's a deal," Quizzard replied.
"All right," Reich said, "now listen to this. First job. I want a girl. Her name is Barbara D'Courtney."
"The killing?" Quizzard nodded heavily. "I thought so."
Demolished Man Page 8
