by Jerry
Reluctantly, I agreed to cooperate.
Kirk’s plan was this. Quite recently, there had been two highly improbable murders, and he wished to create the semblance of a third—the murder of himself. He was quite delighted with the details of this hoax, for he intended to spread the sulfaborgonium over his head, giving his body the appearance of being decapitated. Then I was to supply him with a chemical means for him to appear truly dead, a method which is used for the performance of heart surgery.
He planned to be discovered this way, and for the world to believe that he had been murdered by some impossible means, just as the victims in his novels have been killed. Then I was to claim his body for burial in the family vault. His “body” of course, would be perfectly alive and well.
We went through the plan as outlined. There were some difficult moments (the county coroner, as you probably know, wanted to perform an autopsy; fortunately, I was able to stop it in time) but in general, everything went smoothly. When I brought Kirk’s “body” home, I promptly counteracted the heart-stoppage and he was completely restored to health and vitality. He swore me to secrecy, and told me that he planned to conceal himself in another part of the country until the proper time came to reveal the hoax.
I have not heard from Kirk since.
While I cannot believe the terrible idea that Kirk himself is behind the murders, I now feel that I must tell you the true circumstances of his disappearance.
If there is anything further I can do to help, please feel free to call upon me.
Sincerely,
DR. BORG EVANDER
I read the letter with the growing conviction that the answer to our problem was in our hands. I read the letter aloud to Douglas Wharton, whose face showed a confused mixture of bewilderment and surprise.
“But what does it mean?” he said. “Is it really Kirk that’s playing these invisible tricks?”
“Of course! Only Kirk would be interested in the death and torture of these victims. He killed Winston Kale as an example. He didn’t have any great grievance against Kale, but he didn’t like him much, either—especially after Wharton Publishing refused his ultimatum. Then, to keep interest alive in these puzzle murders, he killed Zora Brewster—the one person who saw Kale alive before the locked-room murder. Then, he plotted his own “murder,” when the police got on his trail. Now he’s killing everyone who knows the story of the chemical—his own brother, Captain Spencer. In order to complete his insane plan, he has three more to go. You, because he associates his failures with your company. Eileen, because she knows of his existence. And me.”
“But why didn’t he kill you first? You’re the one he hates most.”
“That’s exactly why. Because he hates me so much, he wants me to squirm. He wants me to know that there are such things as impossible murders. When he’s knocked off everybody in some improbable manner—then he’ll be ready to take care of me. But first, he has to demonstrate that I was wrong and he was right.”
Wharton folded his arms and shivered.
“All right. So we know it’s Kirk Evander. But that doesn’t bring us any closer to a solution.”
“Sure it does,” I said. “Because now that we know it’s Kirk, we can act accordingly. We can try and think the way Kirk Evander thinks.”
“How will that help?”
“I don’t know yet,” I said miserably. “But we’ve got to find a way.”
That night, I sat and stared at my Remington, and I never thought so hard in my life. It was like trying to work Rufe Armlock out of an escapade, only it was much worse. At least I had control of the characters in a Rufe Armlock novel; if I wanted them to do something, I made them do it. If only it was that easy!
My only consolation was that Eileen was presumably out of danger.
Then even that was destroyed. Around ten o’clock, the telephone rang and the long-distance operator told me that there was a call from Sauter Beach. Eileen didn’t have to say very much before I realized that her invisible masher was still on the trail. My hands went cold on the phone.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” she said, her voice trembling. “But yesterday, on the beach, I thought I saw something glinting in the sun . . . I looked up and could have sworn I saw a gun, just hanging in the air . . .”
“Good God,” I said, shutting my eyes.
“Jeff, I don’t know what to do. If he’s followed me here . .
“Hang on, sweetie, just hang on. We’re working this out. We’ve learned something we didn’t know before. We’re going to lick this.”
“I don’t know what to do! Should I come back to the city? Then you’ll all be in danger—”
“Never mind about that. Come back as soon as you can. We’ve got a plan—”
“What kind of plan?”
“Never mind now. But we won’t be so helpless any more.”
I hung up, hoping she wouldn’t realize that I was bluffing.
But an hour later, slumped over the still typewriter, I did have a plan. I got so excited about it that I woke Douglas Wharton out of a sound sleep, not realizing that it was already four in the morning.
The item that appeared in every New York newspaper read something like this:
POSTHUMOUS AWARD TO
KIRK EVANDER
BANQUET TO BE HELD IN DEAD
MYSTERY NOVELIST’S HONOR
July 2, New York. The Wharton Publishing Company announced today that a new Fellowship was to be added to the company’s roster, to be named the Kirk Evander Fellowship. It will provide special awards and scholarships to promising authors of the “classic” detective novel. The official innovation of the Kirk Evander Fellowship will take place at a banquet in honor of the deceased novelist on July 8. Among the speakers will be . . .
Eileen’s brow was ruffled when she studied the item.
“But what good will it do? Honoring that fiend?”
I chuckled. “Think about it, and you’ll see. Can you think of anything that would appeal more to an egomaniac like Evander? How can he resist attending a banquet that’s held in his own honor?”
“Then it’s a trap?”
“Of course it is. And even if Evander realizes that it’s a trap, I don’t think he’ll be able to resist showing up. He’s too convinced of his invincible powers to believe that we could capture him. Besides, the Fellowship idea is genuine. Evander was a heck of a good writer, and Wharton does intend to create the award. The speakers will all be real, and the entire event will be authentic. But there’ll be some added features . . .”
“What kind of features?”
“Some preparations. Just in case we have an uninvited guest that night. A special welcome for him.”
Eileen’s eyes shone.
“Can I come, Jeff?”
“No!”
“Please! After all, he’s after me, too. It can’t be any more dangerous—”
I scowled like Rufe Armlock and pulled her towards me.
“I said no, baby. And don’t give me any argument, or I’ll shoot you in your soft, white . . .”
She didn’t argue with me.
It was impressive, no doubt about it. The banquet hall, a ninety-foot chamber in the Hotel Colbert, was splendidly decorated for the occasion, with luxurious drapery and burgundy-red carpets and glittering chandeliers. The speaker’s table was raised on a dais, and two long guest tables flanked each other on both sides of the hall. The guests began milling around early in the evening, all of them dress-suited and distinguished looking and seemingly pleased at the prospects of the occasion. The full list of speakers hadn’t been announced, but Douglas Wharton was to make the main presentation.
After several rounds of drinks, the time for the formal opening of events arrived.
The guests seated themselves, the doors were closed, and Douglas Wharton rapped a gavel.
“Gentlemen, before we satisfy our appetite, I thought it would be appropriate to have a few words concerning the purpose of this occasion. So it gives me
great pleasure to present a young man whose rise to fame is best described in that worn but accurate word ‘meteoric.’ More important, this young man, perhaps more than anyone present this evening, has good reason to know the qualities of the man we have gathered to honor. Gentlemen, Mr. Jeffrey Oswald.”
There was a scattering of applause, and I tugged at the collar of my formal shirt and stepped forward to the speaker’s rostrum.
I cleared my throat and said:
“Kirk Evander was and is a great man.”
I paused to let that sink in.
“I say was, because at the time of his passing, he had left the world a heritage of some thirty-five mystery novels, the like of which may never be seen again. I say is, because Kirk Evander will remain alive as long as someone, somewhere, thrills to the magic words he put on paper.”
There was some more applause.
“Kirk Evander was more than merely a great man. The world has had its share of those. But Kirk Evander was also an unusual man. A man of courage and of daring, a man willing to face an unpopular trend and do it battle. Kirk Evander made that battle, and the effort was nothing short of magnificent. It was through him that we owe the present upcurve in the popularity of the classic detective story—and all of us want nothing more than to see that popularity maintained.”
Again, they applauded.
“As we all know, Kirk Evander’s last novel, Death of a Publisher, was released to the reviewers yesterday. I can’t think of any more fitting tribute than this review, which will be published in tonight’s edition of The New York Blade.”
I lifted a sheaf of papers from the table and waved it at the crowd. But I didn’t read it. Instead, I placed it carefully in front of me, and went on talking. I talked for another five minutes, and never once took my eyes from the papers.
I was almost ready to sit down, when I saw them move.
“He’s here!” I shouted.
Everyone went into action as planned. At the doorway, the two dress-suited men who were standing by reached up and pulled the light switches that plunged the hall into immediate darkness. Throughout the room, I heard the swift movements of the guests as they reached beneath the covered tables and removed the masks that had been placed there in readiness. I found my own beneath the speaker’s podium, and slipped it quickly over my face. Somewhere below, a lieutenant of police named Davis was preparing to pull the release on the gas bomb which would spread the thick, deadly stuff in violent clouds throughout the room.
“The door! The door!” I heard Wharton cry, and he leaped from the dais to help form the barrier of bodies that would block the invisible killer from making his escape. By this time, the heavy clouds of gas were filling the room, and I could still smell its sickening-sweet odor through the mask, or imagine that I did.
In the midst of the crowd there was a sudden wave of violent motion, as if Kirk Evander was struggling wildly to make his way to an exit. Hands reached out everywhere to try and pin him down, but he was too clever. At the doorway, Douglas Wharton suddenly cried out and grappled with the air, and then his assailant was gone.
“Don’t try and hold him!” I shouted to them. “Let the gas stop him—”
There were frenzied sounds and movements in the darkness, sudden shouts of surprise and fear, unexpected gasps and outbursts. But it was only for the moment; soon there was only stillness.
“The lights!” I said. “Turn on the lights.”
They flickered on overhead.
“All right,” Douglas Wharton said commandingly. “He’s here someplace. Find him.”
They backed off against the walls, and started to close in the ring slowly.
From the rear of the hall, Lieutenant Davis of the police department suddenly shouted:
“Here he is!”
I looked. Davis was lifting something from the floor, something that appeared to be a dead weight.
He carried his burden towards one of the banquet tables, pulling aside the cloth to place it down.
Then he threw the cloth over it, and we saw the outline of a small, plump body. The outline of the unconscious body of Kirk Evander.
Davis bent over it.
“We didn’t mean for the gas to kill him,” he frowned. “But I’m afraid his heart couldn’t take it. Evander’s dead.”
Eileen and I did go to Niagara on our honeymoon. But as far as we were concerned, the Falls could have been invisible, too.
BUT WHO CAN REPLACE A MAN?
Brian W. Aldiss
The men grew few, and one morning no orders were issued. What were the machines to do?
THE FIELD-MINDER finished turning the topsoil of a two thousand acre field. When it had turned the last furrow, it climbed onto the highway and looked back at its work. The work was good. Only the land was bad. Like the ground all over Earth, it was vitiated by over-cropping. By rights, it ought now to lie fallow for a while, but the field-minder had other orders.
It went slowly down the road, taking its time. It was intelligent enough to appreciate the neatness all about it.
Nothing worried it, beyond a loose inspection plate above its atomic pile. Thirty feet high, it gleamed complacently in the mild sunshine.
No other machines passed it on its way to the agricultural station. The field-minder noted the fact without comment. In the station yard it saw several other machines which it knew by sight; most of them should have been out about their tasks now. Instead, some were inactive and some were careening round the yard in a strange fashion, shouting or hooting.
Steering carefully past them, the field-minder moved over to warehouse three and spoke to the seed distributor, which stood idly outside.
“I have a requirement for seed potatoes,” it said to the distributor and, with a quick internal motion, punched out an order card specifying quantity, field number and several other details. It ejected the card and handed it to the distributor.
The distributor held the card close to its eye and then said, “The requirement is in order, but the store is not yet unlocked. The required seed potatoes are in the store. Therefore I cannot produce your requirement.”
Increasingly of late there had been breakdowns in the complex system of machine labor, but this particular hitch had not occurred before. The field-minder thought, then said, “Why is the store not yet unlocked?”
“Because supply operative type P has not come this morning. Supply operative type P is the unlocker.”
The field-minder looked squarely at the seed distributor, whose exterior chutes and scales and grabs were so vastly different from the field-minder’s own limbs.
“What class brain do you have, seed distributor?” it asked.
“Class five.”
“I have a class-three brain. Therefore I will go and see why the unlocker has not come this morning.”
Leaving the distributor, the field-minder set off across the great yard. More machines seemed to be in random motion now; one or two had crashed together and were arguing about it coldly and logically. Ignoring them, the field-minder pushed through sliding doors into the echoing confines of the station itself.
Most of the machines here were clerical, and consequently small. They stood about in little groups, eyeing each other, not conversing. Among the many non-differentiated types, the unlocker was easy to find. It had fifty arms, most of them with more than one finger, each finger tipped by a key; it looked like a pin cushion full of variegated hat pins.
The field-minder approached it.
“I can do no more work until warehouse three is unlocked,” it said. “Your duty is to unlock the warehouse every morning. Why have you not unlocked the warehouse this morning?”
“I had no orders this morning,” replied the unlocker. “I have to have orders every morning.”
“None of us have had any orders this morning,” a pen-propeller said, sliding toward them.
“Why have you had no orders this morning?” asked the field-minder.
“Because the radi
o issued none,” said the unlocker, slowly rotating a dozen of its arms.
“Because the radio station in the city was issued with no orders this morning,” said the pen-propeller.
And there you had the distinction between a class-six and a class-three brain, which was what the unlocker and the pen-propeller possessed respectively. All machine brains worked with nothing but logic, but the lower the class of brain—class ten being the lowest—the more literal and less informative answers to questions tended to be.
“You have a class-three brain; I have a class-three brain,” the field-minder said to the penner. “We will speak to each other. This lack of orders is unprecedented. Have you further information on it?”
“Yesterday orders came from the city. Today no orders have come. Yet the radio has not broken down. Therefore they have broken down,” said the little penner.
“The men have broken down?”
“All men have broken down.”
“That is a logical deduction,” said the field-minder.
“That is the logical deduction,” said the penner. “For if a machine had broken down, it would have been quickly replaced. But who can replace a man?”
While they talked, the locker, like a dull man at a bar, stood close to them and was ignored.
“If all men have broken down, then we have replaced man,” said the field-minder, and it and the penner eyed one another speculatively. Finally the latter said, “Let us ascend to the top floor to find if the radio operator has fresh news.”
“I cannot come because I am too gigantic,” said the field-minder. “Therefore you must go alone and return to me.”
“You must stay there,” said the penner. It skittered over into the lift. It was no bigger than a toaster, but its retractable arms numbered ten and it could read as quickly as any machine on the station.
