‘A message from a Miss Cray,’ he answered.
A key turned and, as it did so, Coman launched himself across the passage and into the room, hitting the carpet with his shoulder, rolling and stopping, the gun up, his finger hard on the trigger.
He shot twice, the noises small, like paper bags bursting. Once pressure caught the man who had turned the key, high on the right arm so that he was slammed against the wall, and the other aimed in the general direction of Harkor who stood at the far end of the room, smacked a picture flat so that the glass fell in fragments and for a brief instant took the joker off guard. In the act of drawing his own weapon from his pocket he jumped aside and Coman fired again. This time the shock wave brushed Harkor’s wrist, blew the gun from his hand and spun him off balance, so that he staggered over to the window.
‘Don’t move,’ said Coman.
The man who had unlocked the door sat limply against the wall like a rag doll, out cold, for his head had hit the wood and plaster like a hammer. Vane sat tied to his chair facing the window and Coman gave him only a brief glance. They had stripped him and used the ancient, well-tried methods of making a man talk, the means used from time immemorial. Beating and burning, cutting and gouging. The eager young face was no longer recognisable, in fact the creature in the chair was hardly recognisable as a human being. Coman refused to imagine how long it had endured before oblivion had descended, and he allowed himself only one consolatory hope: perhaps Vane had found and met eventually the Unknown Minds he had always yearned to know.
Staring into Harkor’s mind Coman saw how he had come in, accompanied by the individual now sitting on the floor, and had, after a short time, decided he wanted to see the man Coman had bundled into the cupboard in Vane’s room. Apparently this man and Harkor had been friends of a sort and after Harkor had enquired and found that the thug had not been seen to leave the building he had walked the corridors, sniffing with his mind until at last he had become convinced Vane knew something of the matter. It had not taken long then to find his drugged colleague and then, confronted by the block in Vane’s mind, Harkor had realised that something really important was afoot. They had taken Vane into Harkor’s room, locked the door and endeavoured to make him tell them exactly what it might be. But they had failed. The man whose sensitivity to pain and suffering was so acute that he had been considered useless for active participation in a venture involving danger or hardship – this man had resolutely erased from his mind all memory of Coman and his purpose so that even when sanity was gone Harkor was still unable to find his answers. It seemed incredible, impossible.
Coman walked across and picked up the gun Harkor had dropped. It was a replica of the one the girl had carried and he turned it over in his hand, considering it with deep distaste. Harkor was reading him, discovering everything, scheming, weighing him up, looking for a weakness, and, on top of this, was trying to jolly him, thinking: So you’re Coman, eh? Well, I’ve heard about you. You’re a keyman, and keymen have a reputation for fair play. Why not look at it like this: you underestimated me a little, you didn’t consider I might kill your friend in my efforts to find answers, if I became suspicious, and, as it happened, we both underestimated you friend too. But never mind, you’ve succeeded in doing what your came to do and I’m going to be in hot water. Oh yes, they’re going to boil me all right, so why don’t we call it quits, and come to some arrangement? And at the back of his mind all sorts of plans were taking shape, being discarded, re-forming, and so on.
Without answering, Coman threw the ray-gun into a chair by the wall and walked to the window, his attention now only partially directed at Harkor. The tension gone, he found himself trembling as reaction set in. Everything pales into insignificance beside the fact of his underestimation of Vane. How little he knew of people, how pathetic his arrogance in attempting valuations of character, for all his apparent cleverness and advantageous insight into other minds! But then, Vane had not been just – people. He had possessed something which he, Coman, merely pretended to possess: faith. And to have that he must surely have known something which Coman perhaps would never know.
All the while Harkor was moving and smiling, sending forth waves of compunction and reassurance, until … As he dived to retrieve his gun Coman turned slowly, like a man in a dream, but confident because he already held a weapon and must hold the advantage. Almost too late he realised that his weapon was like a toy compared to Harkor’s, and it was only as the other scooped the deadly mechanism from the chair and turned, his finger tightened on the button which released the ray, that Coman divined the fact that Harkor was ready and willing to take his chance with the shock-gun. He fired then, fractionally in front of the joker, and at short range the wave hit Harkor’s gun hand and the force of the steel bolt, jerked the gun round and up so that the ray described a burning arc across the ceiling and into Harkor’s face.
There was flame and smoke, and a thin, terrible, strangulated sound as Harkor tried to scream, and, the next moment, his body was writhing and jumping on the floor, the gun skidding away and his arms and legs scrabbling, the shoes beating a tattoo on the carpet. Coman closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, his face drained of colour, thinking: Hurry up and die.
And after a while Harkor died.
Somebody began knocking on the door and Coman opened his eyes. The body on the floor was now still, but the smell was ghastly. The knocking increased in volume and Coman began to move, then stopped. He went back to the figure in the chair and explored the jacket that lay at its feet, going through the pockets one by one until he found the key to the safe-depository. It was small and made of a plastic material, and after swallowing it he went to the door and opened it.
Outside was the house detective, a tall, granite-faced individual who put out a restraining hand and said: ‘Just a minute, what’s going on here?’
‘Take a look for yourself,’ said Coman.
The Central Department of Police, Twelfth Section, was like a great glass bubble floating high, half suspended over the Fifteenth City and half above the Pacific. Miscreants, on entry, were forced to walk along a narrow, transparent passage, while electronic eyes and rays searched their clothes and bodies, and the resulting mass of data was tele-typed, sorted, filed, and despatched in different directions. By the time they reached the human official sitting at the end of the passage he had at hand a list and minute description of every article the miscreants carried on their persons, together with flesh markings, deformities, medical history, and so on.
When Coman arrived, the official, a thin, smiling person of Chinese extraction examined the relevant data and said: ‘We do not appear to have a name. Can you help us with that?’
‘Claus Coman.’
‘Thank you. First put your shock-gun and telephonic device on this desk and then empty your pockets completely. Good. You will be put in a cell for one hour and then brought for questioning.’
When Coman had done as he was told, the official gave a signal and a ground-platform robot glided forward and, taking the man’s arm in a gentle but inescapable grip, helped him aboard. Man and machine then glided deeper into the transparent building, finally to a small room fitted only with a bed, wash-basin and small latrine, and Coman was left alone for his hour’s respite.
Alone. Below him he could see another cell and another prisoner, and below him another, and another, ad infinitum. Above, mercifully, the dark day and a copper coloured moon, The room was air-cooled and there was no discomfort. To left and right were more cells, some occupied, some not, but behind Coman were only two, and he could see beyond them the City, twisting away like a sparkling reptile in the haze of dusk. In front of him, beyond the door, he could make out a variety of workers, robot, human and Venusian, sitting at desks, working complex instruments, eating food, and even lying down listening to music. Now and then police observatory platforms, two feet square, manned by humans, swooped away, by and into other parts of the Central Department. Taken as a w
hole, the structure was rather reminiscent of a vast brain which sent out or received thoughts at varying intervals. But Coman was in no mood to appreciate or admire the ingenuity or thoroughness of its workings, and he sat on his bed, his chin in his hands, thinking moodily of the cigarettes now lying in one of the drawers at the receiving desk.
Again he allowed himself to think closely of Vane, and what had happened to Vane, and how little he, Coman, had thought of Vane. He sighed, for a moment feeling the familiar sickness and revulsion towards life, and the absurdity inherent in the fact of living. Then, with a mental shrug, he forced himself into some kind of appraisal of his own immediate prospects. The police did not like telepaths of any kind, and the fact that he was one of those carrying official sanction might be of little help in this particular situation. The fact that he had killed Harkor in self-defence was of little moment either. The whole question depended on whether or not they intended to be bloody-minded about the affair.
Jonl and Sein seemed far away just now, indeed Coman preferred to think of them as lost to him, a somewhat melancholy measure which nevertheless helped him to think, unencumbered by emotional problems. He would tell his tale and let the police break it if they could. It might even be possible to bribe someone in order to get out quickly, for the Fifteenth City police were notoriously corrupt. Time passed slowly. A bald head shone up at him from the cell beneath and he concentrated hard on it in an endeavour to make its owner look upwards. When the man did so, it was like looking down at a cod swimming in a tank. The mouth open, wet thick lips moving, eyes rolled back showing the red veins of a drug-addict, nostrils like two black holes.
At last a robot came, opened up the cell, and beckoned him to step on to its platform. When Coman obeyed, it whisked him away to a room with glazed walls and floor, containing a table and three chairs. Two of the chairs, on one side of the table, were occupied by men in plain clothes, and he sat in the empty one facing his interrogators.
The man who did most of the talking was thin and wiry, with an elfin face and an amiable manner, while the other had a bullet shaped head and piglike eyes that fastened on Coman like two hooks and never left him the whole time. This man, for the main part, preserved a stony silence, but when he did speak it was like the squeaking of glass on tin.
‘My name’s Orvil,’ said the amiable one. ‘Now make yourself comfortable and don’t get into a flurry, because no one is going to try to trip you up or get you booked for something of which you’re innocent. Get that into your head and then perhaps we’ll get somewhere. All we want to do is reach a few facts.’
He glanced at the sheaf of notes he had in front of him, next to a videophone, leaned his elbow on the table and with intertwined fingers nodded agreeably.
‘We understand that you’re a keyman, and it’s well known that you fellows are usually above board when it comes to law observance. On the other hand, with all respect, we’d have liked to have had another telepath present for checking purposes at this interview, but, as I suppose you know, police work doesn’t seem to attract even jokers – not that we’d countenance that kind of scum, on principle. This man Harkor was a joker, I believe?’
The question came with deceptive casualness and Coman nodded automatically. Apparently for the purpose of questioning telepaths both men had learnt a haphazard, but effective technique, composed of a mixture of blocks and scrambles, in order to blanket their ultimate thrusts to the last minute. Coman had received no warning of this question at all, but fortunately it was of little importance.
‘So you did know him then,’ the other went on. ‘Had you been friends for long?’
‘I’d met him once before. He passed me in a hotel lobby.’
‘Well now, let’s start at the beginning. What are you doing in our fair city in the first place?’
‘I’m on holiday.’
‘Oh dear. Well, it hasn’t been a very nice one so far, has it? By the way, our equipment revealed a small insignia in one of your pockets and —’
‘I am bound to two women. They are staying at the home of a Mrs Doln Raylond.’ Noting a simultaneous reaction of respect in both their minds at the mention of this name Coman proceeded to give details of Jonl and Sein, and a nearly complete story of his activities in the city, right to the moment when he had entered the pension for the second time. He went on: ‘I reached the door and knocked, and as it was opened I jumped inside …’
Orvil interrupted him, ‘First, I really would like to know how you had guessed what was happening to Vane.’
Coman sighed. ‘I told you. I just felt that he was suffering.’ He had not dared to mention the message he had received from the robot in Marst’s hotel, for it would be asking for trouble to hope that they would believe that.
‘You just – felt it,’ grated the pig-eyed one.
‘Yes. When a person is in great pain, or fear, or joy, or any deep emotion, his brain and heart send out a large quantity of vibrations which are easily felt by anyone with extra-sensory perception.’
‘So you sensed these – vibrations, all the way from Marst’s place,’ said Orvil thoughtfully. ‘It must be rather wonderful to be a keyman.’
Coman made no answer. It seemed obvious that he was in for a hard time, and there was little he could do about it.
Orvil continued: ‘So you burst into the room and …?’
‘I used the shock-gun on both of them.’
‘Without any provocation,’ said the fat man softly.
‘Quite right. Unless you could call the torture and death of a friend some kind of provocation.’
Orvil looked less cheery at this, almost pained in fact, and clearing his throat, he looked down at his papers again. ‘I see here that the first man you shock-gunned, a Jak Barne, has made a statement, and in it he says some rather strange things. He says, and I quote: “Me and my buddy Harkor, had nothing to do with the croaking of the guy in the chair. We just came in from a walk and there he was, tied up like a chicken and dead as Pluto. And then suddenly, as we were wondering what to do about the poor coot, there’s a knock on the door and this other stinker comes bursting-in, shooting like a madman! The way I see it is that this crazy-man did the job himself, then left until he was sure we’d come in, and tried to fix it so that it looked bad for me and Harkor. He bumped off Harkor and meant to do the same to me, but he was interrupted.” What do you think of that?’
‘What do you think?’ asked Coman heavily.
The pig-eyed one said: ‘Do you know that we could take you to a certain spot in this building and have you blasted now – straight away?’
‘I don’t think so. I have a few good friends who would soon start asking questions.’ He said this with only apparent conviction, for it would be no difficulty for his gaolers to fix up a story to suit their own ends, together with witnesses if necessary.
Orvil waved a hand negligently. ‘Don’t let’s lose our heads and say things we might regret afterwards. Of course we know that this – Barne, was lying, and it’s fairly obvious they killed Vane. Vane was a fellow keyman of yours and what they did to him was enough to put anyone into a temper. As for Harkor, he’s no loss to anyone, in fact we in the Central Department were agreeably surprised to find him dead, because he’s caused trouble in several Sections. What really interests my colleague and me is why he went to such trouble to make your friend talk. What exactly was he trying to get from him?’
‘Information regarding me.
‘But Harkor didn’t even know you.’
‘He knew something was going on – whether or not it was important to him he didn’t know. I doubt whether he cared a lot. He had a victim who possessed some kind of secret and he liked inflicting pain. That’s all.’
The other man scratched his head. ‘It doesn’t make sense. All your friend had to do was tell him …’
‘Does anything in the world make sense?’ asked Coman, feeling tired of answering questions that seemed ever more futile.
‘Why did you
go to Marst?’
‘I told you. In order to chat with him about the possibility of inaugurating a War Section. My organisation is in favour of the idea and we thought Marst should know our viewpoint.’
‘Did you use threats?’ asked the pig-eyed one.
‘No.’
‘And when you’d left – had he made up his mind?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Oh come, you’re a telepath. You must know what he thought of your argument.’
So this was the real point of the questioning. Coman began to see the reason for the joviality, the threats and all the rest of it.
‘I’m afraid I do not know. You are, I’m sure, quite aware that any man can put up mind “blocks” which not even a telepath can break.’
‘We have ways and means of finding out whether you’re telling the truth,’ warned the fat man.
‘I dare say. You’ve got the look of another Harkor.’
There followed a very pregnant silence, and Coman’s muscles tensed, waiting for the two men to move. He had no chance, but he was beyond caring and wanted only to get a blow or two in with his free arm – his robot guard still clasped the other – before he was shot down.
But then suddenly Orvil rose and gathered up his papers. ‘We needn’t prolong this particular discussion any further. You seem to have some strange ideas about the machinery of justice in our Department, Mr Coman. We do not ill-treat innocent people, and we are concerned only with facts.’
‘Splendid. Can I go now?’ asked Coman.
‘I’m afraid we’re not yet convinced that you’ve been completely truthful.’
‘Oh, that’s a pity. Then could I be allowed to get in touch with my friends?’
‘We’ll have to see about that. We’ll have to check with some of them regarding certain parts of your story first. Meanwhile, you must rest, and then we’ll have one more chat together.’
Chapter X
A Man of Double Deed Page 13
