by Paul Preuss
McNeil had told the truth. The traces of his and many other hands resided on the keypad, but the most recent trace was Peter Grant’s—his touch on six of the keys overlaid all others. Sparta could not recover the order of touch—six keys gave rise to six-factorial possible combinations—but if she’d wanted to play a game with herself she probably could have deduced the likelier possibilities within a few seconds, from her knowledge of probabilities and, mostly, from what she’d learned of the man himself.
There was no point in taking the time. She’d already uncovered the combination where Grant had noted it in his personal computer files.
She tapped the keys. The indicator diode beside the lock blinked from red to green. She turned the wheel and tugged on the hatch. Inside the airlock the indicators confirmed that the interior pressures of the hold were equal to those outside the lock. She turned the wheel on the inner hatch and a moment later floated into the hold.
It was a cramped circular space, hardly big enough to stand erect in, ringed by steel racks filled with metal and plastic bags and cases. The roof of the compartment was the reinforced cap of the hold itself; the floor was a removable steel partition, sealed to the walls. The wooden ships that once plied Earth’s oceans commonly carried sand and rocks for ballast when travelling without a paying cargo, but ballast was worse than useless in space. Aft of the few stacked shelves ringing the pressurized top of the hold, the vessel was just a big bottle of vacuum.
The pallets near the airlock were strapped down securely, carrying sacks of wild rice, asparagus tips in gel, cases of live game birds frozen in suspended animation—delicacies that, having made the trip from Earth, were worth far more than their weight in gold.
And of course that miscellany which had snagged Sparta’s attention in the manifest. Kara Antreen’s Cuban cigars. Sondra Sylvester’s “books of no intrinsic value.” Sylvester’s books were in a gray Styrene case which showed little sign of handling—Sparta noted Sylvester’s own traces, McNeil’s, Grant’s, others unknown, but none recent. Sparta quickly deduced the simple combination. Inside she found a number of plastic-wrapped paper and plastic books, some bound in cloth or leather, others with quaint and lurid illustrated covers, but nothing she did not expect to find. She resealed the case.
She moved next to Darlington’s consignment, a similar but not identical gray Styrene case equipped with an elaborate magnetic lock, something even more complex than the numeric pad on the airlock. The case showed no signs of tampering. Oddly, it showed no signs of having been handled at all. The only chemical signals on the entire case were the strong contending odors of detergent, methyl alcohol, acetone, and carbon tetrachloride. It seemed to have been throughly scrubbed.
A defensive measure, that, like the human hair laid across the crack in the closet door, intended to divulge any attempts at searching or tampering? Well, there had been no tampering.
Sparta proceeded to tamper with it. The lock’s code was based on a short stack of rather small primes. No one without Sparta’s sensitivities could have cracked the combination in less than a few days, without the aid of a sizable computer—it would take that long just to run through half the possible combinations. But Sparta eliminated possibilities by the millions and billions, instantly, simply by reading electronic pathways deep in the lock’s circuitry and discarding those that were dormant.
She was in trance while she did it. Five minutes later she had the lock open. Inside the case was the book.
The man who had had this book made for himself had reveled in fine things. He had valued the presentation of his hard-wrought words so much that he would not let those he hoped to impress with it, or even his friends, see anything but the best. The Seven Pillars of Wisdom had not only been given the trappings of a marbled slipcase, leather binding, and beautiful endpapers, it had been printed like the King James Bible itself, on Bible paper, set in double columns of linotype.
Sparta had heard about metal type, although she had never actually seen the effect of it. She slid the book from its case, let it gently push itself open. Sure enough, each single letter and character was pressed onto the paper, not simply appearing there as a filmy overlay but as a precise quantity of ink pushed crisply into the pulp. That sort of craftsmanship in an object of “mass production” was beyond Sparta’s experience. The paper itself was thin and supple, not like the crumbling discolored sheets she had seen in the New York library, displayed as relics of the past…
The richness and glory of the book in her hand was hypnotic, calling her to handle its pages. For the moment she forgot investigation. She only wanted to experience the thing. She studied the page to which it had spontaneously opened.
“An accident was meaner than deliberate fault,” the author had written. “If I did not hesitate to risk my life, why fuss to dirty it? Yet life and honour seemed in different categories … or was honour like the Sybil’s leaves, the more that was lost the more precious the little left…?”
An odd thought. “Honour” considered as a commodity, the more that was lost the more precious what was left.
Sparta closed the fabulous book and slid it back into its slipcase, then settled the whole thick package into its padded case. She had seen what she needed to of Star Queen.
16
“Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to announce that there will be a delay in the disembarkation process. A representative from Port Hesperus will be joining us shortly to explain. To facilitate matters, all passengers should report to the lounge as soon as possible. Stewards will assist you.”
Unlike Star Queen, Helios had arrived at Port Hesperus in the normal way, grappled into parking orbit by short-range tugs. Plainly visible through the windows of the ship’s lounge, the space station hung in the sky a kilometer away, its wheels revolving grandly against the bright crescent of Venus, the green of its famous gardens glinting through the banded skylights of its central sphere. Murmuring resentment, the passengers gathered in the lounge; the most reluctant found themselves “helped” by stewards who seemed to have forgotten deference. All aboard the ship, passengers and crew, were frustrated to have travelled millions of kilometers across a trackless sea and at the last moment to be prevented from setting foot on the shore.
A bright spark moved against the insect cloud of other spacecraft drifting about the station, and soon resolved itself into a tiny white launch bearing the familiar blue band and gold star insignia. The launch docked at the main airlock and a few minutes later a tall, square-jawed blond man pulled himself briskly into the lounge.
“I’m Inspector Viktor Proboda, Port Hesperus office of the Board of Space Control,” he said to the assembled passengers, most of whom were unhappily glowering. “You will be detained here temporarily while we continue our investigation into the recent events aboard Star Queen; we sincerely regret any inconvenience this may cause. First I’ll need to establish that your registration slivers are in order. Then I will soon be approaching some of you individually and asking you to assist us in our inquiries…”
Ten minutes after she left Star Queen, Sparta knocked on the door of Angus McNeil’s private ward. “Ellen Troy, Mr. McNeil.”
“C’m in,” he said cheerily, and when she opened the door he was standing there smiling at her from his freshly shaved face, wearing a freshly pressed, luxurious cotton shirt with its sleeves folded above the elbows and crisp plastic trousers, and puffing lightly on a cigarette he had evidently lit only moments before.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” she said, seeing the open kit on the bed. He had been packing bathroom articles; she noted that they seem to have been issued from the same government stores as her own hastily acquired toothbrush.
“Good time for a fresh start. Sorry you had to see that mess of mine—might just chuck the lot, whenever you decide to let me back aboard.”
“That will be a while yet, I’m afraid.”
“More questions, Inspector?” When she nodded yes, he gestured to a chair and took anothe
r for himself. “Better make ourselves comfortable, then.”
Sparta sat down. For a moment she watched him without speaking. McNeil’s color was much better, and although he would be gaunt for some time to come, he appeared not to have lost his muscle tone. Even after days of near-starvation, his forearms were powerfully muscled. “Well, Mr. McNeil, it’s fascinating what the latest diagnostic techniques can recover from even the most obscure pools of data. Take Star Queen’s mission recorder, for example.”
McNeil drew on his cigarette and watched her. His pleasant expression did not change.
“All the data from the automatic systems is complete, of course. And the microphones get every word spoken on the flight deck. What I listened to confirmed your account of the incident in every detail.”
McNeil raised an eyebrow. “You’ve hardly had time to screen a couple of weeks’ worth of real-time recordings, Inspector.”
“You’re right, of course. A thorough review will take months. I employed an algorithm that identifies areas of maximum interest. What I want to talk to you about now is the discussion that took place in the common area shortly before you and Grant made your last broadcast.”
“I’m not sure I recall…”
“That’s where these new diagnostic techniques are so helpful, you see.” She leaned forward, as if to share her enthusiasm. “Even though there are no microphones in the living areas, enough sound carries to be picked up by the main flight recorder. In the past we wouldn’t have been able to recover the exact words.”
She let that sink in. His expression still didn’t change, but his features almost imperceptibly stiffened. She knew he was wondering whether she was bluffing.
She would remove that hope. “You’d just eaten dinner together. Grant had served you coffee—it was hotter than usual. He left you there and started for the corridor. ‘What’s the hurry?’ you asked him. ‘I though we had something to discuss…’”
Now the last hint of relaxation left McNeil’s eyes. As he crushed his cigarette his fleshy cheeks jiggled.
“Well, Mr. McNeil,” Sparta said softly, “do you and I have something to discuss?”
For a moment McNeil seemed to look past her, into the blank white wall behind her head. Then his eyes refocused on her face. He nodded. “Aye, I’ll tell you everythin’,” he whispered. “I would make one request—not a condition, I know better than that—but simply a request, that once you’ve heard me out, if you agree with my reasonin’, you’ll keep what I’m about to say off the record.”
“I’ll bear that request in mind,” she said.
McNeil sighed deeply. “Then here’s the whole truth, Inspector…”
Grant had already reached the central corridor when McNeil called softly after him, “What’s the hurry? I thought we had something to discuss.”
Grant grabbed a rail to halt his headlong flight. He turned slowly and stared unbelievingly at the engineer. McNeil should be already dead—but he was sitting quite comfortably, looking at him with a most peculiar expression.
“Come over here,” McNeil said sharply—and in that moment it suddenly seemed that all authority had passed to him. Grant returned to the table without volition, hovering near his useless chair. Something had gone wrong, though what it was he could not imagine.
The silence in the common area seemed to last for ages. Then McNeil said rather sadly, “I’d hoped better of you, Grant.”
At last Grant found his voice, though he could barely recognize it. “What do you mean?” he whispered.
“What do you think I mean?” replied McNeil, with what seemed no more than mild irritation. “This little attempt of yours to poison me, of course.”
Grant’s tottering world collapsed at last. Oddly, in his relief he no longer cared greatly that he’d been found out.
McNeil began to examine his beautifully kept fingernails with some attention. “As a matter of interest,” he asked, in the way that one might ask the time, “when did you decide to kill me?”
The sense of unreality was so overwhelming that Grant felt he was acting a part, that this had nothing to do with real life at all. “Only this morning,” he said, and believed it.
“Hmm,” remarked McNeil, obviously without much conviction. He rose to his feet and moved over to the medicine chest. Grant’s eyes followed him as he fumbled in the compartment and came back with the little poison bottle. It still appeared to be full. Grant had been careful about that.
“I suppose I should get pretty mad about this whole business,” McNeil continued conversationally, holding the bottle between thumb and forefinger. “But somehow I’m not. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had many illusions about human nature. And, of course, I saw it coming a long time ago.”
Only the last phrase really reached Grant’s consciousness. “You … saw it coming?”
“Heavens, yes! You’re too transparent to make a good criminal, I’m afraid. And now that your little plot’s failed it leaves us both in an embarrassing position, doesn’t it?”
To this masterly understatement there seemed no possible reply.
“By rights,” continued the engineer thoughtfully, “I should now work myself into a good temper, call Port Hesperus, denounce you to the authorities. But it would be a rather pointless thing to do, and I’ve never been much good at losing my temper anyway. Of course, you’ll say that’s because I’m too lazy—but I don’t think so.” He gave Grant a twisted smile. “Oh, I know what you think about me—you’ve got me neatly classified in that orderly mind of yours, haven’t you? I’m soft and self-indulgent, I haven’t any moral courage—any morals at all, for that matter—and I don’t give a damn for anyone but myself. Well, I’m not denying it. Maybe it’s ninety percent true. But the odd ten percent is mighty important, Grant. At least to me.”
Grant felt in no condition to indulge in psychological analysis, and this seemed hardly the time for anything of the sort. He was still obsessed with the problem of his failure and the mystery of McNeil’s continued existence. And McNeil, who knew this perfectly well, seemed in no hurry to satisfy his curiosity.
“Well, what do you intend to do now?” Grant asked, anxious to get it over.
“I would like,” McNeil said calmly, “to carry on our discussion where it was interrupted by the coffee.”
“You don’t mean…”
“But I do. Just as if nothing had happened.”
“That doesn’t make sense! You’ve got something up your sleeve!” cried Grant.
McNeil sighed. “You know, Grant, you’re in no position to accuse me of plotting anything”—he released the little bottle to float above the surface of the table between them; he looked up sternly at Grant. “To repeat my earlier remarks, I am suggesting that we decide which one of us shall take poison. Only we don’t want any more unilateral decisions. Also”—and he drew another vial from his jacket pocket, similar in size to the first but bright blue in color; he allowed it to float beside the other—“it will be the real thing this time. The stuff in here,” he said, pointing to the clear bottle, “merely leaves a bad taste in the mouth.”
The light finally dawned in Grant’s mind. “You changed them.”
“Naturally. You may think you’re a good actor, Grant, but frankly, from the balcony, I thought the performance stank. I could tell you were plotting something, probably before you knew it yourself. In the last few days I’ve deloused the ship pretty thoroughly. Thinking of all the ways you might have done me in was quite amusing; it even helped pass the time. The poison was so obvious that it was almost the first thing I fixed.” He smiled wryly. “In fact I overdid the danger signal. I nearly gave myself away I took that first sip—salt doesn’t go at all well with coffee.”
McNeil fixed unblinking eyes on the embittered Grant before going on. “Actually, I’d hoped for something more subtle. So far I’ve found fifteen infallible ways of murdering anyone aboard a spaceship.” He smiled again, grimly. “I don’t propose to describe them now.”<
br />
This was simply fantastic, Grant thought. He was being treated, not like a criminal, but like a rather stupid schoolboy who hadn’t done his homework properly. “Yet you are willing to start all over again?” he asked, unbelieving. “And you’d take the poison yourself if you lost?”
McNeil was silent for a long time. Then he said, slowly, “I can see that you still don’t believe me. It doesn’t fit at all nicely into your tidy little picture, does it? But perhaps I can make you understand. It’s really simple.” He paused, then continued more briskly. “I’ve enjoyed life, Grant, without many scruples or regrets—but the better part of it’s over now and I don’t cling to what’s left as desperately as you might imagine. Yet while I am alive I’m rather particular about some things.” He allowed himself to drift farther from the table. “It may surprise you to know that I’ve got any ideals at all. But I’ve always tried to act like a civilized, rational being, even if I’ve not always succeeded. And when I’ve failed I’ve tried to redeem myself. You might say that’s what this is about.” He gestured at the tiny weightless bottles.
He paused, and when he resumed it was as though he, and not Grant, were on the defensive. “I’ve never exactly liked you, Grant, but I’ve often admired you and that’s why I’m sorry it’s come to this. I admired you most of all the day the ship was hit.” He seemed to have difficulty finding his words: he avoided Grant’s eyes. “I didn’t behave well then. I’ve always been quite sure, complacent really, that I’d never lose my nerve in an emergency—but then it happened right beside me, something I understood instantly and had always thought to be impossible—happened so suddenly, so loud, that it bowled me over.”
He attempted to hide his embarrassment with humor. “Of course I should have remembered—practically the same thing happened on my first trip. Spacesickness, that time … and I’d been supremely confident it couldn’t happen to me. Probably made it worse. But I got over it.” He met Grant’s eyes again. “And I got over this … and then I got the third big surprise of my life. I saw you, of all people, beginning to crack.”
