The Case of the Little Green Men

by Mack Reynolds

  “Like kert he didn’t; he committed suicide with a wine skin,” I said emphatically. “The Rubaiyat was written after his pinnacle as a mathematician, astronomer and thinker. Remember where he says:

  And much as Wine has play’d the Infidel,

  And robbed me of my Robe of Honor — Well,

  I Wonder often what the Vintners buy

  One half so precious as the stuff they sell.

  “Omar had already given up his so-called Robe of Honor when that was written,” I finished.

  The second officer considered that for a moment. “Maybe you’re right about Omar Khayyam, but — well I wouldn’t exactly consider it suicide.” He looked very judicious.

  “What would you call it, then?” I snapped. “What difference does it make if he slit his throat with a razor or if he spent the rest of his life sucking on bottles?”

  “That’s where your idea is wrong,” he said. His eye had caught on the golden comets on his other sleeve and he went through the whole irritating process of polishing once again. “Even if mankind does become disillusioned, man won’t commit mass suicide because he won’t have the courage.” He finished buffing his sleeve and smiled at me tolerantly, as though he’d just finished off my argument completely with that pearl of wisdom.

  “You forget,” I told him, “that I said he would also have to conquer his instincts.” I was trying to hide my irritation. “Man is beginning to do that already. Every advance that science makes leads us further from our animal instincts. One day, perhaps, we’ll even conquer the fear of death — yes, one day we’ll conquer the fear of death — but actually that isn’t necessary. Race suicide wouldn’t have to entail shooting ourselves. We might take Omar’s way out, or perhaps we would just stop having children. Notice that as a people grow more advanced, more sophisticated and educated, the birth rate falls off?”

  He considered that a minute, taking a sip of his woji reflectively. “I don’t think that man will ever run out of ambitions, to return to an earlier point you made,” he said finally. “By the time one is conquered, another is created.”

  “You’re wrong there,” I told him decisively. “Our fundamental ambitions are simple ones and an increasingly large number are realizing them. We seek economic security, food, clothing and shelter, and the knowledge of freedom from want tomorrow. Then we seek a suitable mate, and, after that, or sometimes before, the applause of our fellows. Think it over, you’ll find that’s about all we seek.”

  “We seek the stars,” he said dramatically.

  I shrugged in deprecation. “And have conquered them; and now what? That ambition of centuries is realized. After we first landed on Luna, the rest of it could be nothing but anticlimax. The thrill of touching a new planet, of reaching a new star system?” I shrugged again, contemptuously. “They’re all monotonously alike, after all.”

  He went back again. “I don’t see what’s wrong about achieving these ambitions man has had.”

  “It isn’t a matter of being wrong. It’s just that when we’ve accomplished what we’ve always thought we needed to achieve happiness, the happiness isn’t there — only disillusionment. Remember where Bobbie Burns says:

  But pleasures are like poppies spread —

  You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;

  Or like the snowfall in the river,

  A moment white — then melts forever …”

  The Bright Star’s second officer grinned again. “I guess you think that Burns is another, like Omar Khayyam, who found that when you achieve what you want you might as well bump yourself off.”

  “That’s right,” I answered him, ignoring his sarcasm. “It’s the pursuit of happiness that counts; not the alleged happiness itself. The goal, actually, is never reached; there is no such thing as happiness. Man comes nearest to it only when he seeks the hardest and seems on the verge of attainment. When we finally find out, as a race, that happiness is nonexistent, that’s when the blow-off will come.

  “You’ll notice, by the way,” I added, “that in the Declaration of Independence, Jefferson says, ‘Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness.’ He doesn’t say happiness, but the pursuit of happiness. He was well aware of the fact that it was a goal impossible to attain.”

  He finished his drink. “Well, I don’t believe we’ll have to worry about it for a time; suicide, I mean. By the way things look, it’ll be a long stretch before the human race realizes its ambitions.”

  I said, “Not so long as you might think. Already we’ve reached the point where we’ve achieved security. We’ve built a productive industrial machine which will do all the work necessary to create luxury for all. We’ve ended war, finally. Yes, we have the peace and security man has sought for so long. It won’t be long now before man finds he’s through.”

  He stirred restlessly. “Well, so far only Omar and Burns and Jefferson have felt the way you do. I’m glad the theory isn’t more widespread.” He stood up.

  “I didn’t say they were the only ones,” I denied. “It’s just that they’ve been articulate. I wonder sometimes about their desire to write about it after they saw the futility. Most just find out that nothing, after all, makes any difference, and stop doing anything.”

  I had talked too long. I could see he was getting tired of the conversation. “Listen,” I said, trying to keep the urgency from my voice, “how about another woji? All this talking has made me a little dry.”

  “Sure,” he said and slid a two-minute credit out to Beri. Then he walked over to the Vio-Box and looked over its selection. I could see he was tired of listening to me; he wouldn’t be back. I drank the woji as slowly as I could, trying to stretch it out.

  Beri leaned over the bar directly across from me. “I don’t know why in kert I let a makron like you hang out in here,” he shrilled. “You’d talk the ear off a brass Mercurian Bouncer. You got the wrong tactics for a moocher, that’s all. Why in kert don’t you let the other guy do the talking? You’d get a lot more drinks that way.”

  “Beri,” I told him, “you’re a peasant, a Venusian peasant. Look, how about letting me have another woji until tomorrow? I’ve got a little job coming up that will net me at least a few hour credits.”

  Beri laughed.

  • • •

  When I’d finished it, I skimmed through again, just in case. The story was all right, not professional, really, but passable; in fact, better than you’d have thought an amateur would be turning out. This couldn’t be it; there was nothing here that would push a man to murder.

  Mrs. Shulman had finished preparing the coffee, and set a cup next to me and a plate of cookies in the table’s center.

  She said hesitantly, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet, but it must be in here.”

  I started at the beginning and read the editorial. It was principally a complaint about people who joined fan clubs for reasons other than an actual understanding and love of science fiction. It pointed out cases of girls who had joined for the social life, of professionals who joined for business purposes, and so forth. Harry — assuming that it was Harry who had written it — wound up with a stirring call for the elimination of all fans who didn’t love fandom for fandom’s sake.

  It couldn’t be that. It came to me suddenly that the item to which the killer objected didn’t necessarily have to be from Harry’s pen. Possibly it was included in the piece of some other amateur author. I read every word the issue contained, fiction, articles, book reviews, magazine reviews; I even studied the two cartoons.

  I didn’t get anything out of any of them.

  Something was wrong here. I sat back in my chair and stared down at the stencils. There wasn’t anything in this magazine that would point the finger of suspicion at Harry Shulman’s killer. I tugged at an ear in exasperation. There was something definitely wrong, and I couldn’t quite get it.

  Mrs. Shulman said wearily, “You didn’t find it, did you?”

 
I shook my head at her.

  She had been sitting across from me, quietly watching as I went through the stencils. Now she sighed and came to her feet. “I suppose I should get about my work.”

  “Listen, Mrs. Shulman,” I told her, “you should get in touch with the police about this. They might find something I’ve missed.” I paused, then, slowly, “I’m not really a very good detective, myself.”

  “Very well,” she said emotionlessly. “I’ll phone them. Should I say that you discovered the stencils?”

  I lifted my right shoulder in a disheartened shrug. “It doesn’t make much difference.”

  I took up my hat from where I’d tossed it on an empty chair and banged it against my leg once or twice. “Thanks for the coffee — and the cooperation, Mrs. Shulman. I thought I had something, evidently I didn’t.”

  She followed me to the door and told me goodbye. I walked down the concrete sidewalk to the street and looked back. I could see her small figure behind the screen, watching after me. The newspapers had said she had no relatives, now that Harry was dead. I wondered how she made her living. It hadn’t been any too ample a one even before, while her son was alive and working, from the appearance of the home.

  I walked down West Seventh to Montgomery, passing within a couple of hundred feet of the Zimmer home. There was a police car parked in front of it, complete with two uniformed cops. They looked me over carefully as I walked by. Evidently Zimmer was in more of a dither than ever.

  At the boulevard, I took a bus downtown, my mind still a vacuum. Somewhere in here there had to be some sense. There had to be.

  I went down Montgomery to East First and transferred there to the Brentwood bus and rode it south to Burr Avenue. Sam’s Bar was just two buildings down.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I had a number of beers at Sam’s and walked on up to my office. The prehistoric elevator took me to the fifth floor and I walked down the hallway to the dingy door that says, Lee and Knight, Private Investigations. I unlocked the door and went in.

  Without taking off my hat, I sat down at the desk and reached for the phone. I remembered the number from the last time. I dialed and had Mrs. Shulman on the wire in less than a half-minute.

  I said, “Mrs. Shulman, this is Jeb Knight again. I think I’ve found the answer to the question that wasn’t in Harry’s magazine.”

  She said something I didn’t quite get.

  I said, “Mrs. Shulman, you mentioned that Harry was treasurer of the Scylla Club. Could you tell me if he kept the club’s books there at the house?”

  “Why, I believe so.”

  “I wonder if you could look them up and find out just how much money the club has in the treasury?”

  She hesitated for a long moment. I was having to sell her all over again every time we came in contact.

  “This is very important, Mrs. Shulman,” I pressed.

  “Well, it might take a little while, Mr. Knight. Should I phone you back?”

  I gave her my number and gently replaced the receiver in its cradle. I took my pipe from my pocket and stared at it, not able to decide whether or not I wanted to smoke.

  I had a small tin of aromatic tobacco in one of the desk drawers. I searched it out and filled up with it. Usually I don’t smoke aromatic blends; they pall on me too fast. One pipe load goes well enough, but I can seldom get through a whole tin. I struck a match, lit the pipe carefully, puffed two or three times, then blew out the match and tossed it to the ash tray.

  The pipe was nearly finished by the time the phone rang again. It was Mrs. Shulman.

  She said, “Mr. Knight, I found the book in which Harry kept his reports. The treasury was three dollars and fifteen cents.”

  I asked her one other question, thanked her and then hung up.

  I stared at the phone for another ten minutes, then dug a phone book from a drawer and flopped it down on my blotter. I looked up the number I wanted and then dialed again. I didn’t place the voice that answered, so I said. “Is Les Zimmer there?”

  “Did you want Lester Zimmer Senior, or Lester Zimmer Junior?”

  I wanted Lester Zimmer Junior and waited while he was called. Evidently Ma and Pa Zimmer had returned from their vacation. I wondeerd what the old man, who was such a nut about fireproofing, thought of the burn on the wall.

  Zimmer’s thin voice said hello.

  I said, “Zimmer, this is Jeb Knight. I wanted to ask you something.”

  He began, “Mr. Knight, I read in the paper that — ”

  “Listen,” I interrupted, “all I want to know is what Art Roget does for a living.”

  He stuttered something, finally clearing it up until I could understand, “I — well — I think Art works in an electrical supply house. He’s a clerk or something.”

  “You wouldn’t know how much he makes?”

  “No, Mr. Knight, I — ”

  “I’ll get in touch with you later.” I thought a minute, then added. “Listen, Zimmer, you can stop worrying about being killed. You’ll be all right.”

  He wanted to shrill some more questions at me, but I cut him short, put my finger on the cut-off bar and left it there while I thought up the next move. I let it up and dialed again.

  She wasn’t at her apartment hotel; I should have known she wouldn’t be. I looked up Brandenburg and Sons in the book and dialed again.

  The PBX operator told me hello and I asked for Julie Sharp.

  Julie said, “Yes?”

  “This is Jeb Knight, Miss Sharp.”

  “Hello, Jeb.” There was a soft warmth in her voice that I liked. “The name is Julie.”

  “Julie,” I said, “I think maybe things are making sense at last. You told me something the other day that didn’t sink in at the time. I wanted to check back with you. All right?”

  There was an infinitesimal disappointment in her voice. “What was it about, Jeb?”

  I told her and got her to repeat, as nearly as she could, what she’d said. Then I asked, “Another thing, I’d forgotten but now I recall that I told you about Harry Shulman giving me a copy of his fanzine. Did you repeat that fact to anyone; did you tell anyone I had a copy of it in my desk?”

  She gave me the answer I’d expected.

  Ross Maddigan was next. I had to try three different calls before locating him. When I did, my questions irritated him, which wasn’t surprising, and he finally hung up on me. But once again, the answers I did get were the ones I’d figured upon.

  I couldn’t locate Art Roget, and I couldn’t get Sandra Maddigan, but I had a sneaking suspicion that where ever she was Rog Craig wasn’t far off.

  I spent another hour staring at the walls. For once, I was thinking. I put my feet up on the desk blotter and smoked until smoking no longer meant anything. Then I took my feet down, adjusted my hat and headed for the door.

  The elevator took me to the street and I walked up to the cab stand on Marion and West Second and got a checker. I gave the driver the address of Maddigan and Maddigan and relaxed, my mind blank once again, while the cab took me there.

  The offices of Maddigan and Maddigan were on the third floor. I took the elevator up, asked the boy what direction the concern was, in the labyrinth of halls, and had it pointed out to me.

  The office suite wasn’t particularly large, but it was well done. In the outer office were four girls, one of them operating a PBX. There were three inner offices opening off the large one. I could see the name, James L. Maddigan, and President, Private on one of them.

  I said to the girl at the PBX, “I’m Jeb Knight. I’d like to talk to Mr. Maddigan.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” I recognized the voice from the times I’d talked to her on the phone. Her business suit was severely cut, she was small, washed out, and she’d spent too many years at a job that at best was monotonous; she looked as though she’d given up the dream of a home and family.

  I shook my head. “But he’ll see me.”

  She placed plugs and switc
hed switches and said something to which I didn’t bother to listen. She looked back up at me, frowning apologetically. “I’m sorry, Mr. Maddigan says that he’s too busy right now, Mr. Knight. He wanted me to tell you that you should bill him for the remainder of your fee.”

  I said, suddenly very tired, “Tell him that I’ve found the motive.”

  She said worriedly, “I’m sorry, but — ”

  “Tell him that,” I said. “He’ll see me.”

  She played with her switches again and I heard her repeat my words. There seemed to be a lengthy silence; then she looked up and smiled cheerfully — she looked better that way. “Well, that seemed to do it, Mr. Knight. He said for you to come right in.”

  I walked to the door lettered, James L. Maddigan, President, Private and opened it.

  The office was in expensive good taste. White metal Venetian blinds warded off the glare of the mid-day sun; velvet drapes in maroon contrasted pleasantly with the gray carpeting I was wading through. There was one long chesterfield in dark blue leather and two chairs of the same. Behind a limed-oak desk, roughly half an acre in area, sat James Maddigan in a blue leather swivel chair.

  He came to his feet and offered a plump hand to be shaken, but his heavy face was frowning impatiently. I shook the hand and took the chair he motioned toward. Before settling down he brought out a box of cigars, but I moved my head negatively.

  He began, “The girl said — ”

  “Just a minute,” I interrupted. “Could I make a phone call first?”

  “My time is rather limited, Knight.”

  “All right, but you’ll want to hear what I have to say. It’s in the way of a final report. First, this call.”

  He shrugged heavily and leaned back, his thick fingers drumming impatiently on his right knee.

  I took up the phone. The girl on the PBX answered and I asked her to get police headquarters and homicide. James Maddigan’s dark heavy eyebrows went up, but he remained quiet and peevish.

  “Quinn,” I told the phone, “this is Jeb Knight. That’s it, Jeb Knight. Listen, I’m at the offices of Maddigan and Maddigan in the Gannett Building. Yeah. And listen, Quinn, I want you to tell Davis something for me. Tell him that I’ll be here for the next fifteen or twenty minutes, and that since I haven’t as yet officially been notified of that police commission decision, I’m still on the case.”