Tek Vengeance

by William Shatner

  “That’s me, a notorious bon vivant. Thanks.”

  Very quickly Gomez gathered up his belongings and dumped them all into his lone suitcase. His room had been deftly searched, but nothing had been taken.

  Leaving the minichalet, he strolled over to Jenny’s and tapped on the door.

  After nearly a full minute the door opened halfway and a plump greyhaired woman in a flowered robe peered out. “Jo?”

  Gomez smiled, bowing slightly. “I’m conducting a survey, Frau,” he informed her politely. “Is it safe to say you’ve never heard of Jenny Keaton?”

  “Who?”

  “And were I to ask you how long you’ve been residing in this particular chalet, your answer would be ... ?”

  “My husband and I have been here all this week,” she answered. “Are you the fellow who had the loud party last night?”

  “Quite probably.” Bowing again, he went along the path to the central chalet of the hotel complex.

  At the registration desk he tossed his electrokey to the clerkbot.

  “Checking out, Herr Gomez?”

  “With reluctance,” he answered. “Would I be correct in assuming that you have no record of a Miss Jenny Keaton having been registered here?”

  The robot touched a keypad, then looked at one of the screens mounted on his desk. “That’s right.”

  Gomez nodded, got a fresh grip on his suitcase and took his leave.

  He walked three blocks through the bright morning city before he was satisfied nobody was tailing him. Then he went into a landcar rental office and picked up a vehicle.

  When he reached the outskirts of Bern, Gomez pulled into a parking lot beside a sprawling restaurant with steeply slanting red tile roofs. He slipped into one of the vidphone booths that sat next to the place and made a call to the Cosmos Detective Agency in Greater Los Angeles.

  Bascom himself answered. “You look frazzled,” he observed.

  “Contact your Internal Security chum,” suggested Gomez. “Let him know that Jenny Keaton disappeared from her hotel in Bern, Switzerland, sometime between dusk last night and dawn this morning.”

  “Who’s responsible?”

  “No idea, jefe,” replied Gomez, shrugging. “Could be the lass was snatched by members of the opposition or she might have arranged her vanishing herself. The residents and the management are pretending she was never there at all and I don’t have the time or temperament to play that kind of game.”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  “I’m heading for the town of St. Norbert to see if I can catch up with the Boneca bunch.”

  Bascom eyed him. “And you don’t feel obliged to linger in Bern to lead the search for the missing damsel?”

  “Somebody stungunned me at sunset last night,” he explained. “It’s just possible that the missing damsel arranged that. But whatever the case may be, I don’t intend to schlep around Bern devoting myself to the problem.”

  “You’re not as sentimental as you used to be,” said his chief.

  “That’s very true,” agreed Gomez. He hung up and hurried back to his landcar.

  32

  TIMECHECK ROLLED UP THE sleeve of his overcoat to consult his arm. “Your Maglev Express for Vienna will be departing in eight minutes and twenty-two seconds,” he told Jake, nodding at the sleek silvery passenger car that stood next to the underground platform. “That is if it sticks to its 9:13 A.M. departure time.”

  “You didn’t have to see me off.”

  “I want, hey, to impress you with my versatility,” explained the Chinese. “You have long known me as a dependable source of info. Last night, though, after I served in that tried and true capacity, I helped you get the drop on Assistant Inspector Spellman.”

  “And I appreciate your helping out in that emergency.”

  “Today I’m here to see you get your butt safely clear of Berlin,” he said. “I hope you didn’t mind my scramming last night before the cops arrived.”

  “Nope, not at all.”

  “Everything turned out okay, didn’t it?”

  Jake said, “Yeah, Spellman decided to confess his Tek affiliation to Inspector Hauser when he arrived. Though he didn’t give him the names he gave me—not yet. Spellman is in custody—and I’m free to go to Vienna to hunt down the people he says he was working for. I should beat the cops to them.”

  “You better be damn careful,” cautioned Timecheck. “It’s near certain that some of those guys are going to be expecting you.”

  “I’m prepared for that.”

  He looked at his arm again. “Three minutes and forty-six seconds left,” Timecheck announced. “You better hop on board.”

  Jake picked up his suitcase. “Thanks again.”

  “You put on a terrific act last night, you know. I was impressed,” he told Jake. “When you told Spellman you’d kill him if he didn’t talk, that sounded convincing as hell.”

  “I’m not certain I was acting.” Jake stepped aboard the train.

  By the time he reached the little mountain town of St. Norbert, Gomez’s head was no longer full of fuzz. Nearly all the aftereffects of having been knocked unconscious by a stungun the night before had faded, too, except for a mild pain that worked its way up and down his spine now and then.

  He parked his rented landcar at a lot near the town square. After charging the parking on his Banx card, he inquired of the robot attendant, “How do I get to the Electro Theatre?”

  “That’s quite simple,” answered the mechanical man, pointing downhill. “You walk along this lane until you come to the Blume Fountain, then go left for three blocks. That will put you at the Abendmal Fountain. You go down the alleyway to the right for five blocks, cross Soldat Square and turn into Schlummer Road. You’ll find the Electro at the end of that.”

  “Much obliged, gracias.”

  The midmorning air was crisp and clear. Rising up all around the town were the white-capped peaks of the Bernese Alps.

  “Impressive,” decided the detective as he strode along the imitation cobblestones of the roadway.

  He caught up with a party of ten middleaged tourists who were being escorted through the town by a white-enameled robot guide wearing a bright Tyrolean hat.

  Gomez skirted the group, passed them and walked on briskly to the fountain. At its center rose a metallic obelisk some thirty feet high. Hundreds of glittering multicolored metal flowers were twined around the column, and in the pool at its base dozens of real fish flashed in the pale blue water.

  Turning left, Gomez started walking rapidly toward his next landmark.

  When he passed a narrow cafe, the mingled scents of cocoa and cinnamon pastries caused him to slow his pace and recall that he hadn’t as yet had breakfast.

  A plump android in a white suit and high chef’s hat waved at him from the doorway, beckoning him in.

  “Business first,” called Gomez, continuing on his way.

  About a block beyond the next fountain, he began to suspect he was no longer heading in the right direction. At the corner he spotted a uniformed robot patrolman.

  “I’m seeking the Electro Theatre,” he told the mechanical cop.

  “Oh, ja,” said the robot. “That used to be only a few short blocks from here.”

  Gomez blinked. “Used to be?”

  “It blew up.”

  “When did that occur?”

  The robot consulted his watch. “Approximately two and a half hours ago,” he replied.

  33

  ON THE VIDWALL SCREEN the Electro Theatre exploded again, sending fire, thick sooty smoke and great jagged chunks of metal and plastiglass erupting up into the clear morning.

  “Hold it there.” Gomez stepped up closer to the wall and pointed at the lower righthand corner of the screen. “This is the person I was alluding to.”

  “Ja, of course,” said Sergeant Dibble of the St. Norbert Town Police. “I didn’t notice her on the prior viewing.”

  “She seems to be wearing
some sort of religious outfit.”

  “Moritz, what is her name again?” the sergeant inquired of the robot officer who was seated at one of the small office’s two desks.

  “Sister Jonquil. The dear young lady had been calling at the theater, collecting for charity, just prior to the explosion.”

  The vidwall picture continued. “Looks like the force of the explosion knocks her over,” said Gomez.

  “Most unfortunate.” The chubby sergeant tugged at a corner of his bristly moustache. “She was quite shaken up.”

  “Seriously injured?”

  “We’re anticipating that she was not, Herr Gomez. But she is at the Wayfarer’s Hospital just now for observation—Moritz, be sure to phone later to ask about Sister Jonquil’s condition.”

  “I intended to.”

  The film ended and Gomez asked, “This footage, you said, was taken by your monitor camera system?”

  “We have robocams that circulate through the town, feeding pictures back here to our central monitor screens. That way we keep track of what’s going on all across St. Norbert.”

  “This snippet you’ve so kindly screened for me,” mentioned the detective, “is not especially lengthy. It doesn’t show anyone entering the theater, not even Sister Jonquil.”

  Nodding ruefully, the sergeant replied, “Because of our last budget cuts we can’t keep the cameras running all the time.”

  Gomez leaned against the wall. “Have you determined what caused the explosion?”

  “Not yet,” answered Dibble. “We’re certain it wasn’t an accident.”

  “What about the Bonecas?”

  “Alas,” sighed Moritz.

  “Dead?”

  Dibble said, “We found the remains of two people, a man and a woman, in the ruins of the theater, along with the remains of some twenty five or so mechanical puppets. It hasn’t yet been determined if the bodies are those of Boneca and his wife.”

  “They aren’t anywhere else,” reminded Moritz.

  “True. The puppeteers left their hotel, apparently headed for the theater, a good hour prior to the explosion. There is no trace of them anywhere in town.”

  “Where’s the Wayfarer’s Hospital located?”

  After giving him directions, the police sergeant asked, “Why is the prestigious Cosmos Detective Agency interested in this pair of wandering players?”

  “It’s a routine insurance matter,” Gomez lied. Smiling at them, he eased toward the door.

  Gomez frowned over the top of the bunch of yellow plazroses he was carrying. “Are you sure, doctor?”

  The handsome blond android physician nodded. “We advised her to remain here longer,” he said, “but she insisted on signing herself out. She had to get back to her convent at once.”

  The lobby of the Wayfarer’s Hospital was walled with plastiglass and afforded a sweeping view of Alpine peaks.

  Gomez let his bouquet swing down to his side. “I don’t suppose Sister Jonquil mentioned which convent she was affiliated with?”

  The android medic said, “You know, she didn’t.”

  “What did she leave in—landcab or skycab?”

  “As a matter of fact, she persuaded one of our robot interns to fetch her own landcar, which she’d left at her hotel parking lot.”

  “Do you know where she headed from here?”

  “Downhill is all I saw,” said the doctor. “You seem, mein herr, most eager to find her.”

  “I feel a sudden need for religious guidance,” explained Gomez, handing him the flowers. “Give these to somebody who doesn’t have any.”

  “Why, thank you. You intend to try to find her?”

  “I plan to, yes.”

  “It’ll be next to impossible, won’t it?”

  “It’ll be,” said Gomez, “challenging.”

  Ten of the robot dogs started barking when Gomez entered the shop.

  “Quiet, you fiends!” cried the proprietor of SnoHounds, Ltd. “Stop that nervewracking din!”

  “I’m in search of Helmut Kolb, Jr.,” shouted the detective.

  The proprietor, a lean, balding man in his fifties, came out from behind his desk. “They’re not supposed to bark like this,” he said apologetically. “Silence!”

  There were fifteen mechanical dogs, most of them St. Bernard size, in the small showroom. Each chromeplated mechanical animal occupied its own pedestal. Seven of the largest continued to bark in deep tinny voices.

  “Is Helmut Kolb, Jr., hereabouts?” asked Gomez loudly.

  “Just a moment, mein herr.” The owner yanked out a stungun.

  Gomez pulled his stungun as well. “If you’re contemplating—”

  “Nein, nein, relax. I merely use this to control those idiotic tin hounds,” he explained. “Look, you devils! You see this gun? Stop your yowling at once!”

  All but one of the robot dogs turned silent.

  A huge glistening one, glaring directly at Gomez, kept on gruffing loudly.

  “I warned you!” The proprietor fired.

  The beam hit the big mechanical dog in the chest. He ceased barking, his mouth snapping shut with a clang. Then, after taking three wobbly steps backwards on his display pedestal, he teetered and fell. He smacked the showroom floor with an echoing thunk.

  “No wonder business has been so rotten.” The owner holstered his gun. “Nobody wants to rent a mountain guide dog who is so rowdy and illmannered.”

  Glancing from the fallen SnoHound to the balding man, Gomez said, “I was told I could contact Helmut Kolb, Jr., here.”

  “What a mistake that was.”

  “Which?”

  “Naming that lazy lummox after myself.” Returning to his desk, he perched on its edge. “Makes it much more difficult to deny he’s mine.”

  “Is he here?”

  “What did you want with him?”

  “An informant of mine suggested—”

  “Never mind, it would probably break my poor old heart to learn what sort of new mischief he’s up to,” said Helmut Kolb, Sr. “Although, I must say, you don’t appear to be as seedy and disreputable as the usual lowlifes who come here to consult my boy.”

  “Gracias. Where is he?”

  The owner pointed at a green door behind him. “Through there.”

  “Much obliged.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in hiring a SnoHound? I can give you a terrific discount.”

  “I won’t have time for any mountain climbing this trip.” Gomez crossed to the door. “Otherwise I’d be tempted.”

  “I didn’t think you’d want one. Nobody does.”

  Gomez went through the doorway, along a narrow corridor and into a small square room jammed with electronic equipment, computer terminals and several animated pinup paintings.

  Helmut Kolb, Jr., was a fat young man of thirty, wearing a flowered shirt and white trousers. He sat in a slingchair, scowling at the eclair he was holding in his left hand. “You’re Gomez, right?”

  “I am.”

  “I was told you’d drop by. Smell this.” He held out the eclair.

  Gomez obligingly took a sniff. “And now?”

  “Smells stale to me.”

  Gomez settled into a chair. “I was told you’re the only gent in town who—”

  “It doesn’t smell stale to you?”

  “Not in the least. What I want is—”

  “I’ll risk it then.” The younger Kolb took a substantial bite. “Tastes stale.” He set it atop a databox. “My fee is $500.”

  “The rate I heard was—”

  “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “$400.”

  “$475.”

  “$450.”

  “Done. What do you want to know?”

  “I’m interested in the peregrinations of a young lady who left St. Norbert a few hours ago in a rented landcar.” Gomez provided the fat young man with a description of Jenny Keaton and her car. “She’s been using the name Sister Jonquil of late, but I
imagine she’ll have shed it by now.”

  “Even stale that wasn’t so bad.” Helmut had picked up the eclair and finished it. He then put on a pair of opaque goggles that were equipped with massive earphones.

  After roughly sixty seconds one of the screens on the far wall started blinking a bright red. A simulated photo of Jenny, dressed in a simple grey skirtsuit, appeared on the screen.

  “That is she, sí.”

  Removing the goggles and earphones, Helmut touched a keyboard at his left.

  From a speaker dangling near Gomez’s left ear came a hollow rasping voice. “This woman, calling herself Jillian Kearny, left the Bern skyport seventeen minutes ago.”

  “Bound for where?”

  Out in the showroom nine of the robot dogs started barking loudly.

  “The destination of her skyliner is Vienna, Austria.”

  The barking increased in intensity.

  Helmut Kolb, Sr., yelled, “Look out! They ... ”

  34

  JAKE’S LANDCAB LET HIM out near the Schwarzenbergplatz. It was a clear windy day in Vienna and most of the tables at the outdoor cafe across the way were unoccupied. A highly-polished silver waiterbot stood idly in the doorway and from inside the place amplified zither music was drifting.

  Crossing the street, he went through the narrow doorway of the three-story brick building next to the cafe. Jake climbed the staircase to the second floor, walked along the corridor to the door labeled JOHAN GEWITTER, ACCOUNTANT.

  A scancam over the door looked him over. A mechanical voice greeted, “Welcome, mein herr.” The metal door clicked, swung open.

  Jake entered the office. “You’re Gewitter?”

  A handsome blond man of about forty sat behind the white desk, smiling at Jake from the far side of the white office. “I’m not here right now,” he said cordially, “but this first-rate android simulacrum will be happy to take care of your any need.”

  Moving a few steps closer to the sim, Jake asked, “When will you be back?”

  The android inquired, “You’re Jake Cardigan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sit down, Herr Cardigan,” he invited, pointing at a stiff white chair. “Timecheck phoned to tell us you’d be dropping in. I’m not here, but Sonny Boy is more than capable of handling your problem.”