Venable looked at the detective.
“Listen. An orchestra leader lasts just so long. Once he’s on the skids, he’s through. Not much chance of a come-back. And d’you know how he manages to stay on top? By working his head off, that’s how.”
“Mph.”
“What about orchestrations? I’m known for novel effects and intricate rhythms, for using the instruments of practically all the planets. My drummer’s the only boy sunside of Pluto who can handle the Plutonian triple-snares. D’you think it’s easy to work that off-chord pounding into a piece?
“Say, living in the twenty-second century’s no joke. Back two hundred years, all you had to know was Terrestrial instruments. Those old boys, Whiteman and Goodman and the rest, had it easy. Me, I’ve gotta know all the string, wind, percussion, and offside instruments from Mercury to Pluto. And inside out, too!”
He sighed.
“Tonight I’m premiering Meteor Moan. Had to work in instrumentals from just about every planet to show the path of a meteor from outside to the Sun. It’s plenty different, but how should I know whether or not it’ll click? Still, it’s got a finale like the Bolero.
He pondered.
“So I’ve got it easy! If I had your job, now—you’ve got every trick of science and deduction at your elbow. The minute there’s a murder, you pump truth-serum into the suspects—”
“Demotion!” Dill said under his breath, but Venable didn’t hear.
The detective snapped:
“Ever hear of the Bill of Rights? Sure, once you’ve got your suspects, you can shoot scopolamin into ’em, but you need plenty of evidence first—enough to hold up in court. ‘Reasonable proof and grounds for legal suspicion,’ he quoted. That covers a lot of territory.
“Besides, it’s my job to stop crimes from happening in Sky City. All sorts of sharpers try to edge in here. You’d be surprised at some of the con games I’ve dug up. There was one guy who’d fixed up a deck of cards so the pips were opaque to Roentgen rays—and he had an artificial hand, with an x-ray machine built into it!”
“Still—”
DILL wished he could make someone understand his feelings. “Modern crime is like the Maze,” he argued. He gestured at the great maze around them, under its transparent space-dome, a labyrinth of shoulder-high, thick hedges.
“Criminals have kept up with science. There aren’t any more simple crimes. If a man wants to commit murder, he knows he can’t afford to have suspicion directed at him. So—the minute I notice anything just the least bit unusual, I’ve got to investigate all the possibilities.”
“Well, I’ve got to get back to the job,” Venable said, rising. “Want to watch?”
“Might as well,” Dill agreed glumly, and followed Venable to the entrance of the immense Solar Room. There the younger man paused, catching the eye of the head waiter, who came quickly toward them.
“Hi, Rex. Any Ganymedeans here tonight?”
“Yes—two big shots who just blew in, and one from Callisto. Wait a minute, though. The big shots just checked out. They went to the Casino. But the Gany-Callistan’s still here.”
“The devil,” Venable said. “That messes things up.”
Dill glanced at him.
“How come?”
“Ganymedeans are neuropaths; you know that. Abnormally sensitive to certain colors and sounds. Trouble is, there’s a passage in my new piece—Meteor Moan—that plays the devil with Ganymedeans. Second octave above high C. It gives ’em the gasping raspies.”
“Yeah, I remember,” the detective nodded. “Gonna play something else, then?”
Venable shook his head.
“Nope. I made two versions of Meteor-Moan—one of ’em without the high passage, in case Ganymedeans were present. It isn’t as good, though. Still—”
He sighed, nodded to Dill, and went to the dais, amid a scattering of handclaps, some of them transmitted through amplifiers set in the glassite domes under which certain-planetary types were dining, in artificial atmosphere and gravity.
Dill turned to the head waiter.
“Where’s that Gany-Callistan?”
“Over there. He’s a third generation migrate. His family’s been on Callisto for decades—swamp farmers. Hek Daddabi is the name. Won some contest that gave him a free trip to Sky City. Looks enchanted, doesn’t he?”
That was true. The mild-faced little Ganymedean, with his floppy spaniel ears and his button of a nose set over a sad little pouting mouth, seemed in transports. All his life; probably, he had lived in poverty—and now this! Sky City! His fat body quivered excitedly. All Ganymedeans got fat once they had left their native world.
Dill went out. He felt tired and empty. Usually he went on a routine check-up of Sky City at this time, but tonight, remembering his interview with Tom Fargo, he hesitated. A snooping busybody . . .
Well, his presence was justified in the Casino, anyway. He wandered about among the gaming tables, looking sour and grim, mangling his cigar. No sharpers were present tonight. Twice he got reports that, an hour ago, would have meant immediate investigation—but he could tell that they weren’t serious matters. A broken oxygen-line, a Venusian who’d brought in a case of coryza . . . If he investigated, he’d be meddling with matters outside his province.
THEN a third message came. Dill’s teeth clamped down on his cigar. He cursed softly under his breath, glared at the attendant who had brought the note, and felt a warning bell clang within his brain. Always the sound of that bell had meant danger. Dill believed in his hunches.
“In the infirmary, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
The infirmary was in charge of a martinet who hotly resented interference. But—so what? Dill knew very well that Dr. Amos Gallegher would raise hob if he intruded. He said, “Nuts!” and loped past the attendant-to-the nearest elevator;
In the emergency ward two Ganymedeans were on operating tables, unconscious and haggard. Dill stared at them, recognizing Vagga den Zony and Baron ta Nor’fal, partner-owners of Airflakes, a famous Ganymedean food company. Den Zony was rather like a Dore conception of a devil, except for his spaniel ears and his rimless spectacles. His thin lips quivered continually—a symptom of the neuropath. Jeweled rings covered his tentacular fingers.
Baron ta Nor’fal had a thick beard of striped colors, and wore a plain black uniform-suit, which interns were removing. His only decoration was a single huge diamond set in a circlet around his forehead.
Dr. Gallegher, a big, white-faced, ice-eyed man lumbered forward.
“You here again, Dill? Fargo promised me you’d keep your nose out of my offices!”
“I’m just checking up,” Dill said, holding his temper in leash. “Nothing wrong in that, is there?”
“Yes!” Gallegher exploded. “I don’t need you to tell me my business! This case is simple—some escaped Draculas got into the Ganymedeans’ suite and vampirized those two. A transfusion will take care of matters. Now you’ve got your information, so get out!”
“Sorry,” Dill said. “I think I’ll stick around a bit longer.”
Gallegher turned beet-purple.
“All right,” he said softly. “I’ll see Fargo about this.” Without another word he turned back to an intern. “Let’s see that card.”
“Yes, Doctor. Vagga den Zony—Blood Type X-4. Baron ta Nor-fal—Type D.”
Gallegher chewed his thick lips.
“X-4? Where can we get X-4? One of the rarest types in the System. Plenty of Type D’s on tap for ta Nor’fal, but X-4 coagulates in any medium.”
The intern looked worried.
“Shall I dig but the D type?”
“Yes. For ta Nor’fal. Start the transfusion. I suppose we’ll have to use saline and blood plasma injection on the other one.”
Dill moved back into a corner, his keen eyes watchful. He sensed something vaguely amiss—just what, he couldn’t say. Of course, this meant his finish, Fargo’s warning had been definite. If Dill interfered again�
��But a man had to do his job, and do it as well as he could. An accident like this, trivial as it seemed, merited investigation. That was Dill’s theory. Even though he might be all wrong in this case, the principle was right.
He had to stay and watch—even though it meant demotion.
Dr. Gallegher let out a yelp.
“Say! That other Ganymedean—the Callistan immigrant! Isn’t he X-4?”
“Yes, sir!” the intern said, flourishing another card. “He is! Shall I—”
“Get him! See if he’ll consent to a transfusion. What luck! He’s certainly the only X-4 type in Sky City, besides den Zony.”
DILL snatched the card from the intern as the latter hurried past, and caught the tail-end of a malignant glare from Gallegher. But the doctor, was too busy now to argue. Dill studied the report. Hek Daddabi, the little swamp farmer, was a healthy specimen. The medical report, required of guests at Sky City, showed that.
Presently Hek Daddabi arrived, looking more than ever like a spaniel. His soft, slurring voice was inquiring.
“Have I done something wrong, gentlemen? I fear I am doomed to, run into trouble. Always our family is involved in it. My grandfather had to leave Ganymede to save his life, and bad luck has dogged us ever since. From the frying-pan into the fire, as you say. I will leave immediately—I should not have come. I am merely a poor swamp-farmer—”
“Hold on,” Gallegher said. “We want to ask a favor of you, Mr. Daddabi.”
“Mister?” The creature’s sad eyes overflowed. “You call me Mister? Oh, you are too kind.”
Gallegher explained the set-up, and Hek Daddabi’s jaw dropped. He turned to stare at the motionless figures on the operating tables.
“Baron ta Nor’fal and Vagga den Zony? I would give my heart’s blood for them!”
“Friends of yours?”
“Listen,” Hek Daddabi said excitedly. “I am a poor swamp farmer. I work all the time. Then Airflakes has a contest! You send in six labels and an essay. I did that. I won. I. won the eighth prize, which was a trip to Sky City, all expenses paid. Wonderful! And, you see those two men—” He pointed to the unconscious Ganymedeans “They own Airflakes.”
Dill was scowling as Gallegher and the interns went to work. He collared one of the latter.
“How long will this take?”
“Not long. We’ve got some new tricks here. Stimulant rays. All three of these lads will be back in circulation in an hour. We pump hormones into the blood-stream during the transfusion.”
The intern fled as Gallegher roared at him. Dill turned to the door to pause at the doctor’s bark.
“I’ll see that Fargo learns about your interference—”
“Yeah,” Dill said, and went away. He had an idea.
In his own quarters, he tuned in on the teleradio. It took some time to get what he wanted, and finally he resorted to the playback.
“News synopsis from Ganymede. The war between Matoma and South Gern is still raging, both robot armies at a standstill. Mayor Tann of Orluz collapsed today of heart failure, and is near death. The Red Plague is sweeping southward from the pole, decimating wild lupinas, animals similar to the Terrestrial rabbit. Luckily, the Plague is no, longer deadly to Ganymedeans, because of the natural immunity gained in the last two generations. The gambling spaceship White-Sky has been impounded by officials. Love nest raided in—”
Dill mangled his cigar. Finally he put through a space-cable to Callisto, marking it CQD, which meant Urgent capitalized and italicized. CQD police calls took precedence over everything else but space patrol messages.
AN AUDIPHONE buzzed “Mr. Fargo calling Mr. Dill. Mr. Fargo calling—”
Dill didn’t answer it. He knew what Fargo wanted! And, as yet; he didn’t have enough evidence to justify a scopolamin test.
Not that he’d need it. Knowing the Ganymedean psychology as he did, Dill realized that a Ganymedean criminal, confronted with fatal evidence, would probably break down and confess. Unfortunately, the psychology was tagged “manic-depressive,” and the Ganymedean might possibly go berserk.
Dill touched the gun at his side, hidden under a well-fitting, trim blue-black coat.
But he couldn’t let Fargo interfere—not yet. That would be fatal.
By this time Dill was convinced that a crime had been committed in Sky City, and he needed only one thing to confirm it. Half an hour later he got that evidence. The teleaudio buzzed. Dill jumped for it.
“Yeah? They said what? The pathology—eh? Died of the effects, did he? Swell! Thanks for the CQD Service.”
He turned to the audiophone.
“This is Dill—Tex Dill. Where are the Ganymedeans who just got blood transfusions?”
“They are in the Maze, sir. Mr. Fargo wishes to talk to you.”
“I’ll see him later,” Dill snapped, and dived for the door.
The elevator that took him up through Sky City’s levels moved far too slowly to suit him. When the door opened, Dill plunged out, caromed off a guest, and headed for the Maze.
At the entrance he hesitated, trying to locate the Ganymedeans. Though the hedges were only shoulder high, there was no sign of ta Nor’fal or den Zony. They were probably seated on one of the benches. Soft music, piped from the Solar Room, sounded incongruous to Dill’s ears.
Someone gripped his arm hard.
“Dill! What the devil’s the idea.”
It was Fargo, his thin face flushed. Dill tried to pull away.
“Not now, Mr. Fargo. I’m cleaning up something important. It’s—”
The manager’s grip tightened.
“It can wait. Dr. Gallegher said you came into the hospital and tried to tell him how to run his business.
I’ve been chasing you all over Sky City. What’s the idea?”
Dill chewed his cigar.
“I’ll tell you later. Give me five minutes—”
Fargo’s lips twisted.
“If there’s anything to tell, do it now. I’ve had quite enough of your ‘investigations’. Dr. Gallegher’s complaint was the last straw. You’re demoted, Dill. I’m sorry, but it’s your own fault.”
The detective’s figure tensed; two red spots showed above his cheekbones.
“Okay,” he said, after a moment. “So I’m demoted. Now let me go. I’ve a job to do.”
“You’re relieved of active duty. I think you’re crazy!”
“For Pete’s sake, listen!” Dill shouted. “There’s a homicidal Ganymedean here in the Maze, and he’s already tried to commit murder! I want to catch him before there’s more trouble. You know how unstable Ganymedeans are emotionally. He may go haywire!”
Fargo stared.
“What?”
WITH furious patience, Dill plunged on.
“Six Draculas were smuggled out of the zoo tonight. The photoelectric plates showed nothing that small had gone through the foyer, so I figured somebody had carried the creatures out with him. Under his coat, I guess, in a cage he’d made for the purpose. That’s why Vagga den Zony and Baron ta Nor’fal were vampirized—they were let loose in the Ganymedean suite!”
“What in Space are you talking about?” Faro demanded.
“Murder.” Dill snarled. “I’ve got all the evidence. I sent a CQD call to Callisto, and I know who the murderer is. So—”
The hedge beside the two men shook violently. There was a sudden, skirling scream, and a growl of vicious fury. The blue flash of an annihilation beam lanced out from beyond the hedge, swung in an arc, and faded. Racing footsteps pattered swiftly. Dill’s face went gray.
“Jumping Jupiter!” he whispered. “They heard us! They were on the other side of the hedge!”
He sprang to the left, the astonished Fargo at his heels, and rounded a leafy parapet just in time to see the two Ganymedeans, Vagga den Zony and Baron ta Nor’fal, sprinting, away.
In the dim light it was impossible to tell them apart, or which pursued the other. But from the second figure a blue ray flashed, hastily aimed,
as the fleeing Ganymedeans dodged around a hedge just in time.
The two were lost in the Maze. Dill ran forward, and ducked to avoid a slash of the deadly beam. He drew his gun, hesitating.
“The Maze is full of guests,” he said. “I don’t dare—”
Fargo was pale.
“He’s trying to murder . . . Dill, we’ve got to stop this!”
Dill’s cigar was in tatters.
“What did you make me spill the works to you for? he chattered. He overheard me, knew the jig was up, and went kill-crazy! That’s a Ganymedean for you. Screwy neuropaths . . . They’re both keeping down now, lower than the hedges. Playing blind man’s buff. With that annihilation ray!”
Fargo, pointed.
“All the entrances and exits to the Maze are up on terraces. They can’t get out without being seen.”
Both men stared at the hedges. There was.no sign of life. But somewhere there a killer was stalking his prey—and there were the harmless, unsuspecting guests of Sky City scattered all through the Maze.
Fargo groaned.
“Let’s, go after them. It’s the only thing to do.”
“If the killer sees us, he’ll use his ray again,” Dill pointed out. “Neurotic as he is, he might go hog-wild and blast the Maze flat in order to get his victim. We can’t take a chance on that.”
“But we’ve got to do something!”
There was a silence, broken only by the music of Red Venable, floating up from a hundred amplifiers.
“I’ve got it!” Dill said and whirled. He dashed into the Solar Room; spoke briefly and crisply to Venable, and then returned. Fargo looked a.t him with worried inquiry.
“Well?”
“Wait. Get ready.”
THE music broke off. It started again, quite different this time. And abruptly, from the depths of the Maze, came a yowling shriek, of pure anguish.
Then another, louder if anything.
Dill relaxed.
“That does it,” he said. “Come on!”
“But—”
The detective led the way through the hedges.
“I got Venable to play a passage in Meteor Moan. He’s running it over and over. Tonight he told me he’d left it out, because Ganymedeans were present. It—uh—it’s in the second octave above high C, and it gives Ganymedeans the wailing willies. There’s no hurry now. Listen to those yells!”
Collected Fiction Page 391
