Nobody but Clay knew that he had intended to kill Vanderman all along. That was the trouble. Clay couldn’t understand why he felt so let down.
The screen flickered. It went dark. The engineer chuckled.
“My, my. Locked up in a dark closet at the age of four. What one of those old-time psychiatrists would have made of that. Or do I mean obimen? Shamans? I forget. They interpreted dreams, anyway.”
“You’re confused. It—”
“Astrologers! No, it wasn’t either. The ones I mean went in for symbolism. They used to spin prayer wheels and say ‘A rose is a rose is a rose’, didn’t they? To free the unconscious mind?”
“You’ve got the typical layman’s attitude toward antique psychiatric treatments.”
“Well, maybe they had something, at that. Look at quinine and digitalis. The United Amazon natives used those long before science discovered them. But why use eye of newt and toe of frog? To impress the patient?”
“No, to convince themselves,” the sociologist said. “In those days the study of mental aberrations drew potential psychotics, so naturally there was unnecessary mumbo-jumbo. Those medicos were trying to fix their own mental imbalance while they treated their patients. But it’s a science today, not a religion. We’ve found out how to allow for individual psychotic deviation in the psychiatrist himself, so we’ve got a better chance of finding true north. However, let’s get on with this. Try ultraviolet. Oh, never mind. Somebody’s letting him out of that closet. The devil with it. I think we’ve cut back far enough. Even if he was frightened by a thunderstorm at the age of three months, that can be filed under Gestalt and ignored. Let’s run through this chronologically. Give it the screening for . . . let’s see. Incidents involving these persons: Vanderman, Mrs. Vanderman, Josephine Wells—and these places: the office, Vanderman’s apartment, Clay’s place—”
“Got it.”
“Later we can recheck for complicating factors. Right now we’ll run the superficial survey. Verdict first, evidence later,” he added, with a grin. “All we need is a motive—”
“What about this?”
A girl was talking to Sam Clay. The background was an apartment, grade B-2.
“I’m sorry, Sam. It’s just that . . . well, these things happen.”
“Yeah. Vanderman’s got something I haven’t got, apparently.”
“I’m in love with him.”
“Funny. I thought all along you were in love with me.”
“So did I . . . for awhile.”
“Well, forget it. No, I’m not angry, Bea. I’ll even wish you luck. But you must have been pretty certain how I’d react to this.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Come to think of it, I’ve always let you call the shots. Always.” Secretly—and this the screen could not show—he thought: Let her? I wanted it that way. It was so much easier to leave the decisions up to her. Sure, she’s dominant, but I guess I’m just the opposite. And now it’s happened again.
It always happens. I was loaded with weight-cloths from the start. And I always felt I had to toe the line, or else. Vanderman—that cocky, arrogant air of his. Reminds me of somebody. I was locked up in a dark place, I couldn’t breathe.
I forget. What . . . who . . . my father. No, I don’t remember. But my life’s been like that. He always watched me, and I always thought some day I’d do what I wanted—but I never did. Too late now. He’s been dead quite a while.
He was always so sure I’d knuckle under. If I’d only defied him once—
Somebody’s always pushing me in and closing the door. So I can’t use my abilities. I can’t prove I’m competent. Prove it to myself, to my father, to Bea, to the whole world. If only I could—I’d like to push Vanderman into a dark place and lock the door. A dark place, like a coffin. It would be satisfying to surprise him that way. It would be fine if I killed Andrew Vanderman.
“Well, that’s the beginning of a motive,” the sociologist said. “Still, lots of people get jilted and don’t turn homicidal. Carry on.”
“In my opinion, Bea attracted him because he wanted to be bossed,”, the engineer remarked. “He’d given up.”
“Protective passivity.”
The wire taps spun through the screening apparatus. A new scene showed on the oblong panel. It was the Paradise Bar.
Anywhere you sat in the Paradise Bar, a competent robot analyzer instantly studied your complexion and facial angles, and switched on lights, in varying tints and intensities, that showed you off to best advantage. The joint was popular for business deals. A swindler could look like an honest man there. It was also popular with women and slightly passé teleo talent. Sam Clay looked rather like an ascetic young saint. Andrew Vanderman looked noble, in a grim way, like Richard Coeur-de-Leon offering Saladin his freedom, though he knew it wasn’t really a bright thing to do. Noblesse oblige, his firm jaw seemed to say, as he picked up the silver decanter and poured. In ordinary light, Vanderman looked slightly more like a handsome bulldog. Also, away from the Paradise Bar, he was redder around the chops, a choleric man.
“As to that deal we were discussing,” Clay said, “you can go to—” The censoring juke box blared out a covering bar or two.
Vanderman’s reply was unheard as the music got briefly louder, and the lights shifted rapidly to keep pace with his sudden flush.
“It’s perfectly easy to outwit, these censors,” Clay said. “They’re keyed to familiar terms of profane abuse, not to circumlocutions. If I said that the arrangement of your chromosomes would have surprised your father . . . you see?” He was right. The music stayed soft.
Vanderman swallowed nothing. “Take it easy,” he said. “I can see why you’re upset. Let me say first of all—”
“Hijo—”
But the censor was proficient in Spanish dialects. Vanderman was spared hearing another insult.
“—that I offered you a job because I think you’re a very capable man. You have potentialities. It’s not a bribe. Our personal affairs should be kept out of this.”
“All the same, Bea was engaged to me.”
“Clay, are you drunk?”
“Yes,” Clay said, and threw his drink into Vanderman’s face. The music began to play Wagner very, very loudly. A few minutes later, when the waiters interfered, Clay was supine and bloody, with a. mashed nose and a bruised cheek. Vanderman had skinned his knuckles.
“That’s a motive,” the engineer said.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it? But why did Clay wait a year and a half? And remember what happened later. I wonder if the murder itself was just a symbol? If Vanderman represented, say, what Clay considered the tyrannical and oppressive force of society in general—synthesized in the representative image . . . oh, nonsense. Obviously Clay was trying to prove something to himself, though. Suppose you cut forward now. I want to see this in normal chronology, not backward. What’s the next selection?”
“Very suspicious. Clay got his nose fixed up and then went to a murder trial.”
He thought: I can’t breathe. Too crowded in here. Shut up in a box, a closet, a coffin, ignored by the spectators and the vested authority on the bench. What would I do if I were in the dock, like that chap? Suppose they convicted? That would spoil it all. Another dark place—If I’d inherited the right genes, I’d have been strong enough to beat up Vanderman. But I’ve been pushed around too long.
I keep remembering that song.
Stray in the herd and the boss said kill it,
So I shot him in the rump with the handle of a skillet.
A deadly weapon that’s in normal usage wouldn’t appear dangerous. But if it could be used homicidally—No, the Eye could check on that. All you can conceal these days is motive. But couldn’t the trick be reversed? Suppose I got Vanderman to attack me with what he thought was the handle of a skillet, but which I knew was a deadly weapon—
The trial Sam Clay was watching was fairly routine. One man had killed another. Counsel for the defense contende
d that the homicide had been a matter of impulse, and that, as a matter of fact, only assault and battery plus culpable negligence at worst, could be proved, and the latter was canceled by an Act of God. The fact that the defendant inherited the decedent’s fortune, in Martial oil, made no difference. Temporary insanity was the plea.
The prosecuting attorney showed films of what had happened before the fact. True, the victim hadn’t been killed by the blow, merely stunned. But the affair had occurred on an isolated beach, and when the tide came in—
Act of God, the defense repeated hastily.
The screen showed the defendant, some days before his crime, looking up the tide-table in a news tape. He also, it appeared, visited the site and asked a passing stranger if the beach was often crowded. “Nope,” the stranger said, “it ain’t crowded after sundown. Gits too cold. Won’t do you no good, though. Too cold to swim then.”
One side matched Actus non facit reum, nisi mens sit rea—“The act does not make a man guilty, unless the mind be also guilty”—against Acta exteriora indicant interiora secret—“By the outward acts we are to judge of the inward thoughts”. Latin legal basics were still valid, up to a point. A man’s past remained sacrosanct, provided—and here was the joker—that he possessed the right of citizenship. And anyone accused of a capital crime was automatically suspended from citizenship until his innocence had been established.
Also, no past-tracing evidence could be introduced into a trial unless it could be proved that it had direct connection with the crime. The average citizen did have a right of privacy against tracing. Only if accused of a serious crime was that forfeit, and even then evidence uncovered could be used only in correlation with the immediate charge. There were various loopholes, of course, but theoretically a man was safe from espionage as long as he stayed within the law.
Now a defendant stood in the dock, his past opened. The prosecution showed recordings of a ginger blonde blackmailing him, and that clinched the motive and the verdict—guilty. The condemned man was led off in tears. Clay got up and walked out of the court. From his appearance, he seemed to be thinking.
He was. He had decided that there was only one possible way in which he could kill Vanderman and get away with it. He couldn’t conceal the deed itself, nor the actions leading up to it, nor any written or spoken word. All he could hide were his own thoughts. And, without otherwise betraying himself, he’d have to kill Vanderman so that his act would appear justified. Which meant covering his tracks for yesterday as well as for tomorrow and tomorrow.
Now, thought Clay, this much can be assumed: If I stand to lose by Vanderman’s death instead of gaining, that will help considerably. I must juggle that somehow. But I mustn’t forget that at present I have an obvious motive. First, he stole Bea. Second, he beat me up.
So I must make it seem as though he’s done me a favor—somehow.
I must have an opportunity to study Vanderman carefully, and it must be a normal, logical, waterproof opportunity. Private secretary. Something like that. The Eye’s in the future now, after the fact, but it’s watching me—
I must remember that. It’s watching me now!
All right. Normally, I’d have thought of murder, at this point.
That, can’t and shouldn’t be disguised. I must work out of the mood gradually, but meanwhile—
He smiled.
Going off to buy a gun, he felt uncomfortable, as though that prescient Eye, years in the future, could with a wink summon the police. But it was separated from him by a barrier of time that only the natural processes could shorten. And, in fact, it had been watching him since his birth. You could look at it that way—
He could defy it. The Eye couldn’t read thoughts.
He bought the gun and lay in wait for Vanderman in a dark alley. But first he got thoroughly drunk. Drunk enough to satisfy the Eye.
After that—
“Feel better now?” Vanderman asked, pouring another coffee.
Clay buried his face in his hands.
“I was crazy,” he said, his voice muffled. “I must have been. You’d better t-turn me over to the police.”
“We can forget about that end of it, Clay. You were drunk, that’s all. And I. . . well, I—”
“I pull a gun on you . . . try to kill you . . . and you bring me up to your place and—”
“You didn’t use that gun, Clay. Remember that. You’re no killer. All this has been my fault. I needn’t have been so blasted tough with you,” Vanderman said, looking like Coeur-de-Leon in spite of uncalculated amber fluorescence.
“I’m no good. I’m a failure.”
Every time I try to do something, a man like you comes along and does it better. I’m a second-rater.”
“Clay, stop talking like that. You’re just upset, that’s all. Listen to me. You’re going to straighten up. I’m going to see that you do. Starting tomorrow, we’ll work something out. Now drink your coffee.”
“You know,” Clay said, “you’re quite a guy.”
So the magnanimous idiot’s fallen for it, Clay thought, as he was drifting happily off to sleep. Fine. That begins to take care of the. Eye. Moreover, it starts the ball rolling with Vanderman. Let a man do you a favor and he’s your pal. Well, Vanderman’s going to do me a lot more favors. In fact, before I’m through, I’ll have every motive for wanting to keep him alive.
Every motive visible to the naked Eye.
Probably Clay had not heretofore applied his talents in the right direction, for there was nothing second-rate about the way he executed his homicide plan. In that, he proved very capable. He needed a suitable channel for his ability, and perhaps he needed a patron. Vanderman fulfilled that function; probably it salved his conscience for stealing Bea. Being the man he was, Vanderman needed to avoid even the appearance of ignobility. Naturally strong and ruthless, he told himself he was sentimental. His sentimentality never reached the point of actually inconveniencing him, and Clay knew enough to stay within the limits.
Nevertheless it is nerve-racking to know you’re living under the scrutiny of an extratemporal Eye. As he walked into the lobby of the V Building a month later, Clay realized that light-vibrations reflected from his own body were driving irretrievably into the polished onyx walls and floor, photographing themselves there, waiting for a machine to unlock them, some day, some time, for some man perhaps in this very city, who as yet didn’t know even the name of Sam Clay. Then, sitting in his relaxer in the spiral lift moving swiftly up inside the walls, he knew that those walls were capturing his image, stealing it, like some superstition he remembered . . . ah?
Vanderman’s private secretary greeted him. Clay let his gaze wander freely across that young person’s neatly-dressed figure and mildly attractive face. She said that Mr. Vanderman was out, and the appointment was for three, not two, wasn’t it? Clay referred to a notebook. He snapped his fingers.
“Three—you’re right, Miss Wells. I was so sure it was two I didn’t even bother to check up. Do you think he might be back sooner? I mean, is he out, or in conference?”
“He’s out, all right, Mr. Clay,” Miss Wells said. “I don’t think he’ll be back much sooner than three. I’m sorry.”
“Well, may I wait in here?”
She smiled at him efficiently. “Of course. There’s a stereo and the magazine spools are in that case.” She went back to her work, and Clay skimmed through an article about the care and handling of lunar filchards. It gave him an opportunity to start a conversation by asking Miss Wells if she liked filchards. It turned out that she had no opinion whatsoever of filchards but the ice had been broken.
This is the cocktail acquaintance, Clay thought. I may have a broken heart, but, naturally, I’m lonesome.
The trick wasn’t to get engaged to Miss Wells so much as to fall in love with her convincingly. The Eye never slept. Clay was beginning to wake at night with a nervous start, and lie there looking up at the ceiling. But darkness was no shield.
“The q
uestion is,” said the sociologist at this, point, “whether or not Clay was acting for an audience.”
“You mean us?”
“Exactly. It just occurred to me. Do you think he’s been behaving perfectly naturally?”
The engineer pondered.
“I’d say yes. A man doesn’t marry a girl only to carry out some other plan, does he? After all, he’d get himself involved in a whole new batch of responsibilities.”
“Clay hasn’t married Josephine Wells yet, however,” the sociologist countered. “Besides, that responsibility angle might have applied a few hundred years ago, but not now. He went off at random. “Imagine a society where, after divorce, a man was forced to support a perfectly healthy, competent woman! It was vestigial, I know—a throwback to the days when only males could earn a living—but imagine the sort of women who were willing to accept such support. That was reversion to infancy if I ever—”
The engineer coughed.
“Oh,” the sociologist said. “Oh . . . yes. The question is, would Clay have got himself engaged to a woman unless he really—”
“Engagements can be broken.”
“This one hasn’t been broken yet, as far as we know. And we know.”
“A normal man wouldn’t plan on marrying a girl he didn’t care anything about, unless he had some stronger motive—I’ll go along that far.”
“But how normal is Clay?” the sociologist wondered. “Did he know in advance we’d check back on his past? Did you notice that he cheated at solitaire?”
“Proving?”
“There are all kinds of trivial things you don’t do if you think people are looking. Picking up a penny in the street, drinking soup out of the bowl, posing before a mirror—the sort of foolish or petty things everyone does when alone. Either Clay’s innocent, or he’s a very clever man—”
He was a very clever man. He never intended the engagement to get as far as marriage, though he knew that in one respect marriage would be a precaution. If a man talks in his sleep, his wife will certainly mention the fact. Clay considered gagging himself at night if the necessity should arise. Then he realized that if he talked in his sleep at all, there was no insurance against talking too much the very first time he had an auditor. He couldn’t risk such a break. But there was no necessity, after all. Clay’s problem, when he thought it over, was simply: How can I be sure I don’t talk in my sleep?
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