"Lieutenant, I guess that's your pigeon," he said. "All I can do is certify to cause of death."
"It just doesn't make sense," Caquer wailed. "Sector Three City isn't so big that he could have had a double living here without people knowing about it. But one of them had to be a double. Off the record, which looked to you like the original?"
Dr. Skidder shook his head grimly.
"Willem Deem had a peculiarly shaped wart on his nose," he said. "So did both of his corpses, Rod. And neither one was artificial, or make-up. I'll stake my professional reputation on that. But come on back to the office with me, and I'll tell you which one of them is the real Willem Deem."
"Huh? How?"
"His thumbprint's on file at the tax department, like everybody's is. And it's part of routine to fingerprint a corpse on Callisto, because it has to be destroyed so quickly."
"You have thumbprints of both corpses?" inquired Caquer.
"Of course. Took them before you reached the scene, both times. I have the one for Willem-I mean the other corpse-back in my office. Tell you what-you pick up the print on file at the tax office and meet me there."
Caquer sighed with relief as he agreed. At least one point in the case would be cleared up-which corpse was which.
And in that comparatively blissful state of mind he remained until half an hour later when he and Dr. Skidder compared the time prints-the one Rod Caquer had secured from the tax office, and one from each of the corpses.
They were identical, all three of them.
"Urn," said Caquer. "You're sure you didn't get mixed up on those prints, Dr. Skidder.
"How could I? I took only one copy from each body, Rod. If I had shuffled them just now while we were looking at them, the result would be the same. All three prints are alike."
"But they can't be."
Skidder shrugged.
"I think we should lay this before the Regent, direct," he said. "I'll call him and arrange an audience. Okay?"
Half an hour later, he was giving the whole story to Regent Barr Maxon, with Dr. Skidder corroborating the main points. The expression on Regent Maxon's face made Lieutenant Rod Caquer glad, very glad, that he had that corroboration.
"You agree," Maxon asked, "that this should be taken up with the Sector Coordinator, and that a special investigator should be sent here to take over?"
A bit reluctantly, Caquer nodded. "I hate to admit that I'm incompetent, Regent, or that I seem to be," Caquer said. "But this isn't an ordinary crime. Whatever goes on, it's way over my head. And there may be something even more sinister than murder behind it."
"You're right, Lieutenant. I'll see that a qualified man leaves headquarters today and he'll get in touch with you in the morning."
"Regent," Caquer asked, "has any machine or process ever been invented that will-uh-duplicate a human body, with or without the mind being carried over?"
Maxon seemed puzzled by the question.
"You think Deem might have been playing around with something that bit him. No, to my knowledge a discovery like that has never been approached. Nobody has ever duplicated, except by constructive imitation, even an inanimate object. You haven't heard of such a thing, have you, Skidder?"
"No," said the Medical Examiner. "I don't think even your friend Perry Peters could do that, Rod."
From the Regent Maxon's office, Caquer went on Deem's shop. Brager was in charge there, and Bragcr helped him search the place thoroughly. It was a long and laborious task, because each book and reel had to be examined minutely.
The printers of illicit books, Caquer knew, were clever at disguising their product. Usually, forbidden books bore the cover and title page, often even the opening chapters, of some popular work of fiction, and the projection reels were similarly disguised.
Jupiter-lighted darkness was falling outside when they finished, but Rod Caquer knew they had done a thorough job. There wasn't an indexed book anywhere in the shop, and every reel had been run off on a projector.
Other men, at Rod Caquer's orders, had been searching Deem's apartment with equal thoroughness. He phoned there, and got a report, completely negative.
"Not so much as a Venusian pamphlet," said the man in charge at the apartment, with what Caquer thought was a touch of regret in his voice.
"Did you come across a lathe, a small one for delicate work?" Rod asked.
"Um-no, we didn't see anything like that. One room's turned into a workshop, but there's no lathe in it. Is it important?"
Caquer grunted noncommittally. What was one more mystery, and a minor one at that, to a case like this?
"Well, Lieutenant," Brager said, when the screen had gone blank, "What do we do now?"
Caquer sighed.
"You can go off duty, Brager," he said. "But first arrange to leave men on guard here and at the apartment. I'll stay until whoever you send comes to relieve me."
When Brager had left, Caquer sank wearily into the nearest chair. He felt terrible, physically, and his mind just did not seem to be working. He let his eyes run again around the orderly shelves of the shop and their orderliness oppressed him.
If there was only a clue of some sort. Wilder Williams had never had a case like this in which the only leads were two identical corpses, one of which had been killed five different ways and the other did not have a mark or sign of violence. What a mess, and where did he go from here?
Well, he still had the list of people he was going to interview, and there was time to see at least one of them this evening.
Should he look up Perry Peters again, and see what, if anything, the lanky inventor could make of the disappearance of the lathe? Perhaps he might be able to suggest what had happened to it. But then again, what could a lathe have to do with a mess like this? One cannot turn out a duplicate corpse on a lathe.
Or should he look up Professor Gordon? He decided to do just that.
He called the Gordon apartment on the visiphone, and Jane appeared in the screen.
"How's your father," Jane asked Caquer. "Will he be able to talk to me for a while this evening?"
"Oh, yes," said the girl. "He's feeling much better, and thinks he'll go back to his classes tomorrow. But get here early if you're coming. Rod, you look terrible; what's the matter with you?"
"Nothing, except I feel goofy. But I'm all right, I guess."
"You have a gaunt, starved look. When did you eat last?"
Caquer's eyes widened. "Earth! I forgot all about eating. I slept late and didn't even have breakfast!" Jane Gordon laughed.
"You dope! Well, hurry around, and I'll have something ready for you when you get here."
"But-"
"But nothing. How soon can you start?"
A minute after he had clicked off the visiphone, Lieutenant Caquer went to answer a knock on the shuttered door of the shop.
He opened it. "Oh, hullo, Reese," he said. "Did Brager send you?"
The policeman nodded.
"He said I was to stay here in case. In case what?"
"Routine guard duty, that's all," explained Caquer. "Say, I've been stuck here all afternoon. Anything going on?"
"A little excitement. We been pulling in soap-box orators off and on all day. Screwballs. There's an epidemic of them."
"The devil you say! What are they hipped about?"
"Sector Two, for some reason I can't make out. They're trying to incite people to get mad at Sector Two and do something about it. The arguments they use are plain nutty."
Something stirred uneasily in Rod Caquer's memory but he could not quite remember what it was. Sector Two? Who'd been telling him things about Sector Two recently-usury, unfairness, tainted blood, something silly. Although of course a lot of the people over there did have Martian blood in them ...
"How many of the orators were arrested?" he asked.
"We got seven. Two more slipped away from us, but we'll pick them up if they start spouting that kind of stuff again."
Lieutenant Caquer walked slow
ly, thoughtfully, to the Gordon apartment, trying his level best to remember where, recently, he heard anti-Sector Two propaganda. There must be something back of the simultaneous appearance of nine soap-box radicals, all preaching the same doctrine.
A sub-rosa political organization? But none such had existed for almost a century now. Under a perfectly democratic government, component part of a stable system-wide organization of planets, there was no need for such activity. Of course an occasional crackpot was dissatisfied, but a group in that state of mind struck him as fantastic.
It sounded as crazy as the Willem Deem case. That did not make sense either. Things happened meaninglessly, as in a dream. Dream? What was he trying to remember about a dream? Hadn't he had an odd sort of dream last night-what was it?
But, as dreams usually do, it eluded his conscious mind.
Anyway, tomorrow he would question-or help question-those radicals who were under arrest. Put men on the job of tracing them back, and undoubtedly a common background somewhere, a tieup, would be found.
It could not be accidental that they should all pop up on the same day. It was screwy, just as screwy as the two inexplicable corpses of a book-and-reel shop proprietor. Maybe because the cases were both screwy, his mind tended to couple the two sets of events. But taken together, they were no more digestible than taken separately. They made even less sense.
Confound it, why hadn't he taken that post on Ganymede when it was offered to him? Ganymede was a nice orderly moon. Persons there did not get murdered twice on consecutive days. But Jane Gordon did not live on Ganymede; she lived right here in Sector Three and he was on his way to see her.
And everything was wonderful except that he felt so tired he could not think straight, and Jane Gordon insisted on looking on him as a brother instead of a suitor, and he was probably going to lose his job. He would be the laughingstock of Callisto if the special investigator from headquarters found some simple explanation of things that he had overlooked...
* * *
Jane Gordon, looking more beautiful than he had ever seen her, met him at the door. She was smiling, but the smile changed to a look of concern as he stepped into the light.
"Rod!" she exclaimed. "You do look ill, really ill. What have you been doing to yourself besides forgetting to eat?"
Rod Caquer managed a grin.
"Chasing vicious circles up blind alleys, Icicle. May I use your visiphone?"
"Of course. I've some food ready for you; I'll put it on the table while you're calling. Dad's taking a nap. He said to wake him when you got here, but I'll hold off until you're fed."
She hurried out to the kitchen. Caquer almost fell into the chair before the visiscreen, and called the police station. The red, beefy face of Borgesen, the night lieutenant, flashed into view.
"Hi, Borg," said Caquer. "Listen, about those seven screwballs you picked up. Have you-"
"Nine," Borgesen interrupted. 'We got the other two, and I wish we hadn't. We're going nuts down here." "You mean the other two tried it again?"
"No. Suffering Asteroids, they came in and gave themselves up, and we can't kick them out, because there's a charge against them. But they're confessing all over the place. And do you know what they're confessing?"
"I'll bite," said Caquer.
"That you hired them, and offered one hundred credits apiece to them."
"Huh?"
Borgesen laughed, a little wildly. "The two that came in voluntarily say that, and the other seven-Gosh, why did I ever become a policeman? I had a chance to study for fireman on a spacer once, and I end up doing this."
"Look-maybe I better come around and see if they make that accusation to my face."
"They probably would, bit it doesn't mean anything, Rod. They say you hired them this afternoon, and you were at Deem's with Brager all afternoon. Rod, this moon is going nuts. And so am I. Walter Johnson has disappeared. Hasn't been seen since this morning."
"What? The Regent's confidential secretary? You're kidding me, Borg."
"Wish I was. You ought to be glad you're off duty. Maxon's been raising seven brands of thunder for us to find his secretary for him. He doesn't like the Deem business, either. Seems to blame us for it; thinks it's bad enough for the department to let a man get killed once. Say, which was Deem, Rod? Got any idea?"
Caqucr grinned weakly.
"Let's call them Deem and Redeem till we find out," he suggested. "I think they were both Deem." "But how could one man be two?"
, "How could one man be killed five ways?" countered Caquer. "Tell me that and I'll tell you the answer to yours."
"Nuts," said Borgesen, and followed it with a masterpiece of understatement. "There's something funny about that case."
Caquer was laughing so hard that there were tears in his eves, when Jane Gordon came to tell him food was ready. She frowned at him, but there was concern behind the frown.
Caquer followed her meekly, and discovered he was ravenous. When he'd put himself outside enough food for three ordinary meals, he felt almost human again. His headache was still there, but it was something that throbbed dimly in the distance.
Frail Professor Gordon was waiting in the living room when they went there from the kitchen. "Rod, you look like something the cat dragged in," he said. "Sit down before you fall down."
Caquer grinned. "Overeating did it. Jane's a cook in a million."
He sank into a chair facing Gordon. Jane Gordon had sat on the arm of her father's chair and Caquer's eyes feasted on her. How could a girl with lips as soft and kissable as hers insist on regarding marriage only as an academic subject? How could a girl with--
"I don't see offhand how it could be a cause of his death Rod, but Willem Deem rented out political books," said Gordon. "There's no harm in my telling that, since the poor chap is dead."
Almost the same words, Caquer remembered, that Perry Peters had used in telling him the same thing. Caquer nodded.
"We've searched his shoo and his apartment and haven't found any, Professor," he said. "You wouldn't know, of course, what kind-"
Professor Gordon smiled. "I'm afraid I would, Rod. Off the record-and I take it you haven't a recorder on our conversation-I've read quite a few of them."
"You?" There was frank surprise in Caquer's voice.
"Never underestimate the curiosity of an educator, my boy. I fear the reading of Graydex books is a more prevalent vice among the instructors in universities than among any other class. Oh, I know it's wrong to encourage the trade, but the reading of such books can't possibly harm a balanced, judicious mind."
"And Father certainly has a balanced, judicious mind, Rod," said Jane, a bit defiantly.,"Only-darn him-he wouldn't let me read those books."
Caquer grinned at her. The professor's use of the word "Gravdex" had reassured him.
Renting Graydex books was only a misdemeanor, after all.
"Ever read any Graydex books, Rod?" the professor asked. Caquer shook his head.
"Then you've probably never heard of hypnotism. Some of the circumstances in the Deem case-Well, I've wondered whether hypnotism might have been used."
"I'm afraid I don't even know what it is, Professor."
The frail little man sighed.
"That's because you've never read illicit books, Rod," said Gordon. "Hypnotism is the control of one mind by another, and it reached a pretty high state of development before it was outlawed. Y'ou've never heard of the Kaprelian Order or the Vargas Wheel?"
Caquer shook his head.
"The history of the subject is in Gravdex books, in several of them," said the professor. "The actual methods, and how a Vargas Wheel is constructed would be Blackdex, high on the roster of the lawlessness. Of course, I haven't read that, but I have read the history.
"A man by the name of Mesmer, way back in the Eightenth Century, was one of the first practitioners, if not the discoverer, of hypnotism. At any rate, he put it on a more or less scientific basis. By the Twentieth Century, quite a bit had
been learned about it-and it became extensively used in medicine.
"A hundred years later, doctors were treating almost as many patients through hypnotism as through drugs and surgery. True, there were cases of its misuse, but they were relatively few.
"But another hundred years brought a big chance. Mesmerism had developed too far for the public safety. Any criminal or selfish politician who had a smattering of the art could operate with impunity. He could fool all the people all the time, and get away with it."
"You mean he could really make people think any-thing he wanted them to?" Caquer asked.
"Not only that, he could make them do anything he wanted. And by that time, television was in such common use that one speaker could visibly and directly talk to millions of people."
"But couldn't the government have regulated the art?"
Professor Gordon smiled thinly. "How, when legislators were human, too, and as subject to hypnotism as the people under them? And then, to complicate things almost hopelessly, came the invention of the Vargas Wheel.
"It had been known, back as far as the Nineteenth Century, that an arrangement of moving mirrors could throw anyone who watched it into a state of hypnotic submission. And thought transmission had been experimented with in the Twenty-first century. It was in the following one that Vargas combined and perfected the two into the Vargas Wheel. A sort of helmet affair, really, with a revolving wheel of specially constructed tricky mirrors on top of it."
"How did it work, Professor?" asked Caquer.
"The wearer of a Vargas Wheel helmet had immediate and automatic control over anyone who saw him-directly, or in a television screen," said Gordon. "The mirrors in the small turning wheel produced instantaneous hypnosis and the helmet-somehow-brought thoughts of its wearer to bear through the wheel and impressed upon his subjects any thoughts he wished to transmit.
"In fact, the helmet itself-or the wheel-could be set to produce certain fixed illusions without the necessity of the operator speaking, or even concentrating, on those points. Or the control could be direct, from his mind."
"Ouch," said Caquer. "A thing like that would-I can certainly see why instructions in making a Vargas Wheel would be Blackdexed. Suffering Asteroids! A man with one of these could-"
The Collection Page 40
