Future Crimes

by Jack Dann

  "Could he be late?"

  "We are already quite late ourselves. I wonder if he has gone back."

  "It seems unlikely," I said.

  Purposefully we toured the museum one more time, and I ignored the color-splashed canvases standing before the dark crater, to search closely in all the various turns of the galleries. No Arnold.

  "Come along," Freya said. "I suspect he stayed in Terminator, and now I want to speak with him more than ever."

  So we returned to the garage, got back in our car, and drove out onto Mercury's bare, baked surface once again. Half an hour later we had Terminator's tracks in sight. They stretched before us from horizon to horizon, twelve fat silvery cylinders set five meters above the ground on narrow pylons. To the east, rolling over the flank of Valazquez Crater so slowly that we could not perceive its movement without close attention, came the city itself, a giant clear half-egg filled with the colors of rooftops, gardens, and the gray stone of the building crowding the terraced Dawn Wall.

  "We'll have to go west to the next station," I said. Then I saw something, up on the city track nearest us: spread-eagled over the top of the big cylinder was a human form in a light green daysuit. I stopped the car. "Look!"

  Freya peered out her window. "We'd better go investigate."

  We struggled quickly into the car's emergency daysuits, clamped on the helmets, and slipped through the car's lock onto the ground. A ladder led us up the nearest cylinder pylon and through a tunnel in the cylinder itself. Once on top we could stand safely on the broad hump of the rail.

  The figure we had seen was only thirty meters away from us, and we hurried to it.

  It was Arnold, spread in cruciform fashion over the cylinder's top, secured in place by three large suction plates that had been cuffed to his wrists and ankles, and then stuck to the cylinder. Arnold turned from his contemplation of the slowly approaching city, and looked at us wide-eyed through his faceplate. Freya reached down and turned on his helmet intercom.

  "—am I glad to see you!" Arnold cried, voice harsh. "These plates won't move!"

  "Tied to the tracks, eh?" Freya said.

  "Yes!"

  "Who put you here?"

  "I don't know! I went out to meet you at the Monet museum, and the last thing I remember I was in the garage there. When I came to, I was here."

  "Does your head hurt?" I inquired.

  "Yes. Like I was gassed, though, not hit. But—the city—it just came over the horizon a short time ago. Perhaps we could dispense with discussion until I am freed?"

  "Relax," Freya said, nudging one of the plates with her boot. "Are you sure you don't know who did this, Arnold?"

  "Of course! That's what I just said! Please, Freya, can't we talk after I get loose?"

  "In a hurry, Arnold?" Freya asked.

  "Of course."

  "No need to be too worried," I assured him. "If we can't free you the cowcatchers will be out to pry you loose." I tried lifting a plate, but could not move it. "Surely they will find a way—it's their job, after all."

  "True," Arnold said.

  "Usually true," said Freya. "Arnold is probably not aware that the cowcatchers have become rather unreliable recently. Some weeks ago a murderer tied his victim to a track just as you have been, Arnold, and then somehow disengaged the cowcatchers' sensors. The unfortunate victim was shaved into molecules by one of the sleeves of the city. It was kept quiet to avoid any attempted repetitions, but since then the cowcatchers' sensors have continued to function erratically, and two or three suicides have been entirely too successful."

  "Perhaps this isn't the best moment to tell us about this," I suggested to Freya.

  Arnold choked over what I took to be his agreement.

  "Well," Freya said, "I thought I should make the situation clear. Now listen, Arnold. We need to talk."

  "Please," Arnold said. "Free me first, then talk."

  "No, no—"

  "But Terminator is only a kilometer away!"

  "Your perspective from that angle is deceptive," Freya told him. "The city is at least three kilometers away."

  "More like two," I said, as I could now make out individual rooftops under the Dawn Wall. In fact the city glowed like a big glass lamp, and illuminated the entire landscape with a faint green radiance.

  "And at three point four kilometers an hour," Freya said, "that gives us almost an hour, doesn't it. So listen to me, Arnold. The Monet cathedral that you sold to Heidi is a fake."

  "What?" Arnold cried. "It certainly is not! And I insist this isn't the time—"

  "It is a fake. Now I want you to tell me the truth, or I will leave you here to test the cowcatchers." She leaned over to stare down at Arnold face to face. "I know who painted the fake, as well."

  Helplessly Arnold stared up at her.

  "He put you on the track here, didn't he."

  Arnold squeezed his eyes shut, nodded slowly. "I think so."

  "So if you want to be let up, you must swear to me that you will abide by my plan for dealing with this forger. You will follow my instructions, understand?"

  "I understand."

  "Do you agree?"

  "I agree," Arnold said, forcing the words out. "Now let me up!"

  "All right," Freya straightened.

  "How are we going to do it?" I asked.

  Freya shrugged. "I don't know."

  At this Arnold howled, he shouted recriminations, he began to wax hysterical—

  "Shut up!" Freya exclaimed. "You're beginning to sound like a man who has made too many brightside crossings. These suction plates are little different from children's darts." She leaned down, grasped a plate, pulled up with all of her considerable strength. No movement. "Hmm," she said thoughtfully.

  "Freya," Arnold said.

  "One moment," she replied, and walked back down the hump of the cylinder to the ladder tunnel, there to disappear down it.

  "She's left me," Arnold groaned. "Left me to be crushed."

  "I don't think so," I said. "No doubt she has gone to the car to retrieve some useful implement." I kicked heartily at the plate holding Arnold's feet to the cylinder, and even managed to slide it a few centimeters down the curve, which had the effect of making Arnold suddenly taller. But other than that I made no progress.

  When Freya returned she carried a bar bent at one end. "Crowbar," she explained to us.

  "But where did you get it?"

  "From the car's tool chest, naturally. Here." She stepped over Arnold. "If we just insinuate this end of it under your cuffs, I believe we'll have enough leverage to do the trick. The cylinder being curved, the plates' grasp should be weakened . . . about here." She jammed the short end of the bar under the edge of the footplates' cuff, and pulled on the upper end of it. Over the intercom, breathless silence; her fair cheeks reddened; then suddenly Arnold's legs flew up and over his head, leaving his arms twisted and his neck at an awkward angle. At the same time Freya staggered off the cylinder, performed a neat somersault and landed on her feet, on the ground below us. While she made her way back up to us I tried to ease the weight on Arnold's neck, but by his squeaks of distress I judged he was still uncomfortable. Freya rejoined us, and quickly wedged her crowbar under Arnold's right wrist cuff, and freed it. That left Arnold hanging down the side of the cylinder by his left wrist; but with one hard crank Freya popped that plate free as well, and Arnold disappeared. By leaning over we could just see him, collapsed in a heap on the ground. "Are you all right?" Freya asked. He groaned for an answer.

  I looked up and saw that Terminator was nearly upon us. Almost involuntarily I proceeded to the ladder tunnel; Freya followed me, and we descended to the ground. "Disturbing not to be able to trust the cowcatchers," I remarked as my heartbeat slowed.

  "Nathaniel," Freya said, looking exasperated. "I made all that up, you know that."

  "Ah. Yes, of course."

  As we rejoined Arnold he was just struggling to a seated position. "My ankle," he said. Then the green wash
of light from Terminator disappeared, as did the night sky; the city slid over us, and we were encased in a gloom interrupted by an occasional running light. All twelve of the city's big tracks had disappeared, swallowed by the sleeves in the city's broad metallic foundation. Only the open slots that allowed passage over the pylons showed where the sleeves were; for a moment in the darkness it seemed we stood between two worlds held apart by a field of pylons.

  Meanwhile the city slid over us soundlessly, propelled by the expansion of the tracks themselves. You see, the alloy composing the tracks is capable of withstanding the 425 degree Centigrade heat of the Mercurial day, but the cylinders do expand just a bit in this heat. Here in the Terminator is the forward edge of the cylinders' expansion, and the smooth-sided sleeves above us at that moment fit so snugly over the cylinders that as the cylinders expand, the city is pushed forward toward the cooler, thinner railing to the west; and so the city is propelled by the sun, while never being fully exposed to it. The motive force is so strong, in fact, that resistance to it arranged in the sleeves generates the enormous reserves of energy that Terminator has sold so successfully to the rest of civilization.

  Though I had understood this mechanism for decades, I had never before observed it from this angle, and despite the fact that I was somewhat uneasy to be standing under our fair city, I was also fascinated to see its broad, knobby silver underside gliding majestically westward. For a long time I did nothing but stare at it.

  "We'd better get to the car," Freya said. "The sun will be up very soon after the city passes, and then we'll be in trouble."

  Since Arnold was still cuffed to the plates, and had at least a sprained ankle, walking with him slung between us was a slow process. While we were at it the Dawn Wall passed over us, and suddenly the twelve tracks and the stars between them were visible again. "Now we'd better hurry," said Freya. Above us the very top of the Dawn Wall flared a brilliant white; sunlight was striking that surface, only two hundred meters above us. Dawn was not far away. In the glare of reflected light we could see the heavily tireprinted ground under the cylinders perfectly, and for a while our eyes were nearly overwhelmed. "Look!" Freya cried, shielding her eyes with one hand and pointing up at the sun-washed slope of the city wall with the other. "It's the inspiration of our Monet, don't you think?"

  Despite our haste, the great Rouen cathedral of Mercury pulled away from us. "This won't do," Freya said. "Only a bit more to the car, but we have to hurry. Here, Arnold, let me carry you—" and she ran, carrying Arnold piggyback, the rest of the way to the car. As we maneuvered him through the lock, a tongue of the sun's corona licked briefly over the horizon, blinding us. I felt scorched; my throat was dry. We were now at the dawn edge of the Terminator zone, and east-facing slopes burned white while west-facing slopes were still a perfect black, creating a chaotic patchwork that was utterly disorienting. We rolled into the car after Arnold, and quickly drove west, passing the city, returning to the night zone, and arriving at a station where we could make the transfer into the city again. Freya laughed at my expression as we crossed the gap. "Well, Nathaniel," she said, "home again."

  The very next day Freya arranged for those concerned with the case to assemble on Heidi's patio again. Four police officials were there, and one took notes. The painting of the cathedral of Rouen was back in its place on the villa wall; George Butler and Harvey Washburn stood before it, while Arnold Ohman and Heidi paced by the patio's edge. Lucinda and Delaurence, the cook, watched from behind the patio bar.

  Freya called us to order. She was wearing a severe blue dress, and her white-blond hair was drawn into a tight braid that fell down her back. Sternly she said, "I will suggest to you an explanation for the death of Sandor Musgrave. All of you except for the police and Mr. Sebastian were to one extent or another suspected of killing him, so I know this will be of great interest to you."

  Naturally there was an uneasy stir among those listening.

  "Several of you had reason to hate Musgrave, or to fear him. The man was a blackmailer by profession, and on Earth he had obtained evidence of illegalities in the merger Heidi and George made five years ago, that gave him leverage over both of you. This and motives for the rest of you were well established during the initial investigation, and we need not recapitulate the details.

  "It is also true, however, that subsequent investigations have confirmed that all of you had alibis for the moment when Musgrave was struck down. Lucinda and Delaurence were together in the kitchen until Lucinda left to investigate the shout she heard; this was confirmed by caterers hired for the Solday party. Heidi left the patio shortly before Musgrave was found, but she was consulting with Hiu and the orchestra during the time in question. George Butler went into the house with Arnold Ohman, but they were together for most of the time they were inside. Eventually George left to go to the bathroom, but luckily for him the orchestra's first clarinetist was there to confirm his presence. And fortunately for Mr. Ohman, I myself could see him from the patio, standing in the hallway until the very moment when Lucinda screamed.

  "So you see—" Freya paused, eyed us one by one, ran a finger along the frame of the big painting. "The problem took on a new aspect. It became clear that, while many had a motive to kill Musgrave, no one had the opportunity. This caused me to reconsider. How, exactly, had Musgrave been killed? He was struck on the head by the frame of one of Heidi's hall mirrors. Though several mirrors were broken in the melee following Lucinda's screams, we know the one that struck Musgrave; it was at the bend in the hallway leading from the atrium to the patio. And it was only a couple of meters away from a step down in the hallway."

  Freya took a large house plan from a table and set it before the policeman. "Sandor Musgrave, you will recall, was new to Mercury. He had never seen a Solday celebration. When the Great Gates opened and the reflected light filled this villa, my suggestion is that he was overwhelmed by fright. Lucinda heard him cry for help—perhaps he thought the house was burning down. He panicked, rushed out of the study, and blindly began to run for the patio. Unable to see the step down or the mirror, he must have pitched forward, and his left temple struck the frame with a fatal blow. He crawled a few steps farther, then collapsed and died."

  Heidi stepped forward. "So Musgrave died by accident?"

  "This is my theory. And it explains how it was that no one had the opportunity to kill him. In fact, no one did kill him." She turned to the police. "I trust you will follow up on this suggestion?"

  "Yes," said the one taking notes. "Death declared accidental by consulting investigator. Proceed from there." He exchanged glances with his colleagues. "We are satisfied this explains the facts of the case."

  Heidi surveyed the silent group. "To tell you the truth, I am very relieved." She turned to Delaurence. "Let's open the bar. It would be morbid to celebrate an accidental death, but here we can say we are celebrating the absence of a murder."

  The others gave a small cheer of relief, and we surrounded the bartender.

  A few days later Freya asked me to accompany her to North Station. "I need your assistance."

  "Very well," I said. "Are you leaving Terminator?"

  "Seeing someone off."

  When we entered the station's big waiting room, she inspected the crowd, then cried, "Arnold!" and crossed the room to him. Arnold saw her and grimaced. "Oh, Arnold," she said, and leaned over to kiss him on each cheek. "I'm very proud of you."

  Arnold shook his head, and greeted me mournfully. "You're a hard woman, Freya," he told her. "Stop behaving so cheerfully; you make me sick. You know perfectly well this is exile of the worst sort."

  "But Arnold," Freya said, "Mercury is not the whole of civilization. In fact it could be considered culturally dead, an immense museum to the past that has no real life at all."

  "Which is why you choose to live here, I'm sure," he said bitterly.

  "Well of course it does have some pleasures. But the really vital centers of any civilization are on the frontier. Arn
old, and that's where you're going."

  Arnold looked completely disgusted.

  "But Arnold," I said. "Where are you going?"

  "Pluto," he said curtly.

  "Pluto?" I exclaimed. "But whatever for? What will you do there?"

  He shrugged. "Dig ditches, I suppose."

  Freya laughed. "You certainly will not." She addressed me. "Arnold has decided, very boldly I might add, to abandon his safe career as a dealer here on Mercury, to become a real artist on the frontier."

  "But why?"

  Freya wagged a finger at Arnold. "You must write us often."

  Arnold made a strangled growl. "Damn you, Freya. I refuse. I refuse to go."

  "You don't have that option," Freya said. "Remember the chalk, Arnold. The chalk was your signature."

  Arnold hung his head, defeated. The city interfaced with the spaceport station. "It isn't fair," Arnold said. "What am I going to do out on those barbaric outworlds?"

  "You're going to live," Freya said sternly. "You're going to live and you're going to paint. No more hiding. Understand?"

  I, at any rate, was beginning to.

  "You should be thanking me profusely," Freya went on, "but I'll concede you're upset and wait for gratitude by mail." She put a hand on Arnold's shoulder, and pushed him affectionately toward the crossing line. "Remember to write."

  "But," Arnold said, a panicked expression on his face. "But—"

  "Enough!" Freya said. "Be gone! Or else."

  Arnold sagged, and stepped across the divide between the stations. Soon the city left the spaceport station behind.

  "Well," Freya said. "That's done."

  I stared at her. "You just helped a murderer to escape!"

  She lifted an eyebrow. "Exile is a very severe punishment; in fact in my cultural tradition it was the usual punishment for murder committed in anger or self-defense."

  I waved a hand dismissively. "This isn't the Iceland of Eric the Red. And it wasn't self-defense—Sandor Musgrave was outright murdered."