by Ipomoea
"For what? To hang my hat on?"
"Come alive! Doesn't Chief of Police spell anything to you?"
"Oh!" Sam groped for it. "You mean . . . suspicious? Murder?"
"And very probably tied in with what somebody has tried to do to you. I won't buy this as a coincidence. At all. Brace up now, this looks like the place."
Joe brought the jet around in a screaming arc and then swiftly down on to the white landing strip adjacent to the glass and concrete buildings which stood out starkly from the rolling green and gold landscape. A bouncing cushion-car brought Scott and a uniformed trooper to meet them. Scott, in crisp white shirt and shorts, made a brief nod for Sam, gave a hard stare to the rest, and waved them to the car.
"Any of you ever been here before? No? All right, here's the layout. This stuff, either side, is offices, equipment stores, silos, records, stuff like that. Out the back—that tower there —is Rex's private quarters. One personal man, the rest servo-robots. Nothing has been touched. You Venner? Inter-plan Security has no weight here, you understand?"
"The personal man, that would be old Jeff Hamlet," Sam mumbled. "Is he all right?"
"A bit shook, naturally, but he's okay. Mr. Sam—the way we heard it from Rex, he sent for you to come out here but a ship blew up, and you were reckoned to be on it."
"He wasn't, Chief Scott, he was traveling privately with me. We had reason to believe somebody was trying to kill him. That's how ISB comes to be involved anyway." Venner groped in a pocket, produced a card-case to hand across. "That's my identification. I know ISB carries no power here, but I assume you won't refuse the help of an expert?"
"Be glad of it. We don't get a lot of crime around here. And this is a * crime. You'll see. There's the elevator. Come on."
They stepped out into sunny, airy space, many-windowed and quiet, at the top of the tower. Scott halted a moment to let them look around.
"Just to save you from getting any wrong ideas," he said, Tm no whiz at detecting things. Me and Rex were good friends. Couple of weeks ago he told me he had the notion somebody was intending him harm. Didn't say who, but he did say, should anything queer happen to him, I was to look for suspicious details, assume a crime of some kind. I guess I would have smelled this one in any case. All this"— he waved an expansive arm—"is lounge, reading room, sun deck, diner, garden, balcony, exercise room and stuff. But in there, other side of that door, is his private office and workroom. He's in there."
"Then why are we standing out here?"
"Because we can't get in. That door has a trick lock, is coded to palm-prints. Only two. Rex's, of course, old Hamlet's. See? This morning was the first time I had ever been in there. It was this way. Old Hamlet was bringing his regular mid-morning coffee and snack. Saw him dead. Came out and called me, right away. He let me in when I came. I stayed just long enough to be sure he was dead, and came out again. The door locks itself. Hamlet passed out, but he's all right now. I'm glad you're here, Venner. I wouldn't know what to do next, that's for sure."
"We'll see this Hamlet first. Joe, take a look at that door, see if it can be opened illegally. Sam, you'd better come. Will the old man know you by sight?"
"He ought to. We've met a few times."
Scott led them into a small, pleasantly bright room, but the old man slumped on the bed was in no condition to appreciate it. Sam choked back a gasp of dismay at the sight, and went forward.
"Jeff!" he said. "Come on, now. Dad always said there was nothing in the world that could upset you. Are you going to let him down now?"
"Oh, Mr. Sam!" The withered old face sagged with sorrow as the old man sat up. "We thought you were dead!"
"Not yet. Will you come and open the door for us, please?"
With help the aged retainer managed to stagger far enough to put his palm to the door-panel. Off to one side, Joe shook his head fractionally.
"It can't be opened from outside, sir, and it hasn't been forced."
"All right. Wedge it somehow, now that it is open. We don't want all this fuss every time we want to go in and out."
Sam followed Scott into a large and bright-lit room, three walls of which were windows. Sam, who had never seen it before, could feel his father's thinking here. A place to stand and look out over his domain. Typical. In the fourth wall was another door, standing open. Inside was a smaller room, tightly furnished with vision-screens, a desk, capacious memory-store modules, and a computer console. This was the uncluttered work space of a busy man, but it was silent now, as silent as the still figure in the chair.
"Didn't need any more than one look," Scott stated grimly. "See for youself. There's a doctor on the way, but he has to come from the other side of the sector, and he can't do a damn thing when he gets here, except maybe tell us the cause of death."
Sam hesitated, felt Joe's strong arm come in support, and went forward to look. He needed the arm. Rex Hutten's face was so contorted in death-agony rictus that at first glance Sam had difficulty in recognizing him. Even Venner was shaken.
"By God, he looks as if something—or somebody—scared him to death. Louise, better take Sam out and get him something; he needs it. Joe, you and me will look. Damned if I know what for, but we'll look!"
From that moment on life acquired for Sam a middle-
distance texture of unreality. There were partial glimpses of ■ conscious awareness. He knew that the drink Louise poured for him burned all the way down. He remembered a grave-faced stranger asking his formal permission to remove the body for a postmortem investigation. People asking him questions. Venner snarling, "Damn it, I know how to run an organization, this one or any other! Get whoever is next in the chain of command and tell him to carry on!"
Quiet little servo-robots trundling diligently to and fro about their tasks, one of which must have been to bring food, because he vaguely remembered eating something, drinking something. Someone—Louise?—discovering how to neutralize the trick door lock, from inside. Venner baffled. Joe fust a massive enigma in the background. Snatches in black and white, shades of gray, all unreal. What was real was that Rex Hutten was dead. Killed.
The rock-bottom, taken-for-granted basis of Sam's life suddenly and incredibly gone. "I need you!" That half-humorous message burned in his brain. The old man had needed him, and now didn't need him, or anyone, any more. All that was alive in Sam Hutten churned and broke on that rock, and time stood and waited for him to pass it. Eventually he was aware of another drink, of someone telling him he needed to sleep, someone else helping him with strong but gentle hands to undress. Then rolling into a soft bed, and sinking down into miserable darkness.
Out of the dark came a hand to grasp his shoulder. On the instant he was totally and frantically awake, rigid with the insensate fear that "they" had come for him as they had his father. For one flash second, that held. Then, pulse hammering but suddenly resolved, he rolled over and grabbed at the hand that had touched him. In that same instant he became aware of something soft and warm on his other side, a flurry of movement, a click, the eye-ache of glaring light, and squinting to see that he was grappling roughly with old Hamlet. Jeff Hamlet, struggling feebly in a yellow-and-black striped nightshirt. He craned his head around desperately, to see Louise, her left arm still raised to the lamp cord, her right hand rock-steady and full of a deadly-looking weapon. Louise, all in powder blue froth-and-frills that were transparent enough to reveal not only her generous shape, but the black band of a belt about her waist. A holster, and a gun. Everything hung suspended for possibly three breaths. Then she slid back a step.
"Right, old man." Her voice had razors in it. "Make the story good, and fast. What brings you on the prowl at this hour?"
Sam let go and sat up. She moved instantly to keep her bead on the old man. Sam blinked hard, shook his head to clear-it.
"What's going on here? Hamlet?"
The old man blinked, but his face set into obstinacy. "Your dad gave me a message for you, but it's private. That's what he told me.
Only for you. I figured you'd be alone now."
"So did I." Sam swiveled his gaze back to Louise. "What the devil were you doing here, in my bed?"
"On it!" she corrected with gentle emphasis. "That can wait. I'll be back away out of earshot, and you go ahead and deliver the message—but don't overlook the fact that I can drill your eyeballs with this thing at twice the distance!"
"Not that kind of message." Hamlet was still mulish. "It's a recording. Keyed into the computer. I have the code combination."
Sam shook his head again and sighed. "This is ridiculous. Where are my clothes?"
Hamlet reached and handed him his pants and repeated, "Mr. Rex said particularly that it was private!"
"That's all right. I'll attend to it. You"—he glared around at Louise—"will stay here. You have some explaining to do."
The door burst open at that moment, and he got his head around just in time to see Venner come dashing in, also brandishing a weapon, also in an eyesore nighteliirt, and Joe looming behind him in sedate gray allovers.
"Is everybody raving mad?" he cried. What do you want?"
Venner glared right past him to Louise, and then at Hamlet.
"What are you doing here?"
"Old faithful snuck in here just now, Chief," Louise drawled, "to have a confidential chat with Sam. Claims he has a special private message left by Rex Hutten."
"Chief?" Sam caught at the word, aimed a scowl at Venner, who looked at a loss without his perpetual cigar. "Chief?"
"You have some explanations coming, Hutten, but let's get this bit about the message straightened out first. What
message?"
Old Hamlet shrank in on himself like a gnome. Sam eyed him, and sighed.
"It's supposed to be private. For my ears only."
"If it has any bearing on the killing . . ."
"How the devil can I tell until I hear it? See here, all of you, I have had just about enough of this. I don't remember asking for help, from any of you. I'm grateful for your help, of course. For everything you've done. But what have you done, anyway?"
"Just hold on a bit, son." Venner let his weapon sag. "You might not trunk you need us, but think again. Somebody tried to get you, twice. And somebody got your father. Nothing, so far as I know, is going to stop that somebody from trying again. Except us, and we aim to try. But as far as the message is concerned, well, you hear it, whatever it is, then you decide."
"Very well. I gather it is in the business computer. Lead on, Hamlet. I'll let you know, Chief."
As the old man shuffled away Sam heard Venner muttering "Better scare up one of those robots to bring coffee. We're going to have some talking to do in a minute."
The body was gone from the office, but it took Sam some effort to sit himself in that chair and key in the code settings that old Hamlet had memorized so carefully. As soon as the old man had gone out and shut the door, Sam took a deep breath and touched the read-out switch. The voice came as casually and naturally as if his father were sitting there with him.
"Hello, Sam." There was no emphasis, just gruff calm. "If you've got this far then it's pretty bad, and I'm sorry about that, but at least you'll know that it's something more than the senile ravings of an old fool. I'm storing this in the computer, and 111 give the key to Jeff, just in case something should come up to stop me from telling you all this in person. It has come up, if you are hearing me now. All right, let me put you in the picture. This has to be personal because it's nothing more than suspicions, so you may have to keep it under your hat. You'll be the best judge of that. Anyway, it's no secret, and you can check it, that this three-planet system is pretty well owned and run by eight men. Myself, Brandt and Eklund, right here on Verdan; Mullens and Armario on Zera; Silverstein, Groot and Lemkov on Ophir. You claim to have no interest in business or money, so a word or two about that will help. I control all the grain, wheat mostly, and other root and fruit produce. Eklund handles all the livestock. Max Brandt is responsible for all the processing and packaging, the marketing. Mullens and
Armario have the corner in petro-chemicals, synthetics and fuels, while the Ophir group make a big thing out of ores, rare earths, gems and semiprecious stones and stuff like that. The main point is this: wheat is still the major cash earner, and I'm still the head man, chairman and president. Not that I'm any dictator, but they usually go along with what I say.
"Until about a year ago, that is. That's when it started, just a small sense of things not being quite right. Gall it a hunch. And it has been growing. There's nothing I can put my finger on, even now, but I get the impression, stronger all the time, that the rest, damn them, have gone power-happy over some sort of secession notion, to cut loose from Earth and set up an independent state. And, take it from me, Sam, this is lunacy! We are not economically viable as an independent unit, nor will we be for a couple of decades yet. We need Earth markets to survive, but Earth can do without us any old time. Anyway, you take my word for it, it would be the craziest thing we could do. Now, as I say, this is just suspicion. I've tried to squeeze something out into the open, but all I get is evasion and hints, and I can't help thinking that somebody—I don't know who—is rigging this thing against me. And that's why I need you. Business I can handle, anything economic—but when power-politics start creeping in, I bow out. I do not understand the power-complex, can't handle it. You're a sociologist, maybe you can. Maybe, at least, you can advise me on what's best to do. I need that, because this system is rich, believe me, and wealth means power, big power. I do not want it to explode in my face."
The gruff old voice halted, and Sam shook his head, frowning. Nothing he had heard so far indicated the need for fear or secrecy, not to this extent anyway. Business conflicts?
"This next bit is the hard part, Sam." Old Rex's voice took on an uncertain tone now, the half-humorous gruffness of the man who does not expect to be believed. "I reckon somebody is trying to get rid of me. Me in person, befcause I stand in the way. Maybe that's inflated ego, I don't know, but I feel it. And I am being haunted—and that is factual. I am hearing voices, being plagued by dreams and visions. No, I am not cracking up—I had Fisher check me over, just to make sure. He may not be the finest doctor ever, but he's good enough. And I am still hearing voices, whisperings in my mind when there's no one around. I didn't tell him
that, of course. And the voices? Well, again nothing I can pin down, but the general sense is this kind of thing: 'Soon now we will be strong enough to pull Earth down. We of Ceti will be the new world, the new rulers. Millions will flock to our cause. Those who stand in our way will be destroyed/ Stuff like that. Just whispers and hints, and the strong impression of one ruling personality at the back of it all."
The voice paused again, and Sam stifled a groan. Despite the doctor, it was obvious that the old man's mind was cracking, and he must have known it. It must have been hell for him. The voice came again, wearily now.
"That's about it, Sam. Just recently everything has turned sour, the voices have increased in power, and the conviction is growing that the whole system is on the point of blowing up into a crazy war with Earth. So I'm sending for you, in the hope that you'll be able to advise me what to do with
this insane revolution. And if I am going loose in the head,
I need somebody reliable to take over in my place. It has to be you; there's no one else. And, as I say, if you've got this far, it damn well has to be you. I hope you can handle it. Goodbye, son."
The machine click indicated the end of the message. Sam sat, rubbed his cheek, and felt helpless. According to Fisher, the doctor, the old man had been fit and well. According to this, he had been anything but. And yet he had been killed. And he had warned the Chief of Police. And, Sam thought, somebody had tried, more than once, to eliminate the heir, too. He shook his head at it, tried to recover his fine aca-
demic detachment, and failed utterly. It was a mess, and there was no sense whatever in trying to pretend that he wasn't involved. He was
in it, like it or not. He got up, went to, the door, called Venner.
"You might as well listen to it. You may be able to get
something out of it. I can't. But I tell you this: I want action of some kind."
They all went in to listen, leaving him to sit outside and sip at a coffee brought him by one of the mechanicals, and think. When they came to join him Venner's face was a study in bewilderment. From somewhere he had got himself a cigar, and now he gnashed on it savagely. But Sam was reminded of something else.
Let's start," he suggested harshly, "by explaining you
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three. Let's have the truth this time.
"Just change one item," Venner snapped. "Louise is one
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of us. Why? Hutten, when you're chasing drugs, you'rt digging dirt. You're after people without scruples or mora sense. You can't trust anybody. I set Louise to tail you fron Earth, while I crossed your path on Mars. Our little charad< was to baffle you, just in case. Now, well, I reckon it's dif ferent, no point in doubting you, or your father." "But she was in my bed, damn it!"
"On it!" Louise repeated her correction. "And you wen in no state to notice or care. Sam, it has always been m^ private dream that some day I would hook a millionaire and live happily ever after—and you're the nearest thing tc ideal I've struck so far—but not like that!" He started tc feel angry, then recognized her wry humor under the word" and sank back. She went on deliberately, "Somebody triec1 to kill you. Somebody did kill your father. We couldn'l take any chances."
"All right." Sam sighed. "But who? And how?"
"Two good questions. If only we had two good answers to match."
"I will swear, on what reputation I have," Venner growled, "that nobody broke into that room. The medical report is a mess. Strong similarities to electric shock and convulsions, but no other signs except a curious burn-mark in the palm of his right hand. Joe and I have checked that equipment six ways. If he was electrocuted, we can't find out how he did it, or how anyone could have done it to him. As for who, if you want to believe that a gang of multimillionaires would gang up on one of their number and wipe him out because he was standing up against some plan of conquest, and do it by some kind of black magic—you can. I won't buy that."
