Complete Fiction

by Hal Annas

  THE woman dropped her eyes and blushed. “You shouldn’t flatter a poor widow at a time like this,” she said coyly. “But how do you know all these things about me?”

  Zitts turned to the Venusian. “Show her, Zoo,” he said.

  Zoo uncrossed her graceful legs and leaned forward on the mechanical knee.

  “Why,” the blonde woman broke in, “does she sit on a thing like that? It—it’s so suggestive of sitting on a man’s lap.”

  Zitts smiled indulgently. “Miss Claustinkelwickwellopiandusselkuck,” he said, “attended an oldfashioned secretarial school. The reason for their training to sit on a man’s lap is lost in antiquity. But I have a feeling there was a good reason for it. In the twentieth century when bandits stalked the cities, when detectives were popping in and out of every second doorway in pursuit of murderers, and wiping off fingerprints in their wake, it is to be presumed that a man and his secretary undertook many things of a confidential nature. As a preliminary to such confidential things, a session of lap-sitting might’ve been just the thing. Of course we’ll never know for certain. But it is an honored custom in the old schools, and, of course, we cannot go against the dignity of the past.

  “Now, with your permission, I’ll have Zoo go ahead.”

  The woman nodded assent and the Venusian girl touched a lever on the side of the desk which Zitts could not reach without stretching. Instantly a round white globe, lighted by a faint yellow glow at its center, rose out of an opening in the desk. The blonde woman, sitting close, drew back with a gasp.

  “That’s me,” she said. “Inside the globe.”

  “Of course.” Zitts cocked an eyebrow at Zoo who pointed at the vision. “Notice closely,” Zitts went on. “Right there at the tip of Zoo’s claws. You are standing on the moving carpet in a lower corridor of this building. As I lay beneath this desk I was looking into that globe which was then visible below. It is now reproducing exactly what I saw.”

  THE woman had somewhat recovered, her poise and now leaned close and watched herself glide along the corridor on the moving carpet. “But I still don’t see—” she began.

  “You will when I explain,” Zitts informed her. “Look closely at your features. They are beautiful!”

  “Yes. But—”

  “It has been known for centuries,” Zitts declared, “that every thought has a physical reaction. Sometimes it is only glandular. But it is a short step from observing the reactions to reading the thoughts. The reactions, of course, differ in different people. It would be necessary to catalogue your reactions before I could specifically read your every thought. But certain key reactions are fairly Common, such as grief, fear, love, hate. In a glance you can tell whether a person is grieving, fearing, loving, hating. A study of reactions advances this talent remarkably. A little intelligent deduction, judgment, putting of two-and-two together, and it is possible to come fairly close to what anyone is thinking without knowing the catalogued reactions. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Go on,” the woman urged with interest. “But don’t read my exact thoughts. I wouldn’t want anyone to do that.”

  “I probably haven’t the language to read your exact thoughts,” Zitts assured her. “Shall I tell you how I knew your purpose in coming here?”

  “By all means.”

  “Look closely at the vision. It is smiling serenely to itself. That’s you a few minutes before you entered this office. That pleased expression means you have just conceived a bright idea, probably thinking you could palm off a ton of gold on me.”

  “But I never—”

  “Observe there where Zoo’s claws are pointing. A man approaches. Now look at your own face. You have suddenly remembered that one of your husbands is dead and the other is in the hands of the ratcatchers, and you are supposed to register sorrow. You do but it’s feigned. Your thoughts are more on the way the man is staring at your figure. Watch! Now you’re swaying your hips gracefully. Very nice! Now look! The man has passed you, glanced back once to see if you are still waving your hips, and gone on. You are no longer waving your shape. You’re thoughtful again. Oh, oh! You’ve turned on the waves again. Another man must be approaching. There he is, sure enough. That’s why you’re blinking your eyes now, to call attention to your long lashes. That will stop as soon as he passes, but your hips will wave a trifle more until you’re certain he’s out of range.”

  “Stop! Stop this minute,” the blonde cried. “You’re just making up all that.”

  ZITTS shrugged. “My dear Mrs. Brown and Smith, if you do not care to know how I learned of the purpose of your visit here, it is quite all right with me. No charge whatever for this interview. Zoo will show you to the corridor.”

  “B-but—but I do. But you don’t have to go into all of a woman’s secrets.”

  “Secrets?” Zitts lifted his hand a trifle, then let it fall, which inadvertently plunged the room into darkness and caused a grim voice to growl, “Don’t move! I’ll bum you in your tracks!” He corrected this at once, reassured the woman and briefly explained: “I often interview desperate characters in this room, Martians, Saturnians and even politicians. Have to protect myself.”

  “What were you saying about secrets?” the woman prodded with curiosity which had not evolved very much in ten thousand years.

  “Secrets?” Zitts repeated. “I wonder! Most actions and reactions are as obvious as the thoughts behind them. Secrets? I sometimes doubt there is such a thing. Shall I tell you what you are thinking now?”

  The woman blushed, shook her head. “Please don’t. I’ll try not to wish I could claw your eyes out anymore. Just go ahead and investigate my husband’s death.”

  Zitts rolled his eyes and looked at Zoo without moving. Zoo put her arms around the back of her seat, which slightly resembled a man, kissed it lightly and leaped nimbly to her feet. She glided smoothly to a corner, her figure undulating gracefully, and set in motion a four-wheeled machine which rolled to the center of the room and paused. Panels began to slide back from the machine, revealing its insides. Meanwhile Zitts explained:

  “The news of your second best husband’s death was on teleview,” he said. “I was interested in the case purely from an academic standpoint. With the machine you see on your left I watched the ratcatchers tearing up your apartment. The machine is called a key-skeleton. There isn’t another like it in our solar system. With this key-skeleton I can enter any apartment or domicile no matter how well it is locked. Not in the flesh, no. That would be far too much trouble. I simply bring your apartment into this room. Not materially, but three-dimensionally to all effect. I have already gone over your apartment thoroughly and can describe the man who killed your husband.”

  THE woman’s curving mouth popped open. “Why don’t you tell the ratcatchers?” she wanted to know.

  Zitts shrugged. “I haven’t the evidence to prove my theory. Besides, there is another phase of the case in which I am interested. The weapon which killed your husband was a strange, unearthly thing. Nothing like it is known to modern science. It is a hand weapon with a tube about six inches in length. Behind this tube is a six-chambered cylinder which appears to revolve when certain mechanisms are set in motion. Inscribed on it in ancient lettering is this legend: Colt. It is not known how this weapon works nor which end of it destroys. But the ratcatchers are going to experiment with it, and when they asked my advice I suggested that they hold the tube end of it toward their bodies. That seems the most harmless part of it. I also suggested that they line up behind one another when they do this, and stay away from the butt end of it. I expect to learn the results soon. Zoo! Turn on the machine.”

  Just as the machine was turned on a loud bang sounded in the room, and the woman gasped as the view lit up and showed four uniformed ratcatchers sprawled on the floor of what was obviously the ratcatchers’ lair. Zitts snorted in disgust.

  “Zoo!” he called. “Get in touch with the chief rat of the ratcatchers and tell him I said those men have clearly igno
red my advice. Tell him I said to caution the next men who experiment with that weapon. Tell him to see that they hold the tube next to their bodies, and tell him for the sake of safety to have six men line up behind one another. Better yet, he had better undertake the experiment himself. His men are careless. Like idiots they have been pointing the tube away from themselves and holding the butt near their bodies. Turn off the machine. The sight of those dead men and the smell of blood is offensive.”

  Zitts sat in gloomy silence until the woman spoke again. “Then you’ll bring the murderer to justice?” she ventured quietly.

  Zitts shook his head. “I’m interested in the weapon, not the murderer. Such a weapon is far beyond our science. We have only rays which kill without noise. That weapon makes a terrific bang. Seems far more fitting than silence, especially in murders resulting from hate. We might in another hundred years be able to duplicate it and put them on the market and sell them literally to millions who have a right to expect some entertainment as well as wind from their politicians. When a fellow felt in an ill humor he could destroy a politician with that weapon. The bang of it would immediately cheer him up.”

  THE woman leaned across the desk and tears came into her eyes. “If you don’t catch the man who killed my almost best husband,” she sobbed brokenly, “I won’t be able to get married more than a couple more times. Suspicion would fall on me and I don’t know but two men who would marry a murderess.”

  Zitts softened somewhat. “And if I do catch the murderer?” he said.

  The woman brightened, blew her nose and brushed away the tears. “I’ll be the happiest person in our galaxy,” she said, smiling. “I can marry six men tomorrow and probably twelve or fourteen the next day. You don’t know how wonderful it will be to have so many husbands that the loss of a few now and then won’t matter.”

  Zitts nodded sympathetically. “I can well understand,” he said. “But you shouldn’t expect me to use my training and intelligence for nothing. After all, I have ninety-six wives to support—partially—that is. Their other husbands contribute a bit now and then.”

  “I could give you a uranium mine,” the woman offered.

  “Uranium? Nonsense. It’s used only to flush sewers when they get gummed up. Haven’t you anything valuable?”

  “Platinum.”

  Zitts shook his head. “Used for ballast in deep-sea diving and then dumped in the ocean. Have you any humorous writings, such as an ancient Congressional Record?”

  “Never, heard of anything like that,” the woman replied. “Heard once there was some sort of record of congress which was destroyed because so many people died laughing over it.”

  “Exactly! Very dangerous,” Zitts went on. “But I could trade it to the Martians to use in their war against Jupiter. Even a Jovian, who can endure so many more gravities than we, couldn’t endure the weight of a Congressional Record. And if he could, he would either die laughing or become an epileptic. Have you got one?”

  “No!” The woman shook her head sadly. “I have a private atmosphere-runabout, a house with seventeen rooms in Florida, a ranch in California with ten thousand domesticated descendants of movie stars grazing on it, a plantation on Venus where I keep a herd of poets, a million acres of arable land on Uranus, a crater on the moon, and a chunk of what’s left of the ice at the North Pole. But I have nothing whatever valuable.”

  “No property on Mars?”

  “A single canal, but it’s worthless. It’s filled with billions and billions of barrels of oil. Have tried to give it away, but no one is fool enough to take it.”

  “H—m.” Zitts studied the woman with pity and understanding. “There should be some sort of charity to aid people in your poverty-ridden condition. I suppose I’ll have to handle the case for nothing. I wouldn’t do it for anybody else for less than a star of the sixth magnitude, but I do not believe in imposing on the poor.”

  “I have a nickel in ancient money,” the woman said softly.

  “What? A nickel? Good God, woman! For half of that I would solve every murder since the beginning of time and commit some of my own. Give me that nickel. Where did you get it? Don’t you know there are people who would cut ten thousand throats for a sum like that?”

  “I—I didn’t know it was valuable.”

  “It’s priceless! People will sell their souls, commit perjury, betray their friends, cheat their neighbors, buy and sell votes, and even do some good things for money.”

  “But such a little piece—”

  “Woman, you have no idea of values. Since money has become replaced by credit and barter, such pieces as this have become invaluable collectors’ items. Even before that it was valuable. You could buy a lead dime with it. And if you were clever enough you could use the lead dime to buy a tin half-dollar.

  Then you could change the half-dollar into wooden quarters and begin all over again. A shrewd man could amass a fortune in counterfeit dollars by such trading. Of course, he couldn’t buy anything with the counterfeit dollars, but reflection on the trading would strengthen his mind while he rested behind bars. At least that’s the way history relates it. Zoo! Take this precious nickel, handle it carefully and with due reverence, seal it in a tube, send it through the pneumatic to the armored transport, have them place a hundred men armed to the teeth about it, and escort it solemnly and without undue ostentation to the Universal Bank, that institution which covers eight square miles and towers ten thousand feet into the air, and deposit it with proper ceremony to my account. I shall be the wealthiest man on this planet and the envy of every creature in the galaxy. But don’t worry, Mrs. Brown and Smith! I shall not overcharge you. You have two cents change coming, a tidy sum—nay a fortune—and your case is as good as solved. Zoo! Sound the alarm. We go into action at once.”

  BELLS clanged, a siren screamed, a series of red lights flashed on and off and on and off, and a distant rumble shook the building. The blonde woman caught her breath, gripped the arms of her chair to steady herself, waited until the noise and the shaking had subsided, then asked, “Do you always go into action like that?”

  “Invariably,” Zitts affirmed serenely. “Seismographs all over the world register when Len Zitts launches himself in pursuit of a criminal, and the underworld trembles in despair. But,” he added a trifle wistfully, “it doesn’t register on Mars and Venus and they never send reporters and photographers. I’m thinking of installing a heavier vibrator. Zoo! You may inform the inquirers who will be hounding you in a moment that the nemesis of crime has plunged forth to strike death and terror to the heart of criminals. You may elaborate that a bit. Mention my towering figure, nearly five feet tall, and the bulging muscles which back up my eighty-six pounds of weight. You may also speak of my handsome features, but not in a manner to attract more than a few thousand women. I have enough wives already. Now! Clear the deck! Here we go.”

  The blonde woman gathered her small feet under her, preparing to leap out of the way, and she took a deep breath for fear all of the air would be sucked out of the room in the wake of his rush; but to her astonishment he merely slumped down in the chair and, to all appearance, went to sleep.

  “He’s in action now,” Zoo explained softly and musically. “Concentrating. He’ll come up with a plan in ten seconds.”

  THE prophecy proved true. Zitts opened his eyes with a start, rose an inch in the chair and winked three times at the Venusian girl. Instantly the girl sprang to the door on the right and swung it open, and a four-legged creature, with its tongue lolling out, waddled into the room and squatted on its haunches.

  “See!” Zoo cried in delight. “His plans always begin with Pupsie. The ancients called him a bloodhound. His species is almost extinct, but he’s smart and he claims his ancestors pursued criminals thousands of years ago.”

  “Claims?” the blonde woman exclaimed, aghast. “You mean, that four-legged creature can talk?”

  “Whaddya think?” said Pupsie. “Living generation after generation around
windbags who did nothing but talk, wasn’t it to be expected that dogs would eventually evolve to that stage themselves? Not that it is an improvement, mind you. Dogs had to learn in self-defense. Even back in the twentieth century hundreds of people everyday were asking questions of animals. ‘Ain’t oo the pretty little thing?’ ‘Does oo want a tiss, oo lovey dovey?’ The first words my ancestors learned to speak in answer to such questions were ‘Go to hell!’ The meaning of the phrase is lost in our modern language, possibly because my ancestors overworked it, using it every time a human opened his mouth to ask a question of an animal, until at length it had no meaning whatever.”

  “And you catch criminals?”

  “Catch anything,” said Pupsie, “that I can smell, if it deserves catching.”

  “Quiet!” Zitts roared, displaying his customary impatience when another usurped the floor. “Zoo! Fetch forth the Longsnozzle. And while you’re at it you can bracket this case as ‘The Longsnozzle Event.’ Mark that word ‘Event!’ I have a suspicion this is an insignificant case with not more than eight or ten murders involved.”

  “Eight or ten murders!” The blonde woman became deathly pale, “You mean, there is more than one murder?”

  ZITTS looked at the woman with pity in his brown eyes. “Woman, you evidently do not understand the psychology of murder. One always leads to another. It’s always been that way. Look at the murder stories of even the blind age of the twentieth century! Thirteen murders, ordinarily, on the first page. Seven on the second, and the balance strung out through the book. It is the aspiration of every collector to find a book with only one murder in it. Personally, for such a work I would offer seventy-five interstellar giant transports each loaded to bursting with ton upon ton of diamonds, emeralds, pearls, sapphires, oyster shells, and even those rare gems called kidney stones that come from the galaxies of innerspace—and, yes, even those magnificent broke-stones found only in a single planetary system in a galaxy on the very rim of outer space. These latter are practically untouchable, and the more you try to touch them the more broke-stone they become.”