Well, it’s Reich for Demolition, Jax. We tripped him up in that talk,and sneaked a peep in Maria’s study just to make sure. Ben’s our boy.
You’ll never prove it, Linc.
Can the guards help?
Uh-huh.
Nothing much!
And how The Gilt Corpse can screech.
Not a chance. They’ve lost one solid hour. De Santis says their retinal rhodopsin was destroyed. That’s the visual purple…what you see with in your eye. As far as the guards are concerned, they were on duty and alert. Nothing happened until the mob suddenly blew in, and Maria was screeching at them for falling asleep on the job…which they emphatically swear they did not.
But we know it was Reich.
You know it was Reich. Nobody else does.
He went up there while the guests were playing the Sardine game. He destroyed the guards’ visual purple some way and robbed them of an hour of time. He went into the Orchid Suite and killed D’Courtney. The girl got mixed up in it, somehow, which is why she ran.
How?
How did he kill D’Courtney?
And last of all: why did he kill D’Courtney?
I don’t know. I don’t know any of the answers…yet.
You’ll never get a Demolition that way.
That I do know.
Uh-huh.
You’ve got to show motive, method, and opportunity, objectively. All you’ve got is a peeper’s knowledge that Reich killed D’Courtney.
Uh-huh.
Did you peep how or why?
Couldn’t get in deep enough…not with Jo ¼maine watching me.
And you’ll probably never get in. Jo’s too careful.
Hell & Damnation! Jackson, we need the girl.
Barbara D’Courtney?
Yes. She’s the key. If she can tell us what she saw and why she ran, we’ll satisfy a court. Collate everything we’ve got so far and file it. It won’t do us any good without the girl. Let everyone go. They won’t do us any good without the girl. We’ll have to back-track on Reich…see what collateral evidence we can dig up, but—
I agree.
Right.
I’m beginning to hate her.
But it won’t help without that goddam girl.
Times like this, Mr. Beck, I hate women too. For Christ’s sake, why are they all trying to get me married?
Image of a horse laughing.
Sar(censored)castic retort.
Sar(censored)donic reply.
(censored)
Having had the last word, Powell got to his feet and left the picture gallery. He crossed the overpass, descended to the music room and entered the main hall. He saw Reich, ¼maine, and Tate standing alongside the fountain, deep in conversation. Once again he fretted over the frightening problem of Tate. If the little peeper really was mixed up with Reich, as Powell had suspected at his party the week before, he might be mixed up in this killing.
The idea of a 1st class Esper, a pillar of the Guild, participating in murder was unthinkable; yet, if actually the fact, a son of a bitch to prove. Nobody ever got anything from a 1st without full consent. And if Tate was (incredible…impossible…100-1 against) working with Reich, Reich himself might prove impregnable. Resolving on one last propaganda attack before he was forced to resort to police work, Powell turned toward the group.
He caught their eyes and directed a quick command to the peepers: “Jo. Gus. Jet off. I want to say something to Reich. I don’t want you to hear. I won’t peep him or record his words. That’s a pledge.”
¼maine and Tate nodded, muttered to Reich and quietly departed. Reich watched them go with curious eyes and then looked at Powell. “Scare ’em off?” he inquired.
“Warned them off. Sit down, Reich.”
They sat on the edge of the basin, looking at each other in a friendly silence.
“No,” Powell said after a pause, “I’m not peeping you.”
“Didn’t think you were. But you did in Maria’s study, eh?”
“Felt that?”
“No. Guessed. It’s what I would have done.”
“Neither of us is very trustworthy, eh?”
“Pfutz!” Reich said emphatically. “We don’t play girl’s rules. We play for keeps, both of us. It’s the cowards and weaklings and sore-losers who hide behind rules and fair play.”
“What about honor and ethics?”
“We’ve got honor in us, but it’s our own code…not the make-believe rules some frightened little man wrote for the rest of the frightened little men. Every man’s got his own honor and ethics, and so long as he sticks to ’em, who’s anybody else to point the finger? You may not like his ethics, but you’ve no right to call him unethical.”
Powell shook his head sadly. “You’re two men, Reich. One of them’s fine; and the other’s rotten. If you were all killer, it wouldn’t be so bad. But there’s half louse and half saint in you, and that makes it worse.”
“I knew it was going to be bad when you winked,” Reich grinned. “You’re tricky, Powell. You really scare me. I never can tell when the punch is coming or which way to duck.”
“Then for God’s sake stop ducking and get it over with,” Powell said. His voice burned. His eyes burned. Once again he terrified Reich with his intensity. “I’m going to lick you on this one, Ben: I’m going to strangle the lousy killer in you, because I admire the saint. This is the beginning of the end, for you. You know it. Why don’t you make it easier for yourself?”
For an instant, Reich wavered on the verge of surrender. Then he mustered himself to meet the attack. “And give up the best fight of my life? No. Never in a million years, Linc. We’re going to slug this out straight down to the finish.”
Powell shrugged angrily. They both arose. Instinctively, their hands met in the four-way clasp of final farewell.
“I lost a great partner in you,” Reich said.
“You lost a great man in yourself, Ben.”
“Enemies?”
“Enemies.”
It was the beginning of Demolition.
7
The Police Prefect of a city of seventeen and one half millions cannot be tied down to a desk. He does not have files, memoranda, notes, and reels of red tape. He has three Esper secretaries, memory wizards all, who carry within their minds the minutiae of his business. They accompany him around headquarters like a triple index. Surrounded by his flying squad (nicknamed Wynken, Blynken, and Nod by the staff) Powell jetted through Center Street, assembling the material for his fight.
To Commissioner Crabbe he laid out the broad outlines once more. “We need motive, method, and opportunity, Commissioner. We’ve got possible opportunity so far, but that’s all. You know Old Man Mose. He’s going to insist on hard fact evidence.”
“Old Man who?” Crabbe looked startled.
“Old Man Mose,” Powell grinned. “That’s our nickname for the Mosiac Multiplex Prosecution Computer. You wouldn’t want us to use his full name, would you? We’d strangle.”
“That confounded adding machine!” Crabbe snorted.
“Yes, sir. Now, I’m ready to go all out on Ben Reich and Monarch to get that evidence for Old Man Mose. I want to ask you a straight question. Are you willing to go all out too?”
Crabbe, who resented and hated all Espers, turned purple and shot up from the ebony chair behind the ebony desk in his ebony-and-silver office. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Powell?”
“Don’t sound for undercurrents, sir. I’m merely asking if you’re tied to Reich and Monarch in any way. Will you be embarrassed when the heat’s on? Will it be possible for Reich to come to you and get our rockets cooled?”
“No, it will not, damn you.”
“Sir:” Wynken shot at Powell. “On December 4th last, Commissioner Crabbe discussed the Monolith Case with you. Extract follows:
POWELL:
There’s a tricky financial angle to this business, Commissioner. Monarch may hold us up with a Demurrer.
&n
bsp; CRABBE:
Reich’s given me his word he won’t; and I can always depend on Ben Reich. He backed me for County Attorney.
End quote.”
“Right, Wynk. I thought there was something in Crabbe’s file.” Powell switched his tactics and glared at Crabbe. “What the devil are you trying to hand me? What about your campaign for County D.A.? Reich backed you for that, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“And I’m supposed to believe he hasn’t continued supporting you?”
“Damn you, Powell—Yes, you are. He backed me then. He has not supported me since.”
“Then I have the beacon on the Reich murder?”
“Why do you insist that Ben Reich killed that man? It’s ridiculous. You’ve got no proof. Your own admission.”
Powell continued to glare at Crabbe.
“He didn’t kill him. Ben Reich wouldn’t kill anybody. He’s a fine man who—”
“Do I have your beacon on this murder?”
“All right, Powell. You do.”
“But with strong reservations. Make a note, boys. He’s scared to death of Reich. Make another note. So am I.”
To his staff, Powell said: “Now look—You all know what a cold-blooded monster Old Man Mose is. Always screaming for facts—facts—evidence—unassailable proof. We’ll have to produce evidence to convince that damned machine he ought to prosecute. To do that we’re going to pull the Rough & Smooth on Reich. You know the method. We’ll assign a clumsy operative and a slick one to every subject. The cluck won’t know the smoothie is on the job. Neither will the subject. After he’s shaken the Rough Tail he’ll imagine he’s clear. That makes it a cinch for the slicker. And that’s what we’re going to do to Reich.”
“Check,” said Beck.
“Go through every department. Pull out a hundred low-grade cops. Put ’em in plainclothes and assign ’em to the Reich case. Go up to Lab and get hold of every crackpot tracer-robot that’s been submitted in the last ten years. Put all the gadgets to work on the Reich case. Make this whole package a Rough tail…the kind he won’t have any trouble shaking, but the kind he’ll have to work to shake.”
“Any specific areas?” Beck inquired.
“Why were they playing ‘Sardine’? Who suggested the game? The Beaumont’s secretaries went on record that Reich couldn’t be peeped because he had a song kicking around in his skull. What song? Who wrote it? Where’d Reich hear it? Lab says, the guards were blasted with some kind of Visual Purple Ionizer. Check all research on that sort of thing. What killed D’Courtney? Let’s have lots of weapon research. Backtrack on Reich’s relations with D’Courtney. We know they were commercial rivals. Were they deadly enemies? Was it a profitable murder? A terrified murder? What and how much does Reich stand to win by D’Courtney’s death?”
“Jesus!” Beck exclaimed. “All this Rough? We’ll louse the case, Linc.”
“Maybe. I don’t think so. Reich’s a successful man. He’s had a string of victories that’s made him cocky. I think he’ll bite. He’ll imagine he’s outsmarting us every time he outmaneuvers one of our decoys. Keep him thinking that. We’re going to run into some brutal public relations. The news’ll tear us apart. But play along with it. Rave. Rant. Make outraged statements. We’re all going to be blundering, outwitted cops…and while Reich’s eating himself fat on that diet—”
“You’ll be eating Reich,” Beck grinned. “What about the girl?”
“She’s the one exception to the Rough Routine. We level with her. I want a description and photo sent to every police officer in the country within one hour. On the bottom of the stat we announce that the man who locates her will automatically be jumped five grades.”
“Sir: Regulations forbid elevation of more than three ranks at any time.” Thus spake Nod.
“To hell with Regulations,” Powell snapped. “Five grades to the man who finds Barbara D’Courtney. I’ve got to get that girl.”
In Monarch Tower, Ben Reich shoved every piezo crystal off his desk into the startled hands of his secretaries.
“Get the hell out of here and take all this slok with you,” he growled.
“From now on the office coasts without me. Understand? Don’t bother me.”
“Mr. Reich, we’d understood you were contemplating taking over the D’Courtney interests now that Craye D’Courtney’s dead. If you—”
“I’m taking care of that right now. That’s why I don’t want to be bothered. Now beat it. Jet!”
He horded the terrified squad toward the door, pushed them out, slammed the door and locked it. He went to the phone, punched BD-12,232 and waited impatiently. After too long a time, the image of Jerry Church appeared against a background of pawnshop debris.
“You?” Church snarled and reached for the cut-off.
“Me. On business. Still interested in reinstatement?”
Church stared. “What about it?”
“You’ve made yourself a deal. I’m starting action on your reinstatement at once. And I can do it, Jerry. I own the league of Esper Patriots. But I want a lot in return.”
“For God’s sake, Ben. Anything. Just ask me.”
“That’s what I want.”
“Anything?”
“And everything. Unlimited service. You know the price I’m paying. Are you selling?”
“I’m selling, Ben. Yes.”
“And I want Keno Quizzard too.”
“You can’t want him, Ben. He isn’t safe. Nobody gets anything from Quizzard.”
“Set up a meeting. Same old place. Same time. This is like it used to be, eh, Jerry? Only this time it’s going to have a happy ending.”
The usual line was assembled in the anteroom of the Esper Guild Institute when Lincoln Powell entered. The hopeful hundreds, all ages, all sexes, all classes, each dreaming that he had the magic quality that could make life the fulfillment of fantasy, unaware of the heavy responsibility that quality entailed. The naivete of those dreams always made Powell smile. Read minds and make a killing on the market… (Guild Law forbade speculation or gambling by peepers) Read minds and know the answers to all exam questions… (That was a schoolboy, unaware that Esper Proctors were hired by Examination Boards to prevent that kind of peeper-cheating) Read minds and know what people really think of me… Read minds and know which girls are willing… Read minds and be like a King…
At the desk, the receptionist wearily broadcast on the widest TP band: If you can hear me, please go through the door on the left marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. If you can hear me, please go through the door on the left marked EMPLOYEES ONLY…
To an assured young socialite, with a checkbook in her hand, she was saying: “No, Madame. The Guild does not charge for training and instruction, your offer is worthless. Please go home, Madame. We can do nothing for you.”
Deaf to the basic test of the Guild, the woman turned away angrily, to be succeeded by the schoolboy.
If you can hear me, please go through the door on the left…
A young Negro suddenly detached himself from the line, glanced uncertainly at the receptionist, and then walked to the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. He opened it and entered. Powell was excited. Latent Espers turned up infrequently. He’d been fortunate to arrive at this moment.
He nodded to the receptionist and followed the Latent through the door. Inside, two of the Guild staff were enthusiastically shaking the surprised man’s hand and patting him on the back. Powell joined them for a moment and added his congratulations. It was always a happy day for the Guild when they unearthed another Esper.
Powell walked down the corridor toward the president’s suite. He passed a kindergarten where thirty children and ten adults were mixing speech and thought in a frightful patternless mish-mash. Their instructor was patiently broadcasting: “Think, class. Think. Words are not necessary. Think. Remember to break the speech reflex. Repeat the first rule after me…”
And the class chanted: “Eliminate the Larynx.”
Po
well winced and moved on. The wall opposite the kindergarten was covered by a gold plaque on which was engraved the sacred words of the Esper Pledge:
I will look upon him who shall have taught me this Art as one of my parents. I will share my substance with him, and I will supply his necessities if he be in need. I will regard his offspring even as my own brethren and I will teach them this Art by precept, by lecture, and by every mode of teaching; and I will teach this Art to all others. The regimen I adopt shall be for the benefit of mankind according to my ability and judgment, and not for hurt or wrong. I will give no deadly thought to any, though it be asked of me.
Whatsoever mind I enter, there will I go for the benefit of man, refraining from all wrong-doing and corruption. Whatsoever thoughts I see or hear in the mind of man which ought not to be made known, I will keep silence thereon, counting such things to be as sacred secrets.
In the lecture hall, a class of 3rds was earnestly weaving simple basket patterns while they discussed current events. There was one little overdue 2nd, a twelve-year-old, who was adding zig-zag ad libs to the dull discussion and peaking every zig with a spoken word. The words rhymed and were barbed comments on the speakers. It was amusing and amazingly precocious.
Powell found the president’s suite in an uproar. All the office doors were open, and clerks and secretaries were scurrying. Old T’sung H’sai, the president, a portly mandarin with shaven skull and benign features, stood in the center of his office and raged. He was so angry he was shouting, and the shock of the articulated words made his staff shake.
The Demolished Man Page 8
