“I don’t care what the scoundrels call themselves,” T’sung H’sai roared. “They’re a gang of selfish, self-seeking reactionaries. Talk to me about purity of the race, will they? Talk to me about aristocracy, will they? I’ll talk to them. I’ll fill their ears. Miss Prinn! Miss Pr-i-nnnnn!”
Miss Prinn crept into T’sung’s office, horrified at the prospect of oral dictation.
“Take a letter to these devils. To the League of Esper Patriots. Gentlemen…Good morning, Powell. Haven’t seen you in eons… How’s Dishonest Abe? The organized campaign of your clique to cut down Guild Taxation and appropriations for the education of Espers and the dissemination of Esper training to mankind is conceived in a spirit of treachery and fascism. Paragraph…”
T’sung wrenched himself from his diatribe and winked profoundly at Powell. “And have you found the peeper of your dreams yet?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“Confound you, Powell. Get married!” T’sung bellowed. “I don’t want to be stuck with this job forever. Paragraph, Miss Prinn: You speak of the hardships of taxation, of preserving the aristocracy of Espers, of the unsuitability of the average man for Esper training…What do you want, Powell?”
“I want to use the grapevine, sir.”
“Well don’t bother me. Speak to my #2 girl. Paragraph, Miss Prinn: Why don’t you come out into the open? You parasites want Esper powers reserved for an exclusive class so you can turn the rest of the world into a host for your blood-sucking! You leeches want to—”
Powell tactfully closed the door and turned to T’sung’s second secretary, who was quaking in a corner.
“Are you really scared?”
Image of an eye winking.
Image of a question mark quaking.
“When Papa T’sung blows his top we like him to think we’re petrified. Makes him happier. He hates to be reminded that he’s a Santa Claus.”
“Well, I’m Santa Claus too. Here’s something for your stocking.” Powell dropped the official police description and portrait of Barbara D’Courtney on the secretary’s desk.
“What a beautiful girl,” she exclaimed.
“I want this sent out on the grapevine. Marked urgent. A reward goes with it. Pass the word that the peeper who locates Barbara D’Courtney for me will have his Guild taxes remitted for a year.”
“Jeepers!” the secretary sat bolt upright. “Can you do that?”
“I think I’m big enough in Council to swing it.”
“This’ll make the grapevine jump.”
“I want it to jump. I want every peeper to jump. If I want anything for Xmas, I want that girl.”
Quizzard’s Casino had been cleaned and polished during the afternoon break…the only break in a gambler’s day. The EO and Roulette tables were brushed, the Birdcage sparkled, the Hazard and Bank Crap boards gleamed green and white. In crystal globes, the ivory dice glistened like sugar cubes. On the cashier’s desk, sovereigns, the standard coin of gambling and the underworld, were racked in tempting stacks. Ben Reich sat at the billiard table with Jerry Church and Keno Quizzard, the blind croupier. Quizzard was a giant pulp-like man, fat, with flaming red beard, dead white skin, and malevolent dead white eyes.
“Your price,” Reich told Church, “you know already. And I’m warning you, Jerry. If you know what’s good for you, don’t try to peep me. I’m poison. If you get into my head you’re getting into Demolition. Think about it.”
“Jesus,” Quizzard murmured in his sour voice. “As bad as that? I don’t hanker for a Demolition, Reich.”
“Who does? What do you hanker for, Keno?”
“A question.” Quizzard reached back and with sure fingers pulled a rouleau of sovereigns off the desk. He let them cascade from one hand to the other. “Listen to what I hanker for.”
“Name the best price you can figure, Keno.”
“What’s it for?”
“To hell with that. I’m buying unlimited service with expenses paid. You tell me how much I’ve got to put up to get it—guaranteed.”
“That’s a lot of service.”
“I’ve got a lot of money.”
“You got a hundred Ms laying around?”
“One hundred thousand. Right? That’s the price.”
“For the love of…” Church popped upright and stared at Reich. “A hundred thousand?”
“Make up your mind, Jerry,” Reich growled. “Do you want money or reinstatement?”
“It’s almost worth—No. Am I crazy? I’ll take reinstatement.”
“Then stop drooling.” Reich turned to Quizzard. “The price is one hundred thousand.”
“In sovereigns?”
“What else? Now, d’you want me to put the money up in advance or can we get to work right off?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Reich,” Quizzard protested.
“Frab that,” Reich snapped. “I know you, Keno. You’ve got an idea you can find out what I want and then shop around for higher bids. I want you committed right now. That’s why I let you set the price.”
“Yeah,” Quizzard said slowly. “I had that idea, Reich.” He smiled and the milk-white eyes disappeared in folds of skin. “I still got that idea.”
“Then I’ll tell you right now who’ll buy from you. A man named Lincoln Powell. Trouble is, I don’t know what he’d pay.”
“Whatever it is, I don’t want it.” Quizzard spat.
“It’s me against Powell, Keno. That’s the whole auction. I’ve placed my bid. I’m still waiting to hear from you.”
“It’s a deal,” Quizzard replied.
“All right,” Reich said, “now listen to this. First job. I want a girl. Her name is Barbara D’Courtney.”
“The killing?” Quizzard nodded heavily. “I thought so.”
“Any objections?”
Quizzard jingled gold from one hand to the other and shook his head.
“I want the girl. She blew out of the Beaumont House last night and no one knows where she landed. I want her, Keno. I want her before the police get her.”
Quizzard nodded.
“She’s about twenty-five. About five-five. Around a hundred and twenty pounds. Stacked. Thin waist. Long legs…”
The fat lips smiled hungrily. The dead white eyes glistened.
“Yellow hair. Black eyes. Heart shaped face. Full mouth and a kind of aquiline nose… She’s got a face with character. It jabs out at you. Electric.”
“Clothes?”
“She was wearing a silk dressing gown last time I saw her. Frosty white and translucent…like a frozen window. No shoes. No stockings. No hat. No jewelry. She was off her beam… Crazy enough to tear out into the streets and disappear. I want her.” Something compelled Reich to add: “I want her undamaged. Understand?”
“With her hauling a freight like that? Have a heart, Reich.” Quizzard licked his fat lips. “You don’t stand a chance. She don’t stand a chance.”
“That’s what a hundred Ms are for. I stand a good chance if you get her fast enough.”
“I may have to slush for her.”
“Then slush. Check every bawdy house, bagnio, Blind Tiger, and frab-joint in the city. Pass the word down the grapevine. I’m willing to pay. I don’t want any fuss. I just want the girl. Understand?”
Quizzard nodded, still jingling the gold. “I understand.”
Suddenly Reich reached across the table and slashed Quizzard’s fat hands with the edge of his palm. The sovereigns chimed into the air and clattered into the four corners.
“And I don’t want any double-cross,” Reich growled in a deadly voice. “I want the girl.”
8
Seven days of combat.
One week of action and reaction, attack and defense, all fought on the surface while deep below the agitated waters Powell and Augustus Tate swam and circled like silent sharks awaiting the onset of the real war.
A patrol officer, now in plainclothes, believed in the surprise attack. He waylaid Maria Beaumont d
uring a theater intermission, and before her horrified friends bellowed: “It was a frame. You were in cahoots with the killer. You set up the murder. That’s why you was playin’ that Sardine game. Go ahead and answer me.”
The Gilt Corpse squawked and ran. As the Rough Tail set off in hot pursuit, he was peeped deeply and thoroughly.
Tate to Reich: The cop was telling the truth. His department believes Maria was an accomplice.
Reich to Tate: All right. We’ll throw her to the wolves. Let the cops have her.
In consequence, Madame Beaumont was left unprotected. She took refuge, of all places, in the Loan Brokerage that was the source of the Beaumont fortune. The patrol officer located her there three hours later and subjected her to a merciless grilling in the office of the peeple Credit Supervisor. He was unaware that Lincoln Powell was just outside the office, chatting with the Supervisor.
Powell to staff: She got the game out of some ancient book Reich gave her. Probably purchased at Century. They handle that stuff. Pass the word. Did he ask for it specifically? Also, check Graham, the appraiser. How come the only intact game in the book was ‘Sardine’? Old Man Mose’ll want to know. And where’s that girl?
A traffic officer, now in plainclothes, was going to come through on his Big Chance with the suave approach. To the manager and staff of the Century Audio-bookstore, he drawled: “I’m in the market for old game books… The kind my very good friend, Ben Reich, asked for last week.”
Tate to Reich: I’ve been peeping around. They’re going to check that book you sent Maria.
Reich to Tate: Let ’em. I’m covered. I’ve got to concentrate on that girl.
The manager and staff carefully explained matters at great length in response to the Rough Tail’s suave questions. Many clients lost patience and left the store. One sat quietly in a corner, too rapt in a crystal recording to realize he was left unattended. Nobody knew that Jackson Beck was completely tone-deaf.
Powell to staff: Reich apparently found the book accidentally. Stumbled over it while he was looking for a present for Maria Beaumont. Pass the word. And where’s that girl?
In conference with the agency that handled copy for the Monarch Jumper (“the only Family Air-Rocket on the market”), Reich came up with a new advertising program.
“Here’s the slant,” Reich said. “People always anthropomorphize the products they use. They attribute human characteristics to them. They give ’em pet names and treat ’em like family pets. A man would rather buy a Jumper if he can feel affectionate toward it. He doesn’t give a damn for efficiency. He wants to love that Jumper.”
“Check, Mr. Reich. Check!”
“We’re going to anthropomorphize our Jumper,” Reich said. “Let’s find a girl and vote her the Monarch Jumper Girl. When a consumer buys one, he’s buying the girl. When he handles one, he’s handling her.”
“Check!” the account man cried. “Your idea has a sense of solar scope that dwarfs us, Mr. Reich. This is a wrap-up and blast!”
“Start an immediate campaign to locate the Jumper Girl. Get every salesman onto it. Comb the city. I want the girl to be about twenty-five. About five-five tall; weighing a hundred and twenty pounds. I want her built. Lots of appeal.”
“Check, Mr. Reich. Check.”
“She ought to be a blonde with dark eyes. Full mouth. Good strong nose. Here’s a sketch of my idea of the Jumper Girl. Look it over, have it reproduced and passed out to your crew. There’s a promotion for the man who locates the girl I have in mind.”
Tate to Reich: I’ve been peeping the police. They’re sending a man into Monarch to dig up collusion between you and that appraiser, Graham.
Reich to Tate: Let ’em. There isn’t anything, and Graham’s left town on a buying spree. Something between me and Graham! Powell couldn’t be that dumb, could he? Maybe I’ve been overrating him.
Expense was no object to a squadman, now in plainclothes, who believed in the disguises of plastic surgery. Freshly equipped with mongoloid features, he took a job in Monarch Utilities’ Accounting-city and attempted to unearth Reich’s financial relations with Graham, the appraiser. It never occurred to him that his intent had been peeped by Monarch’s Esper Personnel Chief, reported upstairs, and that upstairs was quietly chuckling.
Powell to staff: Our stooge was looking for bribery recorded in Monarch’s books. This should lower Reich’s opinion of us by fifty per cent; which makes him fifty per cent more vulnerable. Pass the word. Where’s that girl?
At the board meeting of “The Hour,” the only round-the-clock paper on earth, twenty-four editions a day, Reich announced a new Monarch charity.
“We’re calling it ‘Sanctuary’,” he said. “We offer aid and comfort and sanctuary to the city’s submerged millions in their time of crisis. If you’ve been evicted, bankrupted, terrorized, swindled… If you’re frightened, for any reason and don’t know where to turn… If you’re desperate… Take Sanctuary.”
“It’s a terriffic promotion,” the managing editor said, “but it’ll cost like crazy. What’s it for?”
“Public Relations,” Reich snapped. “I want this to hit the next edition. Jet!”
Reich left the board room, went down to the street and located a public phone booth. He called “Recreation” and gave careful instructions to Ellery West. “I want a man placed in every Sanctuary office in the city. I want a full description and photo of every applicant relayed to me at once. At once, Ellery. As they come in.”
“I’m not asking any questions, Ben, but I wish I could peep you on that.”
“Suspicious?” Reich snarled.
“No. Just curious.”
“Don’t let it kill you.”
As Reich left the booth, a man clothed in an air of inept eagerness accosted him.
“Oh, Mr. Reich. Lucky I bumped into you. I just heard about Sanctuary and I thought a human interest interview with the originator of this wonderful new charity might—”
Lucky he bumped into him! The man was the “Industrial Critic’s” famous peeper reporter. Probably tailed him down and—Tenser, said the Tensor. Tenser, said the Tensor. Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun.
“No comment,” Reich mumbled. Eight, sir; seven, sir; six, sir; five, sir…
“What childhood episode in your life brought about the realization of this crying need for—”
Four, sir; three, sir; two, sir; one…
“Was there ever a time when you didn’t know where to turn? Were you ever afraid of death or murder? Were—”
Tenser, said the Tensor. Tenser, said the Tensor. Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun.
Reich dove into a Public Jumper and escaped.
Tate to Reich: The cops are really after Graham. They’ve got their entire Lab looking for the appraiser. God knows what kind of red-herring Powell’s following, but it’s away from you. I think the safety margin’s increasing.
Reich to Tate: Not until I’ve found that girl.
Marcus Graham had left no forwarding address and was pursued by half a dozen impractical tracer-robots dug up by the police lab. They were accompanied by their impractical inventors to various parts of the solar system. In the meantime, Marcus Graham had arrived on Ganymede where Powell located him at an auction of rare primitive books conducted at break-neck speed by a peeper auctioneer. The books had been part of the Drake estate, inherited by Ben Reich from his mother. They had been unexpectedly dumped on the market.
Powell interviewed Graham in the foyer of the auction room, before a crystal port overlooking the arctic tundra of Ganymede with the belted red-brown bulk of Jupiter filling the black sky. Then Powell took the Fortnighter back to Earth, and Dishonest Abe was inspired by a pretty stewardess to disgrace him. Powell was not a happy man when he arrived at headquarters, and Wynken, Blynken, and Nod did some salacious wynking, blynking and nodding.
Powell to staff: No hope. I don’t know why Reich even bothered to decoy Graham to Ganymede with that sale
.
Beck to Powell: What about the game book?
Powell to Beck: Reich bought it, had it appraised, and sent it as a gift. It was in bad condition and the only game Maria could select was ‘Sardine.’ We’ll never get Mose to pin anything on Reich with that. I know how that machine’s mind works. Damn it! Where’s that girl!
Three low-grade operatives in succession were smitten with Miss Duffy Wyg& and retired in disgrace to don their uniforms once more. When Powell finally reached her, she was at the “4,000” Ball. Miss Wyg& was delighted to talk.
Powell to staff: I called Ellery West down at Monarch and he supports Miss Wyg&’s story. West did complain about gambling and Reich bought a psych-song to stop it. It looks like he picked up that mind-block by accident. What about that gimmick Reich used on the guards? And what about that girl?
In response to bitter criticism and loud laughter, Commissioner Crabbe gave an exclusive press interview in which he revealed that Police Laboratories had discovered a new investigation technique which would break the D’Courtney Case within 24 hours. It involved photographic analysis of the Visual Purple in the corpse’s eyes which would reveal a picture of the murderer. Rhodopsin researchers were being requisitioned by the police.
Unwilling to run the risk of having Wilson Jordon, the physiologist who had developed the Rhodopsin Ionizer for Monarch picked up and questioned by the police, Reich phoned Keno Quizzard and devised a ruse to get Dr. Jordon off the planet.
“I’ve got an estate on Callisto,” Reich said. “I’ll relinquish title and let a court throw it up for grabs. I’ll make sure the cards are stacked for Jordon.”
“And I tell Jordon?” Quizzard asked in his sour voice.
“We won’t be that obvious, Keno. We can’t leave a back-trail. Call Jordon. Make him suspicious. Let him find out the rest for himself.”
As a result of that conversation, an anonymous person with a sour voice phoned Wilson Jordon and casually attempted to purchase Dr. Jordon’s interest in the Drake estate on Callisto for a small sum. The sour voice sounded suspicious to Dr. Jordon, who had never heard of the Drake estate, and he called a lawyer. He was informed that he had just become the probable legatee to half a million credits. The astonished physiologist jetted for Callisto one hour later.
The Demolished Man Page 9
