Anderson, Poul - Novel 17 Read online

  The real detectives—Cargill and his helpers—were still hidden from him; this room was only the reception room. Still, it was all he had to go on. The most obvious of his companions was the receptionist herself—a sharp-eyed redhead, perhaps thirty, who manned her desk like an army defending a choice hunk of battlefield. Her strongest feelings—those he could hardly avoid—were concerned with a certain young man. He could not read her thoughts. That was an impossibility. Thoughts—except at the most conscious level—were not contained in words. They could not be seen and read line-by-line like the pages of a book. Thoughts erupted at random, bursting forth like the rays of the sun, without conscious dictation or direction; wholly separate conceptions frequently existed simultaneously. It was not a tidy process. The best a Superior could expect to know was the general aura—the atmosphere—of any given mind. To probe any deeper, interpretation was required.

  Alec deciphered the maelstrom of the woman's feelings to mean that she had once loved a man. For reasons he could not expect to discover, they had recently separated. Because no one else had appeared to assume this man's place in her life, he remained a dominant presence in her mind. Alec—it was his greatest weakness—could not help feeling sorry for her. After all, in spite of the fact that she was merely human, her situation was not greatly different from his with Anna. Perhaps they should get together and compare sad notes. He briefly considered a direct approach, stepping forward and asking her to lunch. Ah, but what would the Inner Circle think? They would know, as they seemed to know everything. Fraternization with the enemy. In times past, when Superiors were relatively few and disorganized, even intermarriage between the two species had occurred. But such relations—even the most tenuous—were strictly forbidden today. Too dangerous— and demeaning. After all, would any normal man be interested in taking a female gorilla to lunch?

  Besides which, the woman was really too simple for him. He was considerably more intrigued by the second woman in the room. She was somewhat younger than the other—probably about Anna's age—and much better looking, even beautiful, blonde, almost unearthly pale. Her thoughts and feelings radiated with such strength and power that it was difficult to avoid being swept under. Worse yet, her feelings were so strong that he could not decipher or interpret them. There was a deep, tremendous sadness there. Over what, or because of what, he couldn't begin to guess: the emotion itself was so vital that she failed to concentrate upon the subject itself. But he felt no pity for her. In spite of the bleakness of her emotions, an underpinning of undiluted strength of will remained firmly intact. This was a woman capable of taking on the whole world and its problems without faltering a step.

  He tried to make a guess as to the cause of her grief. A boyfriend or husband? Considering where they were, perhaps he had been arrested. But this explanation seemed far too banal to explain the woman. Perhaps he was failing to meet the matter directly. There was no reason to implicate a man—the woman herself might be the criminal. He himself was suspected of a minor murder—why not she as well? She had killed the boyfriend or husband. She was a little bit sorry now, and yet he had got what he had coming too. So she was both glad and sorry and maybe somewhat concerned with her own safety—the police might catch her and they might not.

  Hey now, he wanted to say. Don't let that worry you. I won't let them get you. When they ask, you tell them you spent the time of the murder in my company. A perfect alibi. We shared lunch in a mysterious little North Beach restaurant. We walked along the beach, watching the soiled waves. We—

  "Alec Richmond."

  "Oh." He looked up, glimpsing—half-hidden behind the receptionist and her desk—a small, round man dressed in black billowing burlap. "I'm Richmond."

  "Splendid." The man crooked a finger. "Inspector Cargill—remember me?"

  Alec stood up, irritated that this conversation was taking place in front of the woman. He glanced over at her, and she was watching, wide-eyed and interested. Her radiated feelings told him nothing. "We only spoke on the phone."

  "Of course." The finger went past his shoulder. "This way, please."

  Alec nodded and quickly followed the round man through a door behind the receptionist. Back here, the dirty floors and dim detectives remained hidden. They followed a long, narrow corridor, quite empty of life, to its end. Cargill opened a door and ushered Alec into a tiny, cluttered room. A massive steel desk occupied nearly the whole of the cubicle, piled high with scattered papers. Alec searched for a chair and finally discovered one in front of the desk. Cargill scurried around behind and sat down, his head nearly hidden from view.

  "Go ahead and sit," he told Alec. "Just dump that stuff on the floor."

  Alec removed a three-foot stack of papers from the chair and then sat down.

  "What do you want here?" Cargill asked.

  "I believe you asked to see me."

  "I did?" Cargill asked, his brow wrinkling in puzzlement.

  "Why, yes—yes, you told me—"

  "Ah." Cargill raised a finger toward the ceiling. "Of course—the body."

  "What?" Alec wasn't receiving a thing from Cargill. The man seemed totally in control of his thoughts and feelings—he let nothing out beyond the most casual, surface thoughts. It was a mind that ran in strict, straight channels. This fact only added to Alec's disconcertment. It couldn't be deliberate. Could it?

  "Identification. I want you to take a look at the body."

  "Oh," Alec said, "you mean Ted's."

  "You know?"

  "Know what?"

  "Whose body I'm going to show you."

  "I naturally assumed—"

  "And if you'd been wrong?"

  "I..." Alec stopped, growing angry. "Look here, if you're trying—"

  "Who killed him?"

  "What?"

  "Do you know?"

  "If I did-"

  "Was it you?" As he spoke, Cargill leaned farther and farther forward. Now he seemed almost prone upon the desktop, like a bird preparing for immediate flight.

  "No," Alec said. "I certainly didn't—"

  "Why not?" Cargill said, continuing to move.

  "Because I had no reason. Ted was my boss, my friend. I wouldn't—"

  "You're sure?" Cargill threw himself back, rebounding off his chair. Both hands waved wildly in the air. "Would you be willing to undergo truth tests?"

  "Certainly," Alec said, smiling almost smugly. No test or device had yet been devised capable of detecting a Superior's lie. If Cargill meant to upset him, he was going about it the wrong way.

  Cargill slumped down in his chair, plainly dejected, his mind no more revealing than ever. He shook his head sadly, slowly, to himself.

  Alec leaned forward, awaiting the next assault.

  It came with a sudden blast. Cargill sat up, pointed straight at Alec's heart, demanded: "How many children?"

  Alec lunged back. "None," he said. "I mean, none yet."

  "Your authorization?"

  "Three. But what does this have—?"

  "Your wife have any children? Previous marriages?"

  "No. But I'd like to know why—"

  "Hush," said Cargill. He made a note on a stray sheet of paper, then looked up. "Two nights ago I saw one of your wife's sculptures. I don't mind saying it was a dazzling piece."

  "Which one was it?" Alec asked, welcoming the new subject although he rarely took much interest in Anna's work.

  "Crime," said Cargill, triumphantly, "and Punishment."

  "Very funny," Alec said, unamused.

  "Ah, no—a tragedy." Cargill began to shuffle the papers nearest to him. The motion attracted Alec's gaze. Among the blank white sheets, he suddenly spotted a photograph. The face was very familiar: Ah Tran. Cargill raised the picture in his hands and studied it, looking from the smooth surface to Alec's face, then back again. "Do you know a man named Samuel Astor?" he asked.

  "What?" Alec struggled to conceal his shock. How could Cargill know about Astor and the Inner Circle? He couldn't—it had to
be impossible.

  But Cargill repeated the name calmly and carefully: "Samuel Astor. Of New York."

  Alec decided to risk a lie: "I don't believe I know him."

  "Then that's funny," Cargill said, without explanation. He was shuffling papers again; the photograph of Ah Tran disappeared. He lifted a page and began to recite: "You and the deceased, Theodore Mencken, worked together in a small firm. Mr. Mencken handled the business end while you were in charge of research. Much of your actual work was contracted out." His eyes appeared over the page. "What was the work?"

  "I can't tell you," Alec said. "It was a matter of exceptionally high security."

  "Androids," Cargill said—it wasn't a question.

  "But-"

  Cargill flashed a red, high security badge. "General Hopkins has already spoken to me. Obviously, this case intrigued him. Spies, you know. I was able to assure him espionage was not involved."

  "Do you know that?" Alec asked.

  "Oh, yes." Cargill smiled, almost diffidently. "I am, you realize, a police inspector."

  "I know."

  "Yes." He stood up and clasped his hands in front of him, cracking the knuckles with an ugly sound. "Then shall we get on with it? The body?"

  "That's all?" Alec said. He couldn't believe it.

  "For now." Cargill smiled reassuringly and stepped around the desk. He laid a kind hand on Alec's shoulder. "Though there is another thing that puzzles me. Where did you go to school?"

  "A government home," Alec said, squirming away from the hand. He managed to gain his feet, looming above the tiny detective.

  "Your parents?"

  "I never knew either of them."

  "Dead?"

  "My mother, yes. My father—" he shrugged "—I don't know."

  "Interesting," Cargill said, noncommittally.

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Curious." Cargill pointed at the door. "Shall we go?"

  "Yes," Alec said. "Yes—of course." He hurried toward the door. These questions—his parentage, children—frightened him. They struck too close to the real truth. He would have to tell Astor. But Cargill knew about him too. What could it mean?

  He dropped the thought as Cargill fled down the corridor and he was forced to concentrate on keeping pace. They entered the reception room together, interrupting the receptionist, who had been painting her knuckles a ghastly shade of green. The other woman—the sad one—still sat on the couch. Cargill, barely pausing, waved at her:

  "Come along, please."

  She stood up and followed Cargill and Alec into the corridor. Halfway down its length, Cargill swerved aside and slapped the left wall with his open hand. A pair of doors suddenly opened, revealing a concealed elevator. The three of them hurried inside. As the elevator descended, Cargill pointed at the woman, then at Alec:

  "Alec Richmond," he announced, "and Sylvia Mencken."

  "You're his daughter," Alec said. So that was the reason for her grief. He nearly smiled.

  "How do you do?" she said, in a cool voice totally at odds with her inner turmoil and pain.

  "All right," Alec said. What else? "And you?" He felt absurd as soon as the question left his lips.

  She laughed wistfully. "Oh, fine." She smiled. "Under the circumstances."

  The elevator, having descended to the lowest conceivable level, opened. The corridor down here glowed with a stark, unearthly light. Alec and Cargill walked together, while Sylvia Mencken trailed behind.

  "This is the place," Alec said, "where you keep them."

  "Yes—in here."

  They turned into a large gray room. A big pink man abruptly materialized in front of them, waddling very close. He shook hands with each of his guests, bowing deeply from the waist while greeting Sylvia.

  When the ceremonies were complete, the pink man scowled at Cargill. "Which one?" he asked.

  "Seven-six-eight-three-nine," said Cargill.

  "Ah, that fellow." The pink man nodded sharply. "A rather fascinating carcass." He smiled self-consciously, then bustled hastily away. Cargill indicated they should follow. Set in one wall, occupying the entirety of its length, was a series of metal drawers, like a monstrous file cabinet. The pink man went instinctively to one and drew it open. Alec followed Cargill over. They looked down together. There, lying upon a hard metal slab, as naked as could be, was Ted Mencken. He did not appear greatly changed from the last time Alec had seen him. The blood was gone, though.

  "Well?" said Cargill.

  Alec struggled to reply, but the ferocity of Sylvia's reaction—communicated through her involuntary radiations---drained his own. He barely managed to nod. "Yes," he said.

  "Yes, that's dead."

  "Dead?" Cargill asked. "Did you say dead?"

  "I meant Ted," Alec said.

  The pink man was giggling at the slip. Alec could have crushed his ugly fat face with a rock.

  "And?" Cargill said, wheeling to face Sylvia. "What have you got to say, my dear?"

  His lines spoken, Alec allowed himself to be swallowed up within the girl's radiations. He was now finally able to understand her attitude of wistful regret. Seeing her dead father had made her recall, in disorganized mass, the many past times they had been together. Memories reached Alec in vague procession. He could tell that they had not always gotten along. In fact, often they had not. Sylvia was sorry. Yes, that was it. Now she understood that it was too late for everything that had not already occurred.

  "It's my father," she suddenly said.

  "Theodore Mencken?"

  "Of course," she said, no longer facing the corpse.

  "Shut it up," Cargill ordered the pink man.

  The file drawer clanged shut. Alec opened his eyes and suddenly laid a hand on Sylvia's arm. "Let's get out of here," he said.

  She smiled appreciatively and let him lead her out. Cargill came after. In the corridor, Sylvia drew away and leaned against the wall.

  "Are you all right now?" Alec asked.

  "Better," she said.

  "Then I-"

  Cargill stepped between them, cutting Alec off. He suddenly began to speak, but it was several moments before Alec was able to understand his words: "... many motives, I am speaking, of course, of years past. Men were even known—I can show you records that testify to this— known to kill during fits of sudden passion. Husbands would kill their own wives, fathers, their sons and daughters, vice versa, versa vice, ad infinitum. Some say those were horrible, horrible times. I wonder. Except for a brief period on the beat—a patrolman in the North Beach sector—I have devoted my adult life to detective work. I am head of this city's homicide squad. I am, in point of fact, that squad. Last year, I investigated four murders—two turned out to be accidents and one was a suicide. And the other? The few we do get year in and year out? I can assure you passion no longer plays a significant role in these crimes. What does?" He was staring hard at Alec, presumably expecting some response. But Alec had nothing to say. Sylvia seemed to be holding herself up only with the assistance of the wall. But Cargill went on: "I'll tell you what it is: power. That's the word I want. Murder nowadays is primarily a means of expressing power. I am stronger—greater—than you. You demur. In proof, I take your life. Well, I'll tell you." His voice rose passionately, filling the tiny corridor. Alec reached past him and grabbed Sylvia's arm. She had nearly fainted. "I want the old days back," Cargill said. "I want human murders for human motives. These crimes" (he waved back toward the morgue) "make me ill. We are all humans. We share this planet together. None is greater, more powerful, than another. I will—I promise you this—I will discover the perpetrator of this crime and guarantee that he is brought to justice. I will" (he was pointing at Alec now, his finger trembling with passion) "succeed in the way I always have and that man" (he turned to Sylvia) "or woman will be shown that the egotism that made him—or her—feel that murder was justified is a crime in itself of the deepest and most dreadful sort. I promise you that much and" (his finger was back at Alec's belly) "and
no more."

  "Are you accusing me?" Alec said, glaring down at the finger.

  "Of course not," Cargill said, dropping his hand.

  "Then get out of my way. Can't you see that she's sick?"

  "You may go now," Cargill said, and he turned off toward the elevator.

  Alec held Sylvia by both her shoulders. His face was very close to hers. "Are you going to be all right? He's gone now."

  "Yes," she said, barely managing to whisper. But he felt her gain more control of her body. She stood up, not attempting to draw away from him. "Will you take me out of here?"

  "Of course." He helped her toward the elevator. It was gone now—carrying Cargill above. "I'll be glad to." He could feel the depth of her regard, her need for someone— anyone—him—who could help. "Of course I will."

  "That man was horrible," she said.

  "Yes. He thinks I killed your father. He was warning me."

  They stopped beside the wall. Her face was less pale—she seemed able to stand unassisted now. She gazed at Alec.

  "Did you?" she asked.

  Five

  "I'd be glad to see you home," Alec said, as he and Sylvia Mencken descended the high concrete steps of the Hall of Justice.

  "I don't want to go there—not yet."

  "Well—where?"

  "I think I'll just go over to the park and walk around."

  "I really don't know if—"

  She laughed. "You don't have to go."

  They paused at the edge of a moving walkway. This was not a busy part of town. An occasional passenger drifted past at a steady five-miles-per-hour. "But I would like to talk to you."

  "Oh, I don't mind." He had been eager to get home to Anna. All that had occurred last night still seemed disturbing to him.

  "Good," Sylvia said. She pointed across the walkway. "Go get us a cab."

  Alec nodded, any thought of refusing now forgotten, and skipped across the walkway.

  He spoke quickly to a hovercab driver, then came back and fetched Sylvia.

  Once the cab was airborne in the direction of Golden Gate Park, the driver asked Alec: "Any particular place in the park?"