A Maze of Death (8 page)

Time, he thought, is shutting down around us. It is as if the future is gone, for all of us. Not just for Tallchief.

“Babble, can you do an autopsy?” Betty Jo Berm asked.

“To a certain extent.” Dr. Babble had seated himself beside Tallchief’s body and was touching him here and there. “No visible blood. No sign of an injury. His death could be natural, you all realize; it might be that he had a cardiac condition. Or, for example, he might have been killed by a heat gun at close range … but then, if that’s the case, I’ll find the burn marks.” He unfastened Tallchief’s collar, reached down to explore the chest area. “Or one of us might have done it,” he said. “Don’t rule that out.”

“They did it,” Maggie Walsh said.

“Possibly,” Babble said. “I’ll do what I can.” He nodded to Thugg and Wade Frazer and Glen Belsnor. “Help me carry him into the clinic; I’ll start the autopsy now.”

“None of us even knew him,” Mary said.

“I think I probably saw him last,” Seth Morley said. “He wanted to bring his things from his noser here to his living area. I told him I’d help him later on, when I had time. He seemed to be in a bad mood; I tried to tell him we needed him to compose a prayer but he didn’t seem interested. He just wanted to move his things.” He felt acutely guilty. Maybe if I had helped him he’d still be alive, he said to himself. Maybe Babble’s right; maybe it was a heart attack, brought on by moving heavy cartons. He kicked at the box of books, wondering if this box had done it—this box and his own refusal to help. Even when I was asked I wouldn’t give it, he realized.

“You didn’t see any indication of a suicidal attitude at work, did you?” Dr. Babble asked.

“No.”

“Very strange,” Babble said. He shook his head wearily. “Okay, let’s get him to the infirmary.”

The four men carried Tallchief’s body across the dark, nocturnal compound. Cold wind licked at them and they shivered; they drew together against the hostile presence of Delmak-O—the hostile presence which had killed Ben Tailchief.

Babble switched on lights here and there. At last they had Tallchief up on the high, metal-topped table.

“I think we should retire to our individual living quarters and stay there until Dr. Babble has finished his autopsy,” Susie Smart said, shivering.

Wade Frazer spoke up. “Better if we stay together, at least until Dr. Babble’s report is in. And I also think that under these unexpected circumstances, this terrible event in our lives, that we must immediately elect a leader, a strong one who can keep us together as a group, when in fact right now we are not, but should be—must be. Doesn’t everyone agree?”

After a pause Glen Belsnor said, “Yeah.”

“We can vote,” Betty Jo Berm said. “In a democratic way. But I think we must be careful.” She struggled to express
herself. “We mustn’t give a leader too much power. And we should be able to recall him when and if at any time we’re not satisfied with him; then we can vote him out as our leader and elect someone else. But while he is leader we should obey him—we don’t want him to be too weak, either. If he’s too weak we’ll just be like we are now: a mere collection of individuals who can’t function together, even in the face of death.”

“Then let’s get back to the briefing room,” Tony Dunkelwelt said, “rather than to our personal quarters. So we can start casting votes. I mean, it or they could kill us before we have a leader; we don’t want to wait.”

In a group they made their way somberly from Dr. Babble’s infirmary to the briefing room. The transmitter and receiver were still on; each person, entering, heard the dull, low hum.

“So big,” Maggie Walsh said, gazing at the transmitter. “And so useless.”

“Do you think we should arm ourselves?” Bert Kosler said, plucking at Morley’s sleeve. “If there’s someone after us to kill all of us—”

“Let’s wait for Babble’s autopsy report,” Seth Morley said.

Seating himself, Wade Frazer said in a business-like way, “We’ll vote by a show of hands. Everybody sit down and be quiet and I’ll read off our names and keep the tally. Is that satisfactory to everyone?” There was a sardonic undertone to his voice, and Seth Morley did not like it.

Ignatz Thugg said, “You won’t get it, Frazer. No matter how badly you want it. Nobody in this room is going to let somebody like you tell them what to do.” He dropped into a chair, crossed his legs, and got a tobacco cigarette from his jacket pocket.

As Wade Frazer read off the names and took the tally, several others made their own notations. They don’t trust Frazer to make an accurate account, Seth Morley realized. He did not blame them.

“The greatest number of votes for one person,” Frazer
said, when all the names had been read, “goes to Glen Belsnor.” He dropped his tally sheet with a blatant sneer … as if, Morley thought, the psychologist is saying Go ahead and doom yourselves. It’s your lives, if you want to toss them away. But it seemed to him that Belsnor was a good choice; on his own very limited knowledge he had himself voted for the electronics maintenance man. He was satisfied, even if Frazer was not. And by their relieved stir he guessed that most of the others were, too.

“While we’re waiting for Dr. Babble’s report,” Maggie Walsh said, “perhaps we should join in a group prayer for Mr. Tallchief’s psyche to be taken immediately into immortality.”

“Read from Specktowsky’s Book,” Betty Jo Berm said. She dipped into her pocket and brought out her own copy, which she passed to Maggie Walsh. “Read the part on page 70 about the Intercessor. Isn’t it the Intercessor that we want to reach?”

From memory, Maggie Walsh intoned the words which all of them knew. “‘By His appearance in history and creation, the Intercessor offered Himself as a sacrifice by which the Curse could be partially nullified. Satisfied as to the redemption of His creation by this manifestation of Himself, this signal of His great—but partial—victory, the Deity “died” and then remanifested Himself to indicate that He had overcome the Curse and hence death, and, having done this, moved up through the concentric circles back to God Himself.’ And I will add another part which is pertinent. “The next—and last—period is the Day of Audit, in which the heavens will roll back like a scroll and each living thing—and hence all creatures, both sentient man and man-like nonterrestrial organisms—will be reconciled with the original Deity, from whose unity of being everything has come (with the possible exception of the Form Destroyer).’” She paused a moment and then said, “Repeat what I say after me, all of you, either aloud or in your thoughts.”

They lifted their faces and gazed straight upward, in the accepted fashion. So that the Deity could hear them more readily.

“We did not know Mr. Tallchief too well.”

They all said, “We did not know Mr. Tallchief too well.”

“But he seemed to be a fine man.”

They all said, “But he seemed to be a fine man.”

Maggie hesitated, reflected, then said, “Remove him from time and thereby make him immortal.”

“Remove him from time and thereby make him immortal.”

“Restore his form to that which he possessed before the Form Destroyer went to work on him.”

They all said, “Restore his form to that—” They broke off. Dr. Milton Babble had come into the briefing room, looking ruffled.

“We must finish the prayer,” Maggie said.

“You can finish it some other time,” Dr. Babble said. “I’ve been able to determine the cause of death.” He consulted several sheets of paper which he had brought along. “Cause of death: vast inflammation of the bronchial passages, due to an unnatural amount of histamine in the blood, resulting in a stricture of the trachea; exact cause of death was suffocation as reaction to a heterogenic allergen. He must have been stung by an insect or brushed against a plant while he was unloading his noser. An insect or plant containing a substance to which he was violently allergic. Remember how sick Susie Smart was her first week here, from brushing against one of the nettle-like bushes? And Kosler.” He gestured in the direction of the elderly custodian. “If he hadn’t gotten to me as quick as he did he would be dead, too. With Tallchief the situation was against us; he had gone out by himself, at night, and there was no one around to react to his plight. He died alone, but if we had been there he could have been saved.”

After a pause Roberta Rockingham, seated, with a huge rug over her lap, said, “Why, I think that’s ever so much
more encouraging than our own speculation. It would appear that no one is trying to kill us … which is really quite wonderful, don’t you think?” She gazed around at them, straining to hear if any had spoken.

“Evidently,” Wade Frazer said remotely, with a private grimace.

“Babble,” Ignatz Thugg said, “we voted without you.”

“Good grief,” Betty Jo Berm said. “That’s so. We’ll have to vote again.”

“You selected one of us as a leader?” Babble said. “Without letting me exercise my own personal involvement? Who did you decide on?”

“On me,” Glen Belsnor said.

Babble consulted with himself. “It’s all right as far as I’m concerned,” he said at last, “to have Glen as our leader.”

“He won by three votes,” Susie Smart said.

Babble nodded. “In any case I’m satisfied.”

Seth Morley walked over to Babble, faced him and said, “You’re sure that was the cause of death?”

“Beyond doubt. I have equipment which can determine—”

“Did you find an insect bite-mark on him anywhere?”

“Actually no,” Babble said.

“A possible spot where a plant leaf might have speared him?”

“No,” Babble said, “but that isn’t an important aspect of such a determination. Some of the insects here are so small that any sting-spot or bite-spot wouldn’t be visible without a microscopic examination, and that would take days.”

“But you’re satisfied,” Belsnor said, also coming up; he stood with his arms folded, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“Absolutely.” Babble nodded vigorously.

“You know what it would mean if you’re wrong.”

“How? Explain.”

“Oh Christ, Babble,” Susie Smart said, “it’s obvious. If someone or something deliberately killed him then we’re in just as much danger as he was—possibly. But if an insect stung him—”

“That’s what it was,” Babble said. “An insect stung him.” His ears had turned bright carmen with stubborn, irritable anger. “Do you think this is my first autopsy? That I’m not capable of handling pathology-report instrumentation that I’ve handled all my adult life?” He glared at Susie Smart. “Miss Dumb,” he said.

“Come on, Babble,” Tony Dunkelwelt said.

“It’s Dr. Babble to you, sonny,” Babble said.

Nothing is changed, Seth Morley said to himself. We are as we were, a mob of twelve people. And it may destroy us. End forever our various separate lives.

“I feel a vast amount of relief,” Susie Smart said, coming up beside him and Mary. “I guess we were becoming paranoid; we thought everyone was after us, trying to kill us.”

Thinking about Ben Tallchief—and his last encounter with him—Morley felt no sympathetic resonance within him to her newly refreshed attitude. “A man is dead,” he said.

“We barely knew him. In fact we didn’t know him at all.”

“True,” Morley said. Maybe it’s because I feel so much personal guilt. “Maybe I did it,” he said aloud to her.

“A bug did it,” Mary said.

“May we finish the prayer, now?” Maggie Walsh said.

Seth Morley said to her, “How come we need to shoot a petition-prayer eighty thousand miles up from the planet’s surface, but this sort of prayer can be done without electronic help?” I know the answer, he said to himself. This prayer now—it really doesn’t matter to us if it’s heard. It is merely a ceremony, this prayer. The other one was different. The other time we needed something for ourselves, not for Tallchief. Thinking this he felt more gloomy than ever. “I’ll see you later,” he said aloud to Mary. “I’m going to go unpack the boxes I’ve brought from our noser.”

“But don’t go near the nosers,” Mary warned him. “Until tomorrow; until we have time to scout out the plant or bug-”

“I won’t be outdoors,” Morley agreed. “I’ll go directly to our quarters.” He strode from the briefing room out into the
compound. A moment later he was ascending the steps to the porch of their joint living quarters.

I’ll ask The Book, Seth Morley said to hmself. He rummaged through several cartons and at last found his copy of
How I Rose From the Dead in My Spare Time and So Can You.
Seated, he held it on his lap, placed both hands on it, shut his eyes, turned his face upward and said, “Who or what killed Ben Tallchief?”

He then, eyes shut, opened the book to a page at random, put his finger at one exact spot, and opened his eyes.

His finger rested on: the Form Destroyer.

That doesn’t tell us much, he reflected. All death comes as a result of a deterioration of form, due to the activity of the Form Destroyer.

And yet it scared him.

It doesn’t sound like a bug or a plant, he thought starkly. It sounds like something entirely else.

A tap-tap sounded at his door.

Rising warily, he moved by slow degrees to the door; keeping it shut he swept the curtain back from the small window and peered out into the night darkness. Someone stood on the porch, someone small, with long hair, tight sweater, peek-n-squeeze bra, tight short skirt, barefoot. Susie Smart has come to visit, he said to himself, and unlocked the door.

“Hi,” she said brightly, smiling up at him. “May I come in and talk a little?”

He led her over to The Book. “I asked it what or who killed Tallchief.”

“What did it say?” She seated herself, crossed her bare legs and leaned forward to see as he placed his finger on the same spot as before. “The Form Destroyer,” she said soberly. “But it’s always the Form Destroyer.”

“Yet I think it means something.”

“That it wasn’t an insect?”

He nodded.

“You don’t want to go to bed with me? You’d enjoy it, despite your initial prudery and reservations. I’m very good. I know a lot of ways. Some which you probably never heard about. I made them up myself.”

“From years of experience,” he said.