Manly Wade Wellman - Chapbook 02 (9 page)

 
         
GIRRA,
finishing his work, returned to the outer balcony where his flying machine was
moored. But he did not enter it at once. Instead, he selected a wrench from
among his tools and turned upon the robot helper whose peculiar behavior he
diagnosed as faulty mechanism.

 
          
“I
darre not trrusst you in the flyerr while my attention iss occupied by operrating
the mechanissm,” he addressed the metal figure. “I had bet- terr examine yourr
worrkss now, fix them if possible, or put you temporarily out of commisssion if
not.” He paused, out of patience. His servitor was actually retreating before
him. “Sstand sstill!” commanded Girra, and pursued.

 
          
Stover
backed up, thinking hard and desperately. Then he could back no farther. Girra
had herded him into a corner, close against the railing.

 
          
The
Martian extended the wrench, fumbling at one of the bolts that held Stover’s
disguise-shell together.

 
          
A
twist, a tug, and his secret would be out—Girra would perceive that inside the
apparent robot was, not a mass of mechanism but a living Terrestrial, very much
wanted by police. And Stover did not care to be arrested just now. He had other
plans.

 
          
Because
he must, he put forth one hand in its metal sheathing and snatched the wrench
from Girra’s grasp. The Martian mechanic retreated in turn, dumbfounded beyond
speech. Then, as Stover made a threatening flourish with the wrench, Girra
dropped the kit of tools he carried and retreated toward the entrance to
Malbrook’s apartment.

 
          
“Help!
Asssisstance!” he squalled.
“My
rrobot hass gone out of contrrol!”

 
          
He
was gone, out of sight for a few moments. In that precious time Stover carried
into action a quick plan of misdirection. From^he fallen toolkit he snatched a
thin, strong line, knotted one end to the railing and threw the other end free
into the abyss below. Then he ducked back into a shallow corner as Girra rushed
forth again, followed by the mystified and impatient policeman who had kept
guard in the vestibule.

 
          
“Now
then, now then,’’ this policeman was grumbling, after the manner of policemen
generally throughout all worlds and ages. “What happened, you say? Your robot—where
is your robot?”

 
          
Girra
ran to the railing. One tentacle caught the tethered end of the line.

 
          
“It
hass climbed down thiss line!” he cried sagely. “Climbed down to lowerr levelss
and escaped!”

 
          
“Never
heard of a robot doing that,” commented the policeman. He went to Girra’s side,
and also peered down. “Huh!” he grunted. “That’s what comes of too much
clockwork in those babies. They get into wild messes. We’d better call for
Congreve.”

 
          
They
entered the vestibule again.

 
          
At
once Stover ran to the moored flyer, got in and went soaring away.

 
          
Girra
got back to the Bureau office in a hired vehicle. The mystery was deepened when
there
came
a report from a far rooftop. An
Architecture Bureau ship had landed there. Whoever had flown it was gone. Inside
was a robot shell, with no machinery. Girra, smarting from reprimands by
Congreve and his work superior, sought furiously for the culprit responsible
for this state of affairs. He failed to find him because he did not know where
and how to look.

 
         
THE
culprit in question had gone straight to the office of Special Agent Congreve.
When that intelligent officer returned from the Malbrook tower Stover stood
forth to give himself up.

 
          
“I’m
doing this,” said Stover, “because I want to clear up things in my own way. You
were close to arresting me under suspicious circumstances not long ago. I
didn’t want that, but a free surrender is different. Well, why don’t you put me
under arrest? A little while ago you were even offering a big reward for me.”

 
          
“Mr.
Brome Fielding offered the reward, not the police,” replied Congreve, after a
moment of enigmatic meditation. “Anyhow, Stover, we’ve changed our minds about
you. The finger of suspicion has veered away—” “Toward Bee MacGowan.”

 
          
“I
answer no questions,” said Congreve, thereby admitting that Stover was right,
“and I don’t commit you to prison. I only desire that you remain in Pulambar.
In fact, I’ll make sure that you do. Hold out your left hand.” Stover obeyed,
and upon the skinned and abraded wrist Congreve snapped a bracelet of the sort
Stover had already worn. Carefully the officer fitted the thing, so that it
fitted almost as snugly as a noose of cord.

 
          
“You
seem to have shaken one of these things off,” he observed. “You’ll not get rid
of that one, Mr. Stover. And I don’t think I have to tell you about the
peculiar and unpleasant properties of this little device. When things cool off,
and if you stay in the clear, I want to hear from you just what happened since
I saw you last.” “That’s a date,” agreed Stover. “Now may I see Miss MacGowan?”

 
          
“You
may not.” That was even more of an admission that the police were holding her.

 
          
Stover
shrugged and left.

 
          
He
felt that he saw through Congreve’s new attitude toward him. Bee MacGowan had
become the chief suspect while he, Stover, was only under mild suspicion.
Either that, or Congreve had failed to heap up enough evidence to convict
Stover. Bee MacGowan had already half-confessed as the murderer. If she proved
innocent, Stover in the meantime might do more to convict himself. That was why
he was left free within limitations.
Clever man, Congreve.

 
          
Meanwhile,
Bee MacGowan had complicated matters even more than the police considered.
Yesterday Stover had escaped brilliantly and daringly. Now he had wanted to surrender,
rebelling at the thought of retaining his freedom at the hands of the girl. He
told himself this was not a romantic regard for her, but only what any
self-respecting male should do.

 
          
She
was wrong in taking responsibility for the quarrel, the murder, and Dillon
Stover’s subsequent plight. True, the fight had started over her, but it might
have started over any passably attractive girl, Malbrook and Stover being the
men they were. Beyond that, Stover wished she had sat tight and let him do the
thinking and fighting.

 
          
“Strong-headed,
but a girl in a million,” he estimated her to himself.
“No,
in a million million.
She feels that it’s her duty to take the fall, I
suppose, but I wish she hadn’t surrendered. The charge would be bound to break
down against me or any other innocent person.”

 
          
That
new thought flashed like light in his mind. It was a rationalization that must
have come to Bee MacGowan. She had invited arrest and indictment for the sake
of giving him freedom—because she was really innocent. She had courage to risk
trial on those grounds.

 
          
“I
believe in her!” he decided. “I’ll make the rest believe in her, too.
Meanwhile, what am I mooning about? The real killer’s swanking around free. I’m
supposed to be after him. That,” he told himself with all the assurance in the
world, “is what she set me free for—to clear us both and punish a cowardly
assassin.”

 
         
HE
reached a vestibule-restaurant, built like a great glassed-in balcony hanging
high on the cliff of the same building that housed Congreve’s headquarters.
Sitting down at a withdrawn table, he called for a late breakfast and a
wireless telephone. Between bites, he contacted Buckalew’s apartment. The hired
robot servitor answered metallically. Then
came
the
voice of Buckalew.

 
          
‘‘Dillon, my boy!
Don’t tell me where you are—the police are
looking everywhere for you.”

 
          
“Not
they,” replied Stover. “I just tried to give myself up to Congreve. All he’s
doing is to hold me close to Pulambar. Bee MacGowan is the one they’re working
on now.”

 
          
“I
was present when she was arrested,” Buckalew informed him.

 
          
“So
was I,” Stover admitted.
“Inside the shell of that Martian’s
robot helper—why gulp like that, Robert?”
“I didn’t gulp, Dillon. I
never do. So you were disguised as a robot?
Remarkable.
Only somebody close to your grandfather could have thought of that. As to being
held in Pulambar, so
am
I, the Phogors, Amyas Crofts,
and one or two others. If you’re not under danger of arrest, Dillon, come home
where we can talk more fully.”

 
          
“As
soon as I’ve finished eating,” promised Stover. “I have something of interest
to offer, a theory of Bee MacGowan’s innocence — there, you gulped again!”

 
          
“It
was you that time,” charged Buckalew. “I heard you plainly. Here, don’t ring
off yet.”

 
          
“I
heard a click, too,” said Stover. “Maybe some third person was tuned in on our
wave-length. “I’ll come to you at once, Buckalew. Wait there for me.”

 
          
“Take
care of
yourself
,” admonished Buckalew.

 
          
Finishing
his breakfast, Stover sought an outside balcony and hailed a flying taxi. The
driver was the same who had served him on the night of the murder. He stared at
Stover in astonishment.

 
          
“Say,”
he accused, “the law wants you. There’s a reward—’’

 
          
“Not
any more,” Stover shut him off. “I’m not on the preferred list at headquarters.”

 
          
But
the driver insisted on a quick radio-phone conversation with police before he
would listen to Stover’s directions.

 
          
Flying
back and landing on the balcony of his lodgings, Stover had a sense of
unreality, as though he had been gone for months. Enough adventure had befallen
him to fill a month, at that. Stover pondered a moment on the relativity of
time’s passage. Then he went in.

 
          
“Robot!”
he called. “Get me some fresh clothes. And where’s Mr. Buckalew?”

 
          
No
answer. The front room was dim, but not dark. A couple of lesser radium bulbs
still burned. By their light he saw the robot leaning against a wall.

 
          
“I
gave you an order,” said Stover sternly. “Why don’t you obey it? Clothes, I
said.”

 
          
The
robot did not move. He crossed the floor toward it, putting a hand on its
shoulder-joint.

 
         
THE
thing seemed stuck to the wall, as though bolted there. Stover exerted his
strength, but could not budge it. He braced the heel of his left hand against
the wall to get more leverage, and felt a tug at his wrist. Congreve’s bracelet
seemed trying to fasten itself beside the robot. Stover jerked away.

 
          
“Magnetism.
The metal wall’s magnetized!” Again he lifted
his voice.
“Buckalew!
Aren’t you here? What’s going
on?”

 
          
Turning
back toward the center of the room, he saw Buckalew for the first time. His
host was seemingly lounging in a corner opposite. Buckalew neither moved nor
spoke.

 
          
“Don’t
tell me they’ve magnetized you, too,” cried Stover impatiently. “Speak up,
what’s happened?”

 
          
He
took a step toward his friend. At the same time, there was a crash at his
elbow. The robot, evidently released from its magnetic bonds, had fallen
forward and lay writhing, trying to recover
itself
.