The Mammoth Book of Golden Age SF (30 page)

Nine of the estimated twelve minutes had ticked by when he climbed up beside them, mopping off some of the sweat that covered him, and Palmer was hugging the watch. More minutes ticked off slowly, while the last sound faded out in the plant, and the men stood around, staring down toward the river or at the hole that had been No. 4. Silence. Jenkins stirred and grunted.

“Palmer, I know where I got the idea, now. Jorgenson was trying to remind me of it, instead of raving, only I didn’t get it, at least consciously. It was one of Dad’s, the one he told Jorgenson was a last resort, in case the thing they broke up about went haywire. It was the first variable Dad tried. I was twelve, and he insisted water would break it up into all its chains and kill the danger. Only Dad didn’t really expect it to work!”

Palmer didn’t look up from the watch, but he caught his breath and swore. “Fine time to tell me that!”

“He didn’t have your isotopes to heat it up with, either,” Jenkins answered mildly. “Suppose you look up from that watch of yours for a minute, down the river.”

As Doc raised his eyes, he was aware suddenly of a roar from the men. Over to the south, stretching out in a huge mass, was a cloud of steam that spread upward and out as he watched, and the beginnings of a mighty hissing sound came in. Then Palmer was hugging Jenkins and yelling until Brown could pry him away and replace him.

“Ten miles or more of river, plus the swamps, Doc!” Palmer was shouting in Ferrel’s ear. “All that dispersion, while it cooks slowly from now until the last chain is finished, atom by atom! The
theta
chain broke, unstable and now there’s everything there, too scattered to set itself off! It’ll cook the river bed up and dry it, but that’s all!”

Doc was still dazed, unsure of how to take the relief. He wanted to lie down and cry or to stand up with the men and shout his head off. Instead, he sat loosely, gazing at the cloud. “So I lose the best assistant I ever had! Jenkins, I won’t hold you; you’re free for whatever Palmer wants.”

“Hoke wants him to work on R – he’s got the stuff for his bomb now!” Palmer was clapping his hands together slowly, like an excited child watching a steam shovel. “Heck, Doc, pick out anyone you want until your own boy gets out next year. You wanted a chance to work him in here, now you’ve got it. Right now I’ll give you anything you want.”

“You might see what you can do about hospitalizing the injured and fixing things up with the men in the tent behind the infirmary. And I think I’ll take Brown in Jenkins’ place, with the right to grab him in an emergency, until that year’s up.”

“Done.” Palmer slapped the boy’s back, stopping the protest, while Brown winked at him. “Your wife likes working, kid; she told me that herself. Besides, a lot of the women work here where they can keep an eye on their men; my own wife does, usually. Doc, take these two kids and head for home, where I’m going myself. Don’t come back until you get good and ready, and don’t let them start fighting about it.”

Doc pulled himself from the truck and started off with Brown and Jenkins following, through the yelling, relief-crazed men. The three were too thoroughly worn out for any exhibition themselves, but they could feel it. Happy ending! Jenkins and Brown where they wanted to be, Hoke with his bomb, Palmer with proof that atomic plants were safe where they were, and he – well, his boy would start out right, with himself and the widely differing but competent Blake and Jenkins to guide him. It wasn’t a bad life, after all.

Then he stopped and chuckled. “You two wait for me, will you? If I leave here without making out that order of extra disinfection at the showers, Blake’ll swear I’m growing old and feeble-minded. I can’t have that.”

Old? Maybe a little tired, but he’d been that before, and with luck would be again. He wasn’t worried. His nerves were good for twenty years and fifty accidents more, and by that time Blake would be due for a little ribbing himself.

It started out like a simple case of murder. That was bad enough in itself, because it was the first murder during the five years Rod Caquer had been Lieutenant of Police in Sector Three of Callisto.

Sector Three was proud of that record, or had been until the record became a dead duck.

But before the thing was over, nobody would have been happier than Rod Caquer if it had stayed a simple case of murder – without cosmic repercussions.

Events began to happen when Rod Caquer’s buzzer made him look up at the visiscreen.

There he saw the image of Barr Maxon, Regent of Sector Three.

“Morning, Regent,” Caquer said pleasantly. “Nice speech you made last night on the—”

Maxon cut him short. “Thanks, Caquer,” he said. “You know Willem Deem?”

“The book-and-reel shop proprietor? Yes, slightly.”

“He’s dead,” announced Maxon. “It seems to be murder. You better go there.”

His image clicked off the screen before Caquer could ask any questions. But the questions could wait anyway. He was already on his feet and buckling on his short sword.

Murder on Callisto? It did not seem possible, but if it had really happened he should get there quickly. Very quickly, if he was to have time for a look at the body before they took it to the incinerator.

On Callisto, bodies are never held for more than an hour after death because of the hylra spores which, in minute quantity, are always present in the thinnish atmosphere. They are harmless, of course, to live tissue, but they tremendously accelerate the rate of putrefaction in dead animal matter of any sort.

Dr. Skidder, the Medico-in-Chief, was coming out the front door of the book-and-reel shop when Lieutenant Caquer arrived there, breathless.

The medico jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “Better hurry if you want a look,” he said to Caquer. “They’re taking it out the back way. But I’ve examined—”

Caquer ran on past him and caught the white-uniformed utility men at the back door of the shop.

“Hi, boys, let me take a look,” Caquer cried as he peeled back the sheet that covered the thing on the stretcher.

It made him feel a bit sickish, but there was not any doubt of the identity of the corpse or the cause of death. He had hoped against hope that it would turn out to have been an accidental death after all. But the skull had been cleaved down to the eyebrows – a blow struck by a strong man with a heavy sword.

“Better let us hurry, Lieutenant. It’s almost an hour since they found him.”

Caquer’s nose confirmed it, and he put the sheet back quickly and let the utility men go on to their gleaming white truck parked just outside the door.

He walked back into the shop, thoughtfully, and looked around. Everything seemed in order. The long shelves of celluwrapped merchandise were neat and orderly. The row of booths along the other side, some equipped with an enlarger for book customers and the others with projectors for those who were interested in the microfilms, were all empty and undisturbed.

A little crowd of curious persons was gathered outside the door, but Brager, one of the policemen, was keeping them out of the shop.

“Hey, Brager,” said Caquer, and the patrolman came in and closed the door behind him.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Know anything about this? Who found him, and when, and so on?”

“I did, almost an hour ago. I was walking by on my beat when I heard the shot.”

Caquer looked at him blankly.

“The shot?” he repeated.

“Yeah. I ran in and there he was dead and nobody around. I knew nobody had come out the front way, so I ran to the back and there wasn’t anybody in sight from the back door. So I came back and put in the call.”

“To whom? Why didn’t you call me direct, Brager?”

“Sorry, Lieutenant, but I was excited and I pushed the wrong button and got the Regent. I told him somebody had shot Deem and he said stay on guard and he’d call the Medico and the utility boys and you.”

In that order? Caquer wondered. Apparently, because Caquer had been the last one to get there.

But he brushed that aside for the more important question – the matter of Brager having heard a shot. That did not make sense, unless – no, that was absurd, too. If Willem Deem had been shot, the Medico would not have split his skull as part of the autopsy.

“What do you mean by a shot, Brager?” Caquer asked. “An old-fashioned explosive weapon?”

“Yeah,” said Brager. “Didn’t you see the body? A hole right over the heart. A bullet-hole, I guess. I never saw one before. I didn’t know there was a gun on Callisto. They were outlawed even before the blasters were.”

Caquer nodded slowly.

“You – you didn’t see evidence of any other – uh – wound?” he persisted.

“Earth, no. Why would there be any other wound? A hole through a man’s heart’s enough to kill him, isn’t it?”

“Where did Dr. Skidder go when he left here?” Caquer inquired. “Did he say?”

“Yeah, he said you would be wanting his report so he’d go back to his office and wait till you came around or called him. What do you want me to do, Lieutenant?”

Caquer thought a moment.

“Go next door and use the visiphone there, Brager – I’ll be busy on this one,” Caquer at last told the policeman. “Get three more men, and the four of you canvass this block and question everyone.”

“You mean whether they saw anybody run out the back way, and if they heard the shot, and that sort of thing?” asked Brager.

“Yes. Also anything they may know about Deem, or who might have had a reason to – to shoot him.”

Brager saluted, and left.

Caquer got Dr. Skidder on the visiphone. “Hello, Doctor,” he said. “Let’s have it.”

“Nothing but what met the eye, Rod. Blaster, of course. Close range.”

Lieutenant Rod Caquer steadied himself. “Say that again, Medico.”

“What’s the matter,” jibed Skidder. “Never see a blaster death before? Guess you wouldn’t have at that, Rod, you’re too young. But fifty years ago when I was a student, we got them once in a while.”

“Just how did it kill him?”

Dr. Skidder looked surprised. “Oh, you didn’t catch up with the clearance men then. I thought you’d seen it. Left shoulder, burned all the skin and flesh off and charred the bone. Actual death was from shock – the blast didn’t hit a vital area. Not that the burn wouldn’t have been fatal anyway, in all probability. But the shock made it instantaneous.”

Dreams are like this, Caquer told himself.

“In dreams things happen without meaning anything,” he thought. “But I’m not dreaming, this is real.”

“Any other wounds, or marks on the body?” he asked, slowly.

“None. I’d suggest, Rod, you concentrate on a search for that blaster. Search all of Sector Three, if you have to. You know what a blaster looks like, don’t you?”

“I’ve seen pictures,” said Caquer. “Do they make a noise, Medico? I’ve never seen one fired.”

Dr. Skidder shook his head. “There’s a flash and a hissing sound, but no report.”

“It couldn’t be mistaken for a gunshot?”

The doctor stared at him.

“You mean an explosive gun? Of course not. Just a faint s-s-s-s. One couldn’t hear it more than ten feet away.”

When Lieutenant Caquer had clicked off the visiphone, he sat down and closed his eyes to concentrate. Somehow he had to make sense out of three conflicting sets of observations. His own, the patrolman’s, and the medico’s.

Brager had been the first one to see the body, and he said there was a hole over the heart. And that there were no other wounds. He had heard the report of the shot.

Caquer thought, suppose Brager is lying. It still doesn’t make sense. Because according to Dr. Skidder, there was no bullet-hole, but a blaster-wound. Skidder had seen the body after Brager had.

Someone could, theoretically at least, have used a blaster in the interim, on a man already dead. But—

But that did not explain the head wound, nor the fact that the medico had not seen the bullet-hole.

Someone could, theoretically at least, have struck the skull with a sword between the time Skidder had made the autopsy and the time he, Rod Caquer, had seen the body. But—

But that didn’t explain why he hadn’t seen the charred shoulder when he’d lifted the sheet from the body on the stretcher. He might have missed seeing a bullet-hole, but he would not, and he could not, have missed seeing a shoulder in the condition Dr. Skidder described it.

Around and around it went, until at last it dawned on him that there was only one explanation possible. The Medico-in-Chief was lying, for whatever mad reason. Brager’s story could be true, in toto. That meant, of course, that he, Rod Caquer, had overlooked the bullet-hole Brager had seen; but that was possible.

But Skidder’s story could not be true. Skidder himself, at the time of the autopsy, could have inflicted the wound in the head. And he could have lied about the shoulder-wound. Why – unless the man was mad – he would have done either of those things Caquer could not imagine. But it was the only way he could reconcile all the factors.