Intrigued by the apparent mystery he travels to Los Angeles and is appalled to find that the office belongs to an obscure amateur organisation known as the American Society for Space Flight. He meets Mr. Friml, the Secretary, and Mr. MacIlheny the President, who assure him that the Society has a progressive programme of development, plus laboratories and a prooving ground and unlimited capital, but refuse to disclose where their funds are obtained. Sceptical but still intrigued, Novak goes with Friml to the Society’s launching ground and is amazed to find a full-scale steel mock-up of a space ship standing on the field.
He is introduced to Clifton the engineer in charge of construction and Friml explains that the one thing lacking is a suitable fuel. He has already been to see Daniel Holland, chief of the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission, in Washington, but the Government were not interested in producing a fuel for the Society. Their plan, states Friml, is to complete the ship and then the Government would be forced to do something about the propulsion unit before any other World power became too interested in the project.
Novak accepts the position, is assigned a workshop and laboratory, and commences work on the firing chambers and throat linings for the Prototype, as the rocket had been named. He soon finds out that most of the ‘technicians’ working on the project are part-time enthusiasts, and meets Amelia Stuart, daughter of the chief of Western Aircraft, who, apart from being attractive, also holds numerous scientific degrees.
Studying the plans for the fuel chambers, Novak gets the idea that the Society is being financed by foreign backers and tells his suspicions to Clifton. The two of them make a report to Anheier of the A.E.C. Security Office in the local Federal Building, who seems to know more about everyone concerned in the space project than could be expected. He infers that they mind their own business.
In the evening, having spent a pleasant afternoon with Clifton and his wife Lilly at their home, Novak goes with them to a meeting of the Rocket Society where he is introduced and makes a speech. During the science fiction film which follows Cliff leaves Lilly and. Novak for a few minutes. As he doesn’t return Novak goes to look for him. He finds Cliff’s gold ring on a basin in the washroom and is then horrified to discover a thread of crimson blood seeping under a closed toilet door.
VII.
Novak fell on his hands and knees to peer through the six-inch gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. He saw two shod feet, oddly lax, a dangling hand, a little pool of blood, and a small pistol.
He went to pieces and pounded on the door, shouting. It was latched. Novak darted from the washroom to the main hall; Anheier was there, who didn’t believe there was anything to their story. He blundered into the darkness where, on the screen, two silvery space ships of the impossible future were slashing at each other with many-coloured rays that cracked and roared on the sound track.
“Anheier!” Novak yelled hysterically. “Where are you?” Dark heads turned to stare at him. Somebody stumbled his way across a row of knees and hurried to him.
“Dr. Novak?” asked the Security man. “What’s the matter?” People shushed them loudly, and Anheier took Novak’s arm, drawing him into the corridor.
Novak said: “There’s somebody in a booth in the washroom. I saw blood. And a gun. I’m afraid it’s Clifton.”
Anheier hurried down the corridor without a word. In the washroom he went into an adjoining booth and climbed up on its bowl to peer over the partition.
“Bad,” he said flatly, hopping down. He took a long nail file from his pocket, inserted it between the door edge and jamb and flipped up the latch. The door swung open outwards. “Don’t touch anything,” Anheier said.
Clifton was in the booth. His clothes were arranged. He was sprawled on the seat with his head down on his chest and his shoulders against the rear wall. There was a great hole in the back of his head, below the crown.
“Get to a phone,” Anheier said. “Call the city police and report a homicide here.”
Novak remembered a pay phone in the lobby downstairs and ran. Just like a magazine cartoon he crazily thought, when he found a woman talking in it on the other side of the folding glass door. He rapped on the glass imperatively and the woman turned. It was Amy Stuart. She smiled recognition, spoke another few words into the phone, and decisively hung up.
“I’m sorry to be such a gossip,” she said, “but that bloody movie—”
“Thanks,” he said hastily, and ducked into the phone booth. He saw Lilly coming down the stairs, looking more than a little worried.
The police switchboard took his call with glacial calm and said not to do anything, there would be a car there in less than five minutes.
Lilly and the Stuart girl were waiting outside. “Mike,” Lilly burst out, “what’s wrong? I sent you out to look for Cliff, you come back and holler for that A.E.C. feller, and you rim to the phone. You talk straight vit’ me please, Mike.”
“Lilly,” he said, “Cliff’s dead. Shot to death. I’m——I’m sorry——”
She said something in a foreign language and fainted on his arm. Amy Stuart said sharply: “Here. Into this chair.” He lugged her clumsily into a deep, leather club chair.
“Was what you said true?” she demanded angrily, doing things to Lilly’s clothes.
“Quite true,” he said. “There’s an A.E.C. Security man there now. I was calling the police. Do you know Mrs. Clifton?”
“Fairly well. How horrible for her. They loved each other. What could have happened? What could have happened?” Her voice was shrill.
“Take it easy,” he told her flatly. “I think you’re getting hysterical and that won’t do any good.”
She swallowed. “Yes—I suppose I was.” She fussed efficiently over Lilly for a moment or two. “That’s all,” she said. “Nothing else you can do for a faint. God, how horrible for her! God, how I hate killers and killing. That bloody movie. World of tomorrow. Death rays flash the life out of five hundred people aboard a ship—call them Space Pirates and it’s all right. Call them Space Navy and it’s all right too, as long as you kill Space Pirates to match. They’re sitting up there laughing at it. What’ll they think when they come out and find somebody’s really dead? Who could have done it, Dr. Novak? It’s unbelievable.”
“I believe it. Miss Stuart, what’ll we do with Mrs. Clifton? She and Cliff live alone—lived alone. Could you get a nurse——”
“I’ll take her to my place. Father has a resident doctor. I think perhaps I’d better start now. The police would want to question her. It’d be inhuman.”
“I think you’d better wait, Miss Stuart. It’s—homicide, after all.”
“That’s absurd. All they could do is badger her out of her wits with questions, and what could she have to tell them about it?”
“Look—poor little rich girl,” Novak snarled, angry, nasty, and scared. “Cliff was killed and I may be killed, too, if the cops don’t figure this thing out. I’m not going to handicap them by letting witnesses disappear. You just stay put, will you?”
“Coward!” she flared.
The argument was broken up by the arrival of four policemen from a radio car.
Novak said to the one with stripes on his sleeve: “I’m Dr. Michael Novak. I found a man named August Clifton in the washroom, dead. An A.E.C. Security man I know was here, so I put it in his hands. He’s upstairs with Clifton now. This is Clifton’s wife.”
“All right,” said the sergeant. “Homicide cars’ll be here any minute. Wykoff, you and Martinez keep people from leaving. Don’t let ’em use that phone. Sam, come with me.” He stumped up the stairs with a patrolman.
It must have been Martinez, small and flat-faced, who asked Novak: “What’s going on here, anyway, Doc? Ain’t this the Cheskies’ place? We never have any trouble with the Cheskies.”
“It’s rented for the night. By the American Society for Space Flight.”
“Uh,” said Martinez doubtfully. “Borderline cases. Did the guy kill himself?”
>
“He did not!”
“Aw-right, Doc? You don’t have to get nasty just because I asked.” And Martinez, offended, joined Wykoff at the door. Novak knew he had sounded nasty, and wondered how close he was to hysteria himself.
Anheier came down the stairs slowly, preoccupied. “What’s this?” he asked.
“Clifton’s wife. I told her. And Miss Stuart. Mr. Anheier from the A.E.C. Security and Intelligence Office.”
“Los Angeles regional agent in charge,” Anheier said automatically.
“Mr. Anheier,” said the girl, “can’t I take Mrs. Clifton out of this? Before the other police and the reporters get here?”
“I’m not in charge,” he said mildly, “but if you ask me it wouldn’t be a good idea at all. Best to take our medicine and get it over with. What do you two think of Clifton’s emotional stability?”
“He was brilliant, but——” Amy Stuart began, and then shut her mouth with a snap. “Are you suggesting that he took his own life?” she asked coldly. “That’s quite incredible.”
Anheier shrugged. “The sergeant thought so. It’s for the coronet to say finally, of course.”
“Look,” said Novak, laboring to keep his voice reasonable. “You and I know damned well——”
“Novak,” said Anheier. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Novak stared at him and they went to the foot of the stairs. The Security man said quietly: “I know what you think. You think Clifton was murdered in connection with the—stuff—you told me this afternoon.”
“I think there’s an espionage angle,” Novak said. “And I know you had your mind made up that Clifton and I were cranks. Man, doesn’t this change anything? He’s dead!”
Anheier considered. “I’ll meet you halfway,” he said. “When you tell your story to the cops, keep it straight. Don’t babble to reporters about your suspicions. Just leave out your opinion that Clifton was murdered. If there’s an espionage angle, this is no time to give it to the papers.”
“How does that add up to meeting me halfway?” Novak asked bitterly.
“I want to see you after tonight’s fuss is over. I’ll fill you in on the big picture. Meanwhile, don’t prejudice our position with loose talk. Here’s Homicide now. Watch yourself.”
Homicide was three sedans full of photographers, detectives, and uniformed police. Reporters and press photographers were at their heels. A Lieutenant Kahn was the big wheel. Novak watched Anheier brief Kahn calmly and competently and felt a charge of resentment. The big picture—what was it? Perhaps smoothly meshing crews of agents were preparing tonight to seize members of a conspiracy ramified far beyond his small glimpse.
The lieutenant was firing orders. “Nobody, but nobody, leaves the building until I say so. You, yank that press guy out of the phone booth; that line’s for us. Sergeant, make an announcement to the movie audience upstairs. Doc, bring Mrs. Clifton to and let her cry it out. I’ll want to talk to her later. No reporters past the stairs for now. Where’s this Novak? Come on, let’s view the remains.”
Now there were two white-faced A.S.F.S.F. kids in the washroom as well as the radio-car sergeant and patrolman. The sergeant saluted and said: “They came in a minute ago, lieutenant. I hold them. Didn’t want a stampede.”
“Good. Take them down to the lobby with a bull to watch them. Start taking your pictures, Ivy. Let’s go, you fingerprint men! Where’s Kelly? Dr. Novak, you found the body, didn’t you? Tell us just what happened while it’s still fresh in your mind.” A uniformed policeman stood at Novak’s elbow with an open stenographic pad.
Don’t prejudice our position. Fine words; did they mean anything? Fumblingly, Novak went over it all, from Lilly’s first worried request to the end. Halfway through he remembered about the ring, went through his pockets, and produced it. Through it all, Anheier’s calm eyes were on him. In deference to the big picture and the unprejudiced position he said nothing about foreign powers, space-ship fuel, or espionage—and wondered if he was a fool.
The scene blended into a slow nightmare that dragged on until 1:00 a.m. Parts of the nightmare were: glaring lights from the Homicide photographers’ power packs, Lilly conscious again and hysterical, Amy Stuart yelling at the police to leave her alone, Friml clutching him to ask shakily whether he thought Clifton had been embezzling, sly-eyed reporters hinting about him and Lilly, MacIlheny groaning that this would set back the A.S.F.S.F. ten years and telling his story to the police again and again and again.
Finally there was quiet. The names of A.S.F.S.F. members present had been taken and they had been sent home, kids and engineers. Amy had taken Lilly home. The police had folded their tripods, packed their fingerprint gear and gone. Last of all an ambulance whined away from the door with a canvas bag in its belly.
Left in the lobby of Slovak Sokol Hall were Novak, Anheier, and a stooped janitor grumbling to himself and turning out the building lights.
“You said you wanted to talk to me,” Novak said wearily.
Anheier hesitated. “Let’s have a drink. I know a bar up the street.” Novak, wrung out like a dishrag, followed him from the hall. The waiting janitor pointedly clicked off the last light.
The bar was dim and quiet. Half a dozen moody beersippers were ranged on its stools. Anheier glanced at them and said: “Table okay? I have a reason.”
“Sure.” The Security man picked one well to the rear.
“Watch the bartender,” he said softly.
“Eh?” Novak asked, startled, and got no answer. He watched. The bartender, old and fat, deliberately mopped at his bar. At last he trudged to the end of the bar, lifted the flap, plodded to their table, and said: “Yuh?”
“You got double-shot glasses?” Anheier asked.
The bartender glared at him. “Yuh.”
“I want a double scotch. You got Poland Water?”
The bartender compressed his mouth and shook his head.
“I want soda with it then. Novak?”
“Same for me,” Novak said.
The bartender turned and plodded back to the bar, limping a little. Novak watched him as he slowly went through the ritual of pouring. “What’s all this about?” he asked.
“Watch him,” Anheier said, and laughed. The bartender’s head immediately swiveled up and at their table. His glare was frightening. It was murderous.
He brought them their drinks and Novak noticed that his limp had grown more marked. His fingers trembled when he set the tray down and picked up Anheier’s bill.
“Keep the change,” Anheier said easily, and the bartender’s hand tremor grew worse. Wordlessly the man trudged from the table, rang up the sale, and resumed mopping.
“Would you mind telling me——” Novak began, picking up his double-shot glass.
“Don’t drink that,” Anheier said. “It may be poison.”
Novak’s heart bounded. This, by God, was it! Poison, spies, the papers, and Anheier was admitting he’d been right all along!
“Let’s get out of here,” the Security man said. He got up, leaving his own glass untouched, and they left. Novak’s back crawled as he walked out behind Anheier. A thrown stiletto—a bullet——
They made it to the street, alive, and Novak waited to be filled in on the big picture while they walked: he apprehensively and Anheier with icy calm.
“I noticed that old boy come on duty while I was having a beer before the meeting,” the Security man said. “He made me think of you. Paranoia. A beautifully developed persecution complex; one of these days he’s going to kill somebody.”
Novak stopped walking. “He’s not a spy?” he asked stupidly “No,” Anheier said with surprise. “He’s a clinical exhibit, and a hell of a man to hire for a bartender. While I was finishing my beer, somebody complained about the weather and he took it as a personal insult. Two lushes were lying about how much money they made. He told them to cut out the roundabout remarks; how much money he made was his business and no cheap jerks could horn in on it. Y
ou noticed the limp? We were picking on him by making him walk to the table. I laughed and he knew I was laughing at him. Knew I was one of his enemies plotting against him right under his.
“You’re telling me that I have a persecution complex, Anheier? That I’m crazy?” Novak asked hoarsely.
The Security man said: “Don’t put words in my mouth. I am saying you’ve got a fixed idea about espionage which makes no sense at all to me—and I’m a pro about espionage; you’re a grass-green amateur.
“What have you got? A drawing that doesn’t look right to you. Why the devil should it? Mysterious financial backing of the rocket club. All corporate financing is mysterious. The big boys divulge exactly as much as the law forces them to—and a lot of them try to get away with less. Every S.E.C. order issued means somebody tried just that. And Clifton got shot through the head; that’s supposed to be the clincher that should convince even me. Do you think suicides don’t occur?”
Automatically they were walking again and the Security man’s reasonable, logical voice went on. “I didn’t go to that meeting tonight to investigate your allegations; I went for laughs and to see the movie. Novak, it’s always tragic to see a person acquiring a fixed idea. They never realise what’s happening to them. If you try to set them right, you only succeed in giving them more ‘evidence.’ You know the job I have. Lord, the people I have to see! A week doesn’t go by without some poor old duffer turning up and asking me to make the A.E.C. stop sending death rays through him. If they get violent we call the city police . . .”
Collected Short Fiction Page 200