THE DECEIVERS

by Alfred Bester

  Rogue nodded.

  “Then cool it. The computer and Demi and I will cope, while you’re pacing the hospital waiting room. There’s really only one fascinating puzzle; how long will her pregnancy last? We need a solid nine months to develop the normal Terran kid, but how long a term will your double-endowed half-breed miracle require? Nine? Ten? Twelve?”

  “Oi.”

  “I think I’ll headline the first scoop: My Terranian And How It Grew.”

  “This is no joke for me, Tom.”

  “And this is the last thing I ever expected from you. The expectant father. Feeling any labor pains yet?”

  “I’d better get Demi over here right away.”

  “Cool the rush, Rogue. You may have a year and a half before she pops. Come inside and type ‘+HELLO+’ on the terminal to the Lemma Meshugenah. That’ll give it fits and get it off my back for a while.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Mumbo Jumbo knows my touch on the keyboard.”

  “The trouble with you two is that you’re having an illikit love-hate affair.”

  Winter tore himself away from Young’s blandishments, too cheered by the reassurances to sense the ugly pattern that was shaping. Love will do that to the best; they lose their grasp on reality. As a rule, when a Garda becomes spellbound I give him or her a forced sabbatical. But I’m not proud of my own performance in the action. With twenty-twenty hindsight I see now that I should have twigged the setup. How could Tomas Young know about the coronation double-kill? Winter had spent the night with Demi Jeroux and spoken to no one else when he returned from Ganymede.

  He was close to caracolling on his way to bring the good news from Young to Jeroux. It occurred to him that his sprite of the unexpected might have gone to the Media office despite her promise to stay home, but no matter; they had exchanged keys after that first night, and if she wasn’t in he could call from her place, pretending it was business. The fine Virginia girl didn’t want any public intimacy until they had a social status.

  “A ring!” Winter exclaimed. “An engagement ring. That’s the answer.”

  He began to window-shop along the same main drag where he had encountered Twelve Drummers Drumming three weeks before. In the busy vitrine of a jewelry boutique he saw a small gold seal ring. He looked at it for a long moment, muttered. “Could be,” and pressed the button alongside the door. After a brief inspection by the owner, the door lock was released and Winter was admitted.

  “Good morning. I’d like to have a look at that seal ring in your window. Second row from the bottom, third from the left.”

  The ring was placed on a velvet cushion on the counter. It was pinkish gold, fairly heavy, and engraved with a four-petal blossom in deep intaglio.

  “Would that be a dogwood design?” Winter asked.

  “Yes, sir. Pink flowering dogwood.”

  “I thought so.”

  “That’s why pink gold was used. It’s a rare antique. Red and pink golds haven’t been seen on the market in centuries.”

  “The Belgians are smelting it on Callisto,” Winter said, “but I suppose they’re keeping it all for themselves. I’ll take the ring.” He had no worries about it fitting Demi’s finger; that would be child’s play for a Titanian.

  After the nuisance of finger- and eyeprint identification and a bank check, Winter departed with the wrapped ring. “Dogwood is the state flower of Virginia,” he told the proprietor. “I would have gotten an ‘A’ in botany if I hadn’t busted it, owing to a surfeit of poison ivy.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Lammister

  lam (lam) v. lammed, lamming, n. Slang.—v.t. 1. to run away quickly.—n. 2. on the lam, fleeing or hiding, esp. from the police.

  —The Random House Dictionary

  Winter bounced up the stairs and rang Demi’s doorbell. After a moment the door was opened by what appeared to be a good-looking street stud.

  “Can I help you?” the man asked.

  “Oh, sorry,” Winter said. “I must have stopped at the wrong floor. I—” Then he glanced past the man. It was Demi’s apartment. There were two more men and two uniformed cops inside.

  “What’s all this?” Winter asked. “Where’s Ms. Jeroux?”

  The man closed the door behind him and confronted Winter in the corridor. “You know her?”

  “I want to know what’s going on.”

  “There’s been an incident.”

  “Incident!”

  “Your name, please.”

  “Winter. Rogue Winter. R-O-G-U-E. Who the hell are you? What incident?”

  “Do you have any I.D. on you, Mr. Winter?”

  Winter whipped out his wallet and shoved it at the man who opened and inspected it. “I’m asking you,” Winter growled. “Who are you? What twigs? Where’s Ms. Jeroux?”

  The man returned the wallet. “She’ll have to wait. Friend of hers, Mr. Winter?”

  “Yes, and I—”

  “Know her well?”

  “What the hell business is it of yours? Who are you?”

  “Dampier. Sergeant Dampier.” He flashed a gold badge long enough to be read in nanoseconds.

  “You’re police?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Winter. Are you a relative of Ms. Jeroux?”

  “No, and I—”

  “But a close friend?”

  “God damn your eyes! Where’s Demi? What’s happened?”

  “How did you happen by this morning?”

  “We had a date. We—Look, I’m not going to stand for this much longer. D’you think I’m the type that runs screaming at the sight of a cop? I want to know where Ms. Jeroux is and what’s happened to her.”

  “You think something’s happened?”

  “That has to be obvious. Is she all right?”

  Dampier nodded coolly, as if making up his mind. “I’m from Third District Homicide.”

  “Homicide!” Winter shouldered past him and shoved the apartment door open. Dampier put a restraining grip on his arm. The apartment was a shambles. Winter looked around wildly, all his famous poise gone. “What? Who? How? Where’s Demi?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “You said homicide.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But no body?”

  “No body.”

  “Then why? How? What makes you think…” He tried to control himself. “What happened? Exactly.”

  “The neighbors heard screaming and crashing,” Dampier said. “Violent struggle. They called us at nine-forty.”

  “I left here at nine,” Winter muttered. “I was with Young, talking about her, and we never knew…”

  “So it’s presumed homicide, with the body removed,” Dampier continued calmly. “Possibly by you, since you were intimate with her.”

  “Goddam you!”

  “Come on, Mr. Winter. You spent the night here. Some of your gear is in the mess. Just back from Ganymede, huh? That’s what the tags on your tote say. Lovers’ greeting or lovers’ quarrel?”

  “We were planning on getting married.”

  “Changed your mind?”

  “No, damn you.”

  “Did she?”

  “No.”

  “Find her with another man?”

  “What’s your name? Dampier? I swear I’ll—”

  “Easy. Easy. You wouldn’t believe how many homicides are committed by people who’ve been intimate. I have to know all this. It’s better answering questions here than at the station.”

  “Gig,” Winter breathed hard.

  “You know this apartment well?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Is anything missing, outside of the girl? Look around, but don’t touch anything.”

  Winter looked at the jumble helplessly. There were thrown books on the floor, the contents of the desk, his tote, its contents, smashed decorations; it looked as though a dinosaur had run wild. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I just can’t tell.”

  “Too bad,” Damp
ier said. “We need all possibles. Was there anything special or different about her that might give us a lead?”

  Winter opened his mouth, then closed it. “Nothing special,” he said at last. “Just a fine Virginia girl. And why do you use the past tense?”

  “It’s a pretty safe presumption that she was killed. She have any enemies?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Friends?”

  “The only ones I know are the people who work with her in our office. There may have been others.”

  “What office?”

  “Solar Media.”

  “Hey!” one of the plainclothesmen said. “This must be the Rogue Winter. Should’ve known by them scars.”

  “Wait a minute,” Winter exclaimed. He made a lightning tour of the closets, dressing room and bath. “Her cat’s gone.”

  “Cat? What cat?”

  “She had a pet; half Siamese, half koala.”

  A cop offered, “Probably run out, scared by the fight and the kill.”

  Winter shuddered; Dampier made careful notes. “Right. I’ll be in touch, Mr. Winter. The supervisor may want you for more questions. You’re not planning on leaving town?”

  “I’m planning on getting bombed,” Winter said. He couldn’t stop shaking.

  Dampier looked into the ashen face. “Good idea. Numb’s the name of the game for you.”

  There was an eager crowd in the street waiting to see whether a body would be carried out covered with a red blanket (still living) or a black (dead). Three police vans were arriving, probably containing scientists. Winter lurched through the mob (half dead) and searched out transport.

  “We’ll zig the Solar Circuit,” he told the driver.

  “Inside out or outside in?”

  “Start outside.”

  “You got it.”

  So THE TRITON THUNDER was the first stop. Pagoda exterior. Teahouse interior w. teak, ebony, pearl and jade. Lanterns. Four fat mandarins (all paid-up members of Actors Equity) dancing in slow-motion postures on the center floor with snapping fans and hand-bells and singing in eunuch shrills. The drinks had names like “Elegy for a Fallen Leaf,” “Vengeful Dragon,” “Moon-love,” and “Year of the Quark.”

  “One of each,” Winter ordered.

  Next, THE SATURN SICK-VI. Foreign Legion Fort exterior w. cannon and the dummies of dead soldiers (Criterion Costume Co.) in the embrasures. Interior; sand, palms, trestle tables, vedette waiters. Music by Alfie Dreyfus & His Deafening Duo on accordion. Drinks; Hash, Morph, Coke, Ope, Roach I, Roach II and Roach III.

  “One of each.”

  He brought his driver into THE CALLISTO QUEEN for protection. It was a fag joint with waiters in drag, looking and acting dangerously seductive. Tiffany glass chandeliers, stained glass windows backlighted to illuminate “The Probable Possible Postures.” Music by The Rough Traders. Drinks named “Hustle,” “Cruise,” “Grope,” “Lust Letter,” “Obscene Bus Stop.”

  “Two of each.”

  Then THE GANYMEDE GENITAL, a nude trap. You check your clothes and are handed cosmetics to make up blackface or whiteface, as your choice might be. Congo decor. “Fever” drinks; Yellow, Dengue, Spotted, Breakbone, Scarlet, etc. MARS BOW BELLS, a mirrored gin palace w. aphrodisiac buffet. THE TERROR FIRMA with built-in practical jokes. THE LUNA TIC. THE VENUS ANDROGYNY for the trans-sex recuperates. THE MURK. I was waiting for him there at the black-lit bone bar decorated with bleached skulls, each with an apple in its jaws.

  Shock and drink had produced an artificial massive calm to control the screaming inside him. If it cracked he would end up weeping hysterically, but I didn’t think what I had to tell him would move him to tears.

  “Greetings, great and good Brünnehilde,” he said baffably, sitting down alongside me at the empty bar. “Queen of Iceland. Wife of King Gunther. Also Wagner’s Valkyrie and Siegfried’s popsy.” He appropriated my drink. “I see you still have my number, or was I tailed?”

  “What difference does it make, Rogue?” I said. “I’m here to talk to you. I’m very, very sorry about all this.”

  “What’s to sorrow? Love comes, love goes, but girls go on forever. If that makes any sense,” he added. “Should I try it transposed?”

  “Especially because part of this mess is my fault.”

  “Girls come, girls go, but love goes on forever. Not much of an improvement. How?” he shot.

  “I held something back. Suppressio veri, they call it, legalwise. I had to until you were formally enthroned.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you would have refused the throne absolutely, and we need you in that spot.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the crux of the Meta Mafia scam.”

  “That Jink girl in the Bologna Dome?”

  “No. She’s one of the Triton ops trying to break the Mafia. The Mafia isn’t an inside Chinese operation.”

  “But everybody thinks—”

  “It’s Maori, and you’re now Kingfather of the scam.”

  He was thunderstruck.

  “That’s how Te Uinta was able to finance your expensive upbringing and education.”

  He was still speechless.

  “And that’s why your— Why this happened to Demi Jeroux. Triton will go to any lengths to break up the bootlegging, and now you’re the target. They’re leaning on you heavy to force you to end it.”

  “By wiping Demi?” He shook his head in confusion. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Of course not, which is why I don’t think she was killed. I think she was snatched. She’ll be the price they offer. That’s why I had to see you as soon as possible to plan your next—”

  “You knew this and you let it happen?” he broke in. White fury replaced the drink flush and his royal sunbursts turned livid.

  “I didn’t know how it would happen.”

  “I told you she must be protected and you said you’d take care of it. ‘Trust me,’ you said.”

  “At least she may be alive.”

  “May be. You think. More of your trustable guarantees?”

  “No.”

  “Is she alive? Yes or no.”

  “I don’t know. I can only hope that I’m right about the Triton tactics.”

  “Has she been snatched? Yes or no.”

  “I don’t know. I can’t know. All we can do is wait. If they contact you, we’ll know.”

  “And you’re here to plan my next move.” He snorted. “Don’t look now, Mata Hari, but they can contact me, if they ever do, no matter whether Demi’s alive or dead, and who’s to know.”

  “True, but—”

  “You clever bitch. You’re all so smart-ass, chess game, roundabout, ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’ asshole clever. You can’t do anything the simple, direct way. No, that wouldn’t be brilliant. That wouldn’t be worthy of James Bond. You have to fuck up the Solar with your dumb complications and now you’ve fucked me. Thanks, Odessa. Some day I’ll pay you back. You’ll know it’s me because it’ll be simple and direct.”

  Winter raged out of the bar and I saw him flag transport. He had himself driven to the Beaux Arts rotunda. He was still raging when he entered his apartment. Then his breath exploded and his wrath evaporated when he saw Demi’s psycat stretched out comfortably on the couch and her key to his apartment lying on the coffee table with a flower thrust through the perforated bow.

  But no Demi Jeroux.

  “So! No snatch, no kill!” He was charged with joy. “She got away from the Jinks, came here and left me the good news, like a fine considerate Virginia girl. Said message consisting of you,” he added, picking up the psycat and kissing her. “And the key.” He kissed the key.

  “Now, if I dig patterns, she’s taken it on the lam to protect herself, and God only knows what disguise she’s transformed into, like the flaky Titanian girl that she is. How in hell can I find somebody who can be anybody? You?” he asked suddenly.

  He disengaged his neck from the smitten psycat. “
Demi? No fun and games now. Demi?”

  “Qrst,” the psycat responded, halfway between a Siamese waul and a koala churr.

  “Oh, come on now, love. It’s you, isn’t it?”

  “Rsvp,” the psycat rauled melodiously.

  “Always to doubt, never to know,” Winter muttered. “Damnation! I’ve got to find our lammister but the trouble is she don’t want to be found. Add a Jink hit to her pregnancy panic and the poor kid must be wild.”

  He settled on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table while the psycat rustled on his lap, getting comfortable.

  “Shhh,” he murmured. “I’m synsensing the room. Maybe something here can give me a clue.”

  He sensed the Anima patterns in silence, listening to prints, pictures, furniture, souvenirs, anything Demi might have touched. Some were slow and tedious, others brisk and bright, their voices like a score of superimposed, unrelated graphs:

  “Come on, friends,” he coaxed. “You must have noticed my girl. She certainly paid plenty of attention to all of you our first night together. Gig? So how long was she here? When did she leave? What was she wearing?”

  Nothing but more crossword patterns.

  He sighed. “Egomaniacs, all of them. Never notice anything except themselves. Le monde, c’est moi should be their motto.”

  He consulted with the cat. “What’s your advice, lady? Should I call Odessa Partridge? Oh sure. I can see her concocting another ‘Twelve Days’ brilliance. How about Dampier? Yeh. I can hear myself giving a description for Missing Persons: Color, any; height, any; weight, any; und so weiter…

  “About the only thing I can be sure of is her sex, but go dig a female hippo from a male. I can just see myself picking a hippo up by the hind legs to inspect its genital apparat. You know, baby, I think I’ve got the wrong end of the pattern.”

  The psycat wurred and he meditated. “I have got to find her fast. So long as she’s running like The Madwoman of Titania, alone, unprotected, she can’t be safe. Sooner or later the Jink soldiers must catch up with her. I can’t leave her on her own…

  “The question is, has she ridden off in all directions or will she be somewhere near? My estimate is, near. Why? Consider the pattern, my dear Dr. Pusscat. Our girl is in a wild panic for herself, but also for me. She knows about the Venucci hit. And why else bring you here to re assure me about her? She loves me madly, poor sprite, and she’s devoted to both of us. She could never desert. She’ll be around, somewhere, somehow, trying to protect both of us, like the noble Virginia girl that she is…