Second Contact

by Mike Resnick

  “That's right.”

  “We seem to have a minor problem here,” said Greco.

  “You seem to have a major problem,” Becker corrected him. “I've been all over the damned hospital, and nobody seems to know who has the reports.”

  “In point of fact, no post mortems were ever performed on either Greenberg or Provost.”

  “Even though they'd been murdered?” said Becker. “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “It is most irregular,” agreed Greco. “But as there were witnesses to the murders, the ship's Chief Medical Officer thought it unnecessary.”

  “Isn't that against regulations?”

  Greco shrugged and smiled a tight little smile. “There are no regulations concerning murder aboard a starship, Major.”

  “Come on,” said Becker irritably. “The military has regulations for everything.”

  “Not for that, I'm afraid,” said Greco. “Why are you so interested in autopsy reports, major?”

  “I'm a lawyer. My client is Commander Wilbur Jennings—and a large part of his defense rests on the post mortems of those two crewmen.”

  “Really?” said Greco, his face suddenly alive with curiosity. “I wonder why?”

  “Come to the trial and you'll find out,” said Becker. “In the meantime, it's essential to our case that the bodies be examined by a competent doctor.” He paused. “Is there any reason why an autopsy can't be performed now, if I were to get a court order to exhume the bodies?”

  “There's an excellent reason,” said Greco. “They were jettisoned into space.”

  “Why?”

  “That is a regulation, major. A starship has no excess storage capacity.”

  “So you're saying that a murder was committed—two murders, in fact—and not only weren't autopsies performed, but also that the bodies were immediately disposed of?”

  “You make it sound like some deep, dark conspiracy,” said Greco. “The simple fact is that two crewmen were murdered in cold blood in front of several witnesses, the examining medical officer gave them a perfunctory examination—which included, I believe, taking their fingerprints and their weights at the time of death—and their bodies were jettisoned in accordance with regulations.”

  “And no action was taken against the Chief Medical Officer?”

  “There's nothing in the record to indicate that any action should have been taken. But now that you have brought the matter to my attention, I will look into the possibility of officially reprimanding him for not performing thorough post mortems on the two deceased crewmen.”

  “I can't tell you how gratifying I find that,” said Becker irritably.

  “I'm sorry, Major Becker, but please do not mistake the bearer of unfortunate information for the creator of it. I am merely reporting what I know.” He paused. “Would you like a copy of the fingerprints and the death weights?”

  “I've got them.”

  “Then have we anything else to discuss?”

  Becker glared at him, couldn't think of another thing to say, and stalked out of the office. It was a good thing, he decided, that he was just going through the motions to show Jennings how hopeless it was to plead innocent: he might go as crazy as Jennings if he actually had to build a defense.

  * * * *

  “It may work to our advantage in the long run,” concluded Becker, summing up his conversation with Juan Maria Greco.

  “How can the fact that the bodies were jettisoned work to our advantage?” asked Jennings dubiously.

  “Because now they can't be used as evidence against you,” explained Becker, sitting on the edge of Jennings’ bed while the former commander of the Roosevelt leaned against a sterile white wall.

  “They never could,” said Jennings patiently. “I told you: any thorough examination would have shown that they were aliens.”

  “I know what you told me, sir,” said Becker. “But if you were wrong, the autopsy reports would have condemned you. Now it's just your word against Gillette's. If I can break him down, show him to be incompetent, get him to lose control of himself, then you've got a chance. A small one,” he added, “but a chance.”

  “He's not incompetent,” responded Jennings firmly. “He's highly competent. He's one of them, and when he saw what I had done, he realized that he had to get rid of the bodies before anyone could examine them too closely. He couldn't take the chance that another medic might be looking over his shoulder while he performed the autopsies.”

  “Look,” said Becker, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice, “it would be asking too much for Gillette to admit that he's an alien, even if he is. But he screwed up by not performing the autopsies. I'd like to be able to show that he messed up his other duties so much that you became suspicious of him.”

  “But it was Greenberg and Provost I first suspected.”

  “I know—but they're dead and he's alive. He's the weakest link in the prosecution's chain of evidence. He's also the only link we can attack.” Becker pulled out a miniaturized audio recorder. “I want you to tell me everything you can about him.”

  “Where shall I begin?” asked Jennings.

  “Anywhere you want.”

  “His name is Franklin Gillette; he's about six feet two, and...”

  “I can get that stuff off his service record,” interrupted Becker. “What is he like? What turns him on? What makes him mad? What does he think of the military? Does he drink too much? Who did he associate with on the Roosevelt?”

  “He always kept pretty much to himself,” answered Jennings. “With a crew of more than 200 operating in zero gravity, we always had at least half a dozen men in the sick bay at any given time. He took most of his meals there.”

  “When he came out of the sick bay, who did he spend his time with?”

  Jennings shrugged helplessly. “I don't know.”

  “Why not?” demanded Becker. “You thought he was an alien, didn't you?”

  “Not until he examined the bodies and didn't report that they were aliens,” repeated Jennings.

  “Did he have much of a temper?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  Becker grimaced. “This is getting us nowhere. Let's try a different approach. He examined the crew every week, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “That's because they were subjected to zero gravity on a prolonged deep space mission?”

  “That's right.”

  “Okay. Who examined him?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Someone must have,” persisted Becker. “With as many sick crewmen as you had, it wouldn't do to have a sick doctor.”

  “There were other doctors aboard the Roosevelt,” said Jennings. “Doubtless one of them examined him.”

  “How many other doctors?”

  “Two.”

  “Then why do you think he and he alone was an alien?”

  “Because he was the one who examined the bodies.”

  “Did he ever get into an argument with either of the other doctors?” asked Becker.

  “I'd have no way of knowing.”

  “Is he married? Does he have a family?”

  “I believe he once told me he was a widower, and that he didn't have any children.”

  “Did he ever mention his family?”

  “I just told you: he didn't have one.”

  “I mean brothers and sisters, or maybe his parents?”

  “No. Whenever we spoke, it was strictly about ship's business.”

  “Did you ever expressly discuss Greenberg or Provost with him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? If you suspected they were aliens, wouldn't the Chief Medical Officer be the most likely person to consult?”

  “They were just suspicions. They would have sounded ridiculous if I had voiced them.”

  “Did you ever go to the sick bay to find their health records, just to satisfy your own curiosity?”

  “I wouldn't have had to. All medical records were kept
in the ship's computer.”

  “And as commander of the Roosevelt, you had access to them.” Becker paused. “You suspected that these two men were aliens. Why didn't you try to access their physical readouts?”

  “I assumed that if they had abnormal readings it would have been reported to me,” said Jennings. “Of course, that was before I realized that Gillette was one of them.”

  “All right. You killed the two men and tried to arrest Gillette. Why didn't you access the records then, if for no other reason than to justify your actions to yourself?”

  “I did access them, just before relinquishing command.”

  “And?”

  “What do you expect?” retorted Jennings. “I keep telling you that he was one of them.”

  “In other words, the records showed them to be perfectly normal human beings.”

  “He falsified his reports.”

  “Did any other doctor ever examine Greenberg or Provost?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Good. Then once we get into court, my first job will be to make Gillette look crazier than Magnussen makes you look.”

  “Thanks,” said Jennings wryly.

  “If you want me to start lying to you, just say the word,” replied Becker.

  “I apologize,” said Jennings. “I realize that you're doing your best to help me. But I won't win my case by having you make Gillette look like a madman. I'll win it by convincing the court that my actions were correct under the circumstances.”

  “You don't object to my trying to discredit the prosecution's witnesses, do you?”

  “Not at all. But eventually it will depend on what I say on my own behalf.”

  “I read your notebook, and frankly, it won't convince anyone. It's all suppositions and suspicions and conclusions—but there isn't any proof in it.”

  “I'm sorry you don't believe me,” said Jennings sincerely.

  “I'm being paid to defend you, not believe you,” replied Becker. “Which means that my next step is to take Gillette's deposition. I don't suppose you know where he lives?”

  “Somewhere out west,” answered Jennings. “Wyoming, Colorado, somewhere out there.”

  “Well, let's hope that he hasn't been reassigned yet. Maybe I can catch him at home and get this done over the vidphone. If it looks promising, I'll subpoena him.”

  “He wouldn't have been reassigned,” replied Jennings. “It's standard operating procedure for deep space crews to serve a minimum of six months on Earth when they return from a mission. Their bodies need that long to readjust, and the Psychology Department also insists on it.”

  “All right,” said Becker, rising to his feet and deactivating his recorder. “I'll check back with you after I've spoken to him, and let you know where we stand.”

  He walked to the door, waited for it to slide into the wall, and then followed his armed escort to the elevator.

  * * * *

  Becker suspected something was wrong when he called Information and found out that Gillette's vidphone had been disconnected. After a futile five minutes trying to trace him through the vidphone company, he activated his computer and tied into the space program's duty roster.

  PLEASE TRANSMIT CURRENT WHEREABOUTS OF FRANKLIN GILLETTE, FORMERLY CHIEF MEDICAL OFFICER ABOARD THE THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

  The machine hummed and whirred for almost a full minute, and then flashed its message across the screen.

  GILLETTE, FRANKLIN WILLIAM, M.D., CHIEF MEDICAL OFFICER ABOARD THE STARSHIP MARTIN LUTHER KING. TOUR OF DUTY TO END JUNE 22, 2066.

  He stared at the answer for a moment, then asked his next question.

  HOW LONG WAS FRANKLIN WILLIAM GILLETTE ON EARTH BEFORE BEING REASSIGNED FROM THE ROOSEVELT TO THE KING?

  The computer answered much more rapidly this time.

  ELEVEN DAYS.

  He began typing again.

  ISN'T REASSIGNMENT IN LESS THAN SIX MONTHS AN UNUSUAL PROCEDURE?

  The computer spat out a quick reply:

  I POSSESS INSUFFICIENT DATA TO ANSWER THAT QUESTION.

  He typed one last question.

  WHO ISSUED THE ORDER REASSIGNING FRANKLIN WILLIAM GILLETTE TO THE KING?

  The answer came back immediately.

  CLASSIFIED.

  Becker frowned. He was still frowning long after the message had disappeared from the computer screen.

  4.

  Becker knocked on the frame of the open doorway.

  “Yes, major?” said the general, looking up. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need to discuss a potential problem with you, sir,” said Becker.

  “Other than your client's story?” asked the general wryly.

  “Yes, sir. It concerns Franklin William Gillette.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He was Chief Medical Officer aboard the Roosevelt, sir,” said Becker.

  The general frowned. “The name still means nothing to me. What's your problem, major?”

  “My problem is that I may need him as a witness.”

  “You don't need my permission to subpoena him.”

  “It's not quite that simple, sir,” said Becker. “May I sit down?”

  “Certainly,” said the general, indicating the chair across from his desk. “Can I offer you a drink?”

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  “Cigar?”

  Becker shook his head.

  “All right, major,” said the general, leaning back and pressing his fingertips together. “You say things aren't as simple as they seem. That's usually the case in the military. Why do you need this Gillette as a witness?”

  “I didn't say I needed him, sir,” replied Becker carefully. “I said I might need him.”

  “Why?”

  “He jettisoned the murdered men into space without performing an autopsy.”

  “Was there any question about the cause of their deaths?” asked the general. “It's my understanding that there were more than a dozen witnesses.”

  “No, sir, there was no question about the cause of their deaths.”

  “Well, then?”

  Becker shifted uneasily in his chair. “There is some question concerning their identities, sir.”

  “Jennings still claims they were aliens?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I thought we agreed that you were going to get him to change his story.”

  “You and I agreed to it, general,” said Becker. “So far Jennings hasn't agreed.”

  The general frowned. “I see.”

  “And if I'm to defend him,” continued Becker, “I may need to subpoena Chief Medical Officer Gillette.”

  “So you said.” The general took a puff of his cigar. “Well, go ahead and subpoena him if you wish. I don't see what the problem is.”

  “He's currently aboard the Martin Luther King.”

  “Impossible.”

  Becker got to his feet and approached the general's computer. “May I?”

  “Be my guest.”

  He requested Gillette's current whereabouts, and received the same answer that he had gotten from his own computer.

  “That's highly irregular,” said the general at last.

  “You see my problem, sir,” said Becker. “Right now Gillette is somewhere between Uranus and Neptune. Even if the King were ordered to return to base immediately, we would have to postpone the trial ... and the cost would be prohibitive.”

  “True,” said the general. He stared at his cigar for a moment, then looked up. “I don't suppose there's any reason why we can't contact the King by radio and let you take his deposition.”

  Becker shook his head. “I don't need his deposition. I need his testimony, in front of the court.”

  “I see no reason why the court shouldn't agree to let you question him via radio.”

  “He will almost certainly be a hostile witness, sir. I can't cross-examine him with a lag time of twenty minutes between each question and answer.”

  “Then yo
u'll have to go to trial without him,” said the general firmly.

  “I can't do that, sir,” said Becker.

  “I'm not going to spend tens of millions of the taxpayers’ dollars recalling a ship to provide you with a witness who is certainly going to testify that Crewmen Greenberg and Provost were human beings.”

  “Then can we postpone the trial until the King completes its mission?”

  The general shook his head vigorously. “The King won't be back in port for more than a year, and the press is already hinting that we're trying to protect Jennings because he's one of our own. I won't allow the trial to be postponed for that long. It goes ahead as scheduled.”

  “I'll have to file a protest.”

  “You do that, if it'll make you feel any better. Hell, that's just what I'd do in your place. I'd petition for a postponement, and a change of venue, and a mistrial, and everything else I could think of—and nobody will blame you for doing the same thing.” The general paused, and his face hardened. “But Jennings goes to trial a week from Tuesday, and nothing's going to prevent or delay it.”

  Becker sat motionless for a moment, then leaned forward. “I have another question, sir,” he said at last.

  “About the trial?”

  “About Gillette.”

  “What about him?”

  “Why would he be reassigned to the King, when it's standard procedure for spacegoing personnel to spend at least six months on Earth between missions?”

  “Perhaps they needed another medical officer.”

  “Perhaps they did,” agreed Becker. “But why would that be classified?”

  “Classified?” repeated the general. “I don't think I understand you.”

  “When I asked the computer to tell me who reassigned Gillette, it replied that the answer was classified.”

  The general shrugged. “Probably it was just some officer protecting his tail for ordering Gillette back into space too soon.”

  “There has to be a very small number of officers who were in a position to issue that order,” said Becker. “Can you find out who it was?”

  “Perhaps. Why?”

  “As of this moment, Gillette is my only witness. If someone is trying to get him out of reach before the trial, I want to know who's doing it and why.”

  The general snorted derisively. “You've been talking to Jennings too much, major. You're starting to sound like you think there were aliens aboard the Roosevelt.”