Murder on Euripides

by Scott A. Combs

  “By all means,” Adlaison said, gesturing to the right of the bar area.

  “I won’t be but a moment.”

  Adlaison took Sir Giles’ glass and retreated to the bar. He heard Sir Giles enter his bathroom and became intrigued when a series of clattering and thumps emanated from within. Then there was a resounding bang!

  “Are you all right, Sir Giles?” asked Adlaison after a second clank rang out. He went down the hall and stood outside the bathroom listening with his ear against the door.

  “Perfectly fine,” came a muffled reply.

  “It doesn’t sound like it.” Adlaison moved closer, putting his ear to the door just after the door was smacked with what must’ve been a hammer. A metallic bang! ripped through his stateroom from the bathroom. “It sounds as if you are sledging the pipes. Can I lend any assistance? Should I call for maintenance?”

  “No don’t do that.”

  Adlaison jumped back when the door flung open abruptly. Sir Giles stood erect with a crazy gleam in his eye, holding one of the largest, oldest pipe wrenches he had ever seen. Adlaison thought the crazed sleuth was going to cudgel him with the plumbing tool when Sir Giles gave him a pat on the shoulder instead. “You most certainly can help, my good fellow.”

  “I—I can?” Adlaison stammered, too startled to refuse.

  “Roll up your sleeves and come here.” The diplomat did and wedged himself into the small room. “I’m here on a fact-finding mission,” said Sir Giles. “One that I hope to be fruitful to my investigations. If I find what I’m looking for I can then come up with a plan to trap the culprit of these heinous crimes.”

  “Really?” said Adlaison. “What facts in particular?”

  “The ones that will answer once and for all why the murderer is committing these crimes.”

  “In my bathroom? Facts that are hidden in my pipes?”

  Sir Giles gave him a shrewd wink and nodded. “At least that’s what I’m hoping for.”

  “How can I help then?”

  “Come down here and get a grip on this wrench while I nudge the fittings loose. We need to break the pipes and take a sample of the sludge.”

  “Fittings? Sludge?”

  Sir Giles latched the big wrench under the sink to the main pipe and placed Adlaison’s hands on the handle cocking the tool until it got a bite on the fitting. Then he produced a ball-peen hammer from his leather bag. Adlaison slid his hands to grasp the wrench. Sir Giles scowled and slid his hands back to where he wanted them. Rearing back to make the strike with the ball-peen, he said, “Hold on tight! I’d hate to miss . . . ”

  * * *

  SMYTHE HANDED NANETTE a piece of cold chicken. When she didn’t respond, he waggled it in front of her face. Her far-off stare refocused onto the dangling deep-fried leg.

  “Huh?”

  “I was saying,” said Smythe, “leg or breast?”

  “Breast please.”

  “I’m a leg man myself,” he chuckled. She looked at him quizzically, not getting his joke. “Right—breast is good too.” He stuck the chicken leg in his mouth, clamped down on it, and fumbled in the picnic basket for a chicken breast. “Umm um umm,” he mumbled. He found what he was looking for and handed the piece to Nanette.

  She took it from him and went back to staring off into space. Smythe, seeing she was far away again, struck up a conversation with himself. “I think we should call our first child Allouiscious if it’s a boy and Hildegard if it’s a girl.”

  Nanette took a bite of her chicken as if she was in a trance.

  Smythe continued on. “Of course, we shall have at least twelve children. I love a big family. Especially during the holidays. Everyone holding hands, singing carols and opening presents around the family tree.”

  Something penetrated into Nanette’s consciousness. “What? Were you talking to me?”

  “I should say so,” he said. “You agreed to have my babies. All twelve of them.”

  Nanette, in the act of taking another bite, choked and blew half-chomped chicken out of her mouth. Smythe ducked receiving only minor amounts of predigested chicken chunkies. “I what?”

  Smythe brushed off the splatter. “It’s true,” he said. “You find me an irresistible sex machine, capable of nothing less than twelve children when we get married.”

  “I did not!” she squealed, waving her chicken in a negative way.

  “Did so.”

  “Did not.”

  “No, you didn’t,” he laughed. “But I can dream can’t I?”

  “You want to marry me?” asked Nanette.

  “Maybe, not right away,” Smythe said. “Someday would be nice.”

  “I don’t even know your first name, let alone if you’re—you’re—” she paused in thought. “Oh, my Maker.”

  “What?” asked Smythe.

  “No. It couldn’t be.” She started searching her pockets. “That old meddling busybody. You don’t suppose he knows something I don’t?”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Smythe.

  “My grandfather of course.”

  “What about him?”

  She turned to him and placed her hand to his mouth to shut him up. With a quick jerk she plunged her index finger into his mouth.

  “Ugh—ummm!”

  “Hold on,” she said, swirling her finger around his gums and in the pouch of his cheek. With a pop! she pulled her finger out and examined the saliva-drenched finger.

  Smythe swallowed hard and composed himself. “What are you doing?”

  “A test.”

  “For what!?”

  She flipped a small electronic device open in her other hand and slid her wet finger on an absorption pad. The device changed color and began to hum, analyzing the sample. “Smythe,” said Nanette. “Do you know how SLASP agents procreate?”

  He thought for a moment. “In the usual way I hope?” He looked confused.

  “Yes, you silly. We do it like everyone else.”

  Smythe let out a big sigh of relief.

  “But do you know how we choose a mate?” she asked him.

  “Boy meets girl. Boy gets his way with girl. Boy and girl live happily ever after?”

  “Not exactly,” she said. “We don’t get to choose. Our mates are carefully matched.”

  “You don’t get to choose?”

  “No, we don’t. The government makes the big decisions for their agents. It’s all about the grand scheme they set up ages ago. Eugenics is frowned on now, but well-planned pairing is just the first step in the government’s plan of engineering more SLASP agents. Ones even more skilled than current agents, and we are at the top of our species’ capabilities right now. For us, there’s training and more training until we respond instinctively. Most drop out at that stage of our lives. The lucky ones like myself go on to internships and field work. And finally we have to prove ourselves on the battlefield against impossible odds. If—and I mean if—the candidate somehow survives they become enlisted SLASP soldiers. Then the hard work begins for the right of owning a commission as a SLASP agent. Most never make it. The tough ones like myself work our way up the ranks just to stay alive.”

  “Then how?”

  “How do they pick our mates?”

  He nodded.

  “By being genetically paired. The government runs through the potential mates and screens for the perfect DNA match that will produce the desired offspring. When one is found we are bound by duty to honor the mating.”

  “And that little device can tell if I’m the right guy?”

  “It can.”

  “So, if I fail—”

  “We just stay friends, eat chicken and have a good time.”

  “No fringe benefits?”

  She shrugged. “Kissing is okay. But no hanky-panky. It’s a billion to one that you’re even remotely a possible match for my mate. That’s what’s bothering me though. My grandfather has been such a matchmaker since I’ve been on board the Euripides. I wonder if he knows something . . .
”

  “How could he? He’s been in cryo-sleep for years.”

  “I don’t think even cryo-sleep can slow down his intellect. Somehow he’s able to find things out. Maybe he’s been secretly combing events to bring about some outcome.”

  “That’s crazy talk. You make him sound as if he’s some kind of megalomaniac super brain.”

  “Well isn’t he? Haven’t you read some of his exploits? He’s so far beyond the common man’s thinking that mere mortals can’t fathom the depths of his insight.”

  “I can’t believe it. Sir Giles is a kind man who loves you very much. How can I believe he would set up this murderer on this ship just so he could come out of cryo-sleep to have us meet? It’s absurd.”

  The device chimed that it had come to a decision. Nanette looked at the result. Slowly she raised it and looked at him.

  “You’re a perfect match.”

  Smythe held her trembling hand. He kissed her forehead while she kept saying he was a perfect match, over and over again. Then he whispered in her ear, “My given name is Jim.”

  * * *

  WITH A GRUNT, SIR GILES yanked the loose pipe from under the sink. It gave way and he fell backwards landing hard on his rear end.

  “Are you all right?” asked Adlaison.

  Sir Giles rose to his feet still clutching the dismembered and battered pipe. “Perfectly fine. Nothing like a little manual labor to get the old ticker working.” He raised the pipe to his eye and peered down its dripping length.

  Adlaison leaned over and both men stared at each other, eye to eye through the pipe. “Is it what you expected?” asked Adlaison.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” stated Sir Giles triumphantly.

  “Nothing?”

  “Yes, my good ambassador. Absolutely nothing.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “It is indeed.” Sir Giles tossed the dented pipe under the sink. Then he looked at the grime on his hands wondering where he was going to clean himself up. In the end he turned on the shower and soaped his hands, washing them thoroughly under the shower head.

  “Just what would you find if it wasn’t nothing?” asked Adlaison, handing Sir Giles a clean towel that he plucked from the linen closet.

  “A cluster of nanobots programmed to dismember you and wash you down the drain.”

  “Really?” said Adlaison astonished. “These nanobots can do that kind of job?”

  “If the programmer is exceptionally gifted,” said Sir Giles, inspecting the shower drain with a long cotton swab that he produced from his bag. He scooped some gunk out of the drain and with his magnifying glass, scrutinized the greyish goop. “No traces of nanobots. I proclaim you safe in your quarters.”

  “What about the sink in the wet bar?” asked Adlaison. “Could that be—”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Sir Giles, interrupting him. “I’ll grant you the murder is diabolical, but he’s not uncivilized. Besides, you’ve already proven that the wet bar is safe by mixing us those exquisite drinks.”

  “Right,” agreed Adlaison. “So I’m safe?”

  “In here, yes,” said Sir Giles. He gestured with his hands sweeping a wide motion around him. “Out there—I’d be more careful if I were you.”

  Sir Giles began packing his things away. It was astounding to Adlaison that all the tools could fit into the small, curious bag. When the last item was stowed away in the leather bag, Sir Giles snapped the latch on it and lifted it effortlessly.

  “Now, we must discuss what we are to do today to ensure your safety.”

  They went out into the living room. “I’ve arranged for more security,” said Adlaison as they eased into comfortable chairs. “It appears we’ve stirred up quite an interest with our little match. Quite a few of the other delegates are coming to watch, I’m told. Our wager has spread far and wide. There's even odds on us that give the spread on our past and current records. Of course, I don’t agree that our chances of winning are three hundred to one.”

  “I can understand their predictions,” began Sir Giles. “Pi is a novice. But Glounce will be a worthy opponent.” Sir Giles rose, moving to the door to leave. “I’ve had a chance to read about his skill as a Squash player this morning. Did you know his record is untarnished?”

  “No,” said Adlaison. “Then we’ll have to show the delegates how resourceful the Giles-Adlaison team can be.”

  “Please,” said Sir Giles, clapping him on the shoulder, “take the honors by naming us the Adlaison team. I’d rather be anonymous knowing that my skill level of the game is merely passable at my age. We wouldn’t want to show any sign of weakness.”

  “As you wish,” Adlaison said.

  “How many delegates did you say are coming to watch the game?”

  “Nearly everyone I think.”

  “Excellent,” said Sir Giles. “We want them to have good seats for viewing when the time comes for your murder. Until that time we’ll show the Galactic Guild just how the game of Squash is played.”

  Adlaison looked apprehensive.

  “Having second thoughts?”

  “Well,” he hemmed and hawed. “We’re not spring chickens anymore. Glounce has the skill to outplay us with those dexterous tentacles of his. If he didn’t get my goat up I would’ve passed on this wager. Just once I’d like to steal his thunder and humble that big tub of gelatinous blubber.”

  “And we will,” said Sir Giles. “At least we’ll know that we did our best. Win or lose we have to stick to the plan and draw the murderer out into the open.”

  “I guess you’re right. A Squash match is secondary to our prime goal. Are you sure your plan will work?”

  “Not a hundred percent.” Sir Giles stroked his beard. “There’s too many variables to be certain. But good usually prevails over evil in the long run. Remember the old quote from Edmund Burke, The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” Sir Giles smiled. “There’s been smart men in every age. Let’s be comforted in our resolve to keep this killer from striking again.”

  Adlaison nodded. “I wish I had your backbone. I’m afraid I’ll not live up to your standards.”

  “Nonsense man,” roared Sir Giles. “Backbone, as you put it, is the absence of knowing when to be afraid. Your anger will outweigh your fear.”

  “Right.” Adlaison didn’t sound convinced. “I’m afraid when the murderer comes for me finally I’ll cower. I’ve never had to face life and death before.”

  “Posh! Everyone is afraid of dying. Look at me. I’ve stared death in the eye hundreds of times and I’m still afraid. It’s what we do with the fear that counts. When your time comes it’ll be easy to die. It’s living well that is hard to face.”

  Adlaison nodded. Sir Giles shook his hand affectionately. “You’ll do fine.” He gripped Adlaison’s shoulder. “Just be prepared when your time comes. I have a feeling this case is about to be solved.”

  “Thanks, Sir Giles. I needed the encouragement.”

  “Okay.” He made his way to the door. “Die well.”

  * * *

  THEIR LOVEMAKING WAS A FRENZY of arms and legs thrashing about. Her passion overflowed as she allowed Smythe to have his way with her. Soon the joy of their union was over and they held each other in a long embrace. Naked and sweaty, they snuggled closely together, her head resting on his chest. With the knowledge that her paramour had passed the genetic testing, Nanette couldn’t hold herself back from wicked desires. Somehow her subconscious had known Smythe was suitable as a mate. Looking back at her recent behavior, the answer was simple. Her grandfather must’ve come to the same conclusions. She ran the whole series of events over in her mind and couldn’t believe it was random dumb luck that Smythe was conveniently transferred just before the murders happened. Then having the head purser assigned to their personal party to take care of the Thackerys . . . The odds of finding her perfect match was astronomical. But the
re it was. He was one in a billion. No, more like one in a trillion and her grandfather arranged it all somehow. She was disturbed by the thought and also exhilarated at the prospects. She tingled with joy when Smythe stroked her body and began to kiss her once again. Love was glorious.

  Nanette and Smythe’s cuddling was disturbed when the pileated woodpecker began hammering on the bark of a nearby tree. Smythe stroked her hair and said, “That’s what I think love is about.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

  “The woodpecker. He’s foraging for his mate and her clutch of chicks. He doesn’t do it solely for himself. Gathering food, nurturing his offspring, caring for his mate; these are all signs of a mature love. I want to be just like him someday.”

  “You do?”

  “If you’ll let me.”

  “I have no choice. You’re my genetic match, remember?”

  “Good. Then that’s settled. I’ll peck on bark looking for grubs and you rear the kids. You can make lots of SLASP soldiers out of our progeny.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  They both laughed. She reached down to bring new life to his manliness and they continued a less frantic, more passionate coupling. When they were through they got dressed and whiled the time away laughing and playing childish games in the woods. They ran until he was too exhausted to chase her further. Then they’d just strolled about admiring the beauty of the flora.

  Suddenly Nanette panicked. “Oh my Maker. What time is it?”

  Smythe flicked open the chronometer on his digi-pad. “Nearly eight bells.”

  Nanette jumped up and began packing their picnic items away. “Where has the time gone?” Smythe didn’t move quick enough to evade her whipping the blanket out from under him. He rolled over and caught the empty wine bottle in mid-air. “Hurry up,” she said. “We’re going to be late for the Squash match.”

  “Oh, right,” said Smythe. “I’d almost forgotten about it. Sir Giles and Ambassador Adlaison must be on their way to the courts by now.”