Tek Secret

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Tek Secret Page 5

by William Shatner


  “They just now told me from my office that the blackout order was rescinded,” he said, sounding plausible. “Trouble is, the pictures still aren’t coming through. Before I go up to the room, I thought I better check in with you.”

  “This is typical.” She rose up, smoothing at her short crimson plastiskirt. “They never keep me up with what’s going on. Let’s take a look.”

  He followed her over to a bank of six-inch-square monitor screens. Each showed the interior of a different hospital room and a variety of patients. The screen with Bower’s name displayed beneath it was dark.

  The young woman touched a series of keys at the end of the row.

  The blank screen came to life, glowing faintly green for a few seconds and then providing a shot of a room interior. The room, however, was completely empty, lacking even a bed.

  “You sure,” Jake asked her, “this is where they have Bower stuck?”

  “Yes, I am.” She walked over to a row of terminals, halting at the fifth in line. She bent, tapped out a sequence of numbers on the keypad. “Now we’ll—why the dickens don’t they share any of this with me?”

  “What is it?”

  “Mr. Bower was signed out nearly two hours ago.”

  “That means he’s better?”

  “It doesn’t say, merely that he’s ho longer a patient at Salkin.”

  “Odd that his own company doesn’t know that,” said Jake, feigning concern. “Where was Bower taken?”

  “It doesn’t say.”

  “That’s the kind of jobs I’ve been handed lately. They provide me insufficient data.” He gave a disgruntled shrug. “Well, thanks for your help.”

  “Tell Arnie to take care of himself.”

  “Very next time I see him,” promised Jake.

  He left the room, made his way back along the blank grey corridor. “It’s going to be tougher than I thought,” he said to himself, “to ask Bower about his daughter.”

  Gomez became aware, very gradually, of the scent of apple pie. He noticed, too, his skeleton. Every single bone in it, from the largest down to the smallest, ached and throbbed.

  Eyes still shut tight, the detective attempted to speak. All that came across his stiff, dry lips was a groan.

  “Don’t go fretting yourself, young fellow,” cautioned a maternal voice.

  Reluctantly, Gomez allowed his eyes to open. He noticed flowers first. They were printed all over Moms 1-A’s apron.

  Gomez realized he was lying on the wooden floor with his head in the robot’s lap.

  “How often do you have these spells?”

  “This was no fit, mamacita,” he informed the robot in a voice that sounded rusty to him. “I was stungunned.”

  “Oh, goodness. Who would’ve done an awful thing like that?”

  After running his tongue over his dry lips, he said, “I was hoping you could tell me. Didn’t you see anyone pop in here?”

  “My sakes, no.”

  “Then what made you look in?”

  “That’s simple enough, my goodness. I just now baked up an apple pie and I got to thinking, since you’ve been tucked away in here for over three solid hours that, why, you might be ready for a wedge.”

  “Caramba.” He made an effort to sit up. “I’ve been out cold for three hours.”

  Moms helped him to his feet. “Take it real easy now, sonny. You still look mighty woozy to me.”

  “I am woozy,” he confirmed. “That’s one of the wellknown aftereffects of being shot down by a stungun.”

  “You’re still sticking to that yarn, are you?”

  “I was sitting here,” said Gomez. “I’d just slipped the first vidcaz into—”

  “What vidcaz is that, young fellow?”

  Although it was painful to turn his head, Gomez managed it. He even accomplished a few stumbling steps. There was no sign of the three cassettes of Alicia’s group therapy sessions.

  “Okay, I know why I was knocked out,” he said ruefully. “Next I have to find out who.”

  9

  THE VIDPHONE BUZZED. JAKE was about fifteen minutes from the agency towers, guiding his skycar through the deepening twilight. “Yeah?”

  The phonescreen remained blank. “Jake Cardigan?”

  “Right.”

  An image blossomed. A glistening, chromeplated robot in ą white smock was smiling at him. “Are you available to take a call from Mr. Owen Bower?”

  Jake grinned. “Definitely available, yep.”

  The robot smiled once more and then was gone from the screen. Next appeared a white-enameled nursebot.

  “Mr. Bower has been extremely eager to contact you, sir,” she said. “I’m glad we’ve been able to—”

  “Enough bullshit, Bertha,” cut in a gruff, raspy voice. “Roll the god damn phone over here so I can talk to him.”

  “You’re not supposed to shout, Mr. Bower.”

  “I’m not shouting, Bertha. When I shout, the walls will rattle.”

  “Also, sir, my name is Babs/CGL-W75. Not Bertha.”

  “Babs is a candyass name. Who stuck that on you?”

  “I’ve been led to believe, sir, that I was designed and christened by you.”

  “Hey, Cardigan, are you still there?” Alicia’s father was propped up in bed, a large, big-boned man of sixty who’d lost a great deal of weight. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunken. “I look like shit, I know. Some kind of maverick virus—wouldn’t be surprised if those sneaky bastards at Robotics, Inc. didn’t cook up something and slip it to me somehow.”

  “Mr. Bower, you know very well that isn’t—”

  “Scram, Bertha.”

  “Where are you?” Jake asked him.

  “I had myself moved to my beach house in the Palisades Sector.” A wheeze sounded in his chest. “Couldn’t tolerate those halfwits at Salkin.”

  “I’d like to talk to you—about your daughter.”

  “Why the hell do you think I’ve been trying to get hold of you for most of the afternoon?” he asked. “I want to see you, Cardigan. I’ll tell you—most of the people involved in searching for her, and that includes the god damn cops, are idiots. They couldn’t find their own backsides without outside help. Can you hop over here right now?”

  “Sure.”

  “Give me the ID number of your skycar and I’ll clear it with my security setup so you can land on the grounds. You know where this place is?”

  “Most everybody does. The skycar number is HF/5532/ HJM.”

  “I’ve got a hunch, Cardigan,” said Bower, “that the two of us are going to succeed in finding my little girl.”

  “You’re okay.” Dr. Moreno moved away from the seated Gomez. “It would be a good idea, though, if you rested here for another hour or so.”

  “I’ve already lost three hours,” he said, trying to find a comfortable sitting position.

  “I didn’t notice anyone sneak in to that room either,” said the doctor. “I was in a therapy room with a patient for most of the time and maybe I missed seeing the intruder. Why do you think they wanted those cassettes?”

  Gomez sat up straighter, remembering something. “That hombre in the cassette.”

  “Did you get to view one of the vidcazes?”

  Holding his thumb and forefinger about two inches apart, he answered, “A poco portion of the first one only. However, the gent who calls himself Guy Woodruff caught my attention.”

  “That’s not his true name?”

  “His true name, far as I know, is Sheldon Gates,” answered the detective. “I ran into him briefly on one of the first jobs I handled for Cosmos. He makes his living, usually, as a sort of freelance industrial spy.”

  Moreno scratched at his bearded chin. “Why would an industrial spy be hanging around my clinic?”

  “Most likely he was keeping an eye on Alicia Bower. Mechanix International is a large, successful operation with a whole stewpot of rivals.”

  “You mean a rival of Alicia’s father in the robotics busi
ness planted a spy here?”

  Smiling, Gomez said, “That’s only one of the possibilities. I can explore that and a multitude of others when I have a chat with Shel.”

  Moreno shook his head sadly. “He fooled me.”

  “Most spies are good at that. Got an address on him?”

  After one more sad shake of his head, the therapist told him, “Woodruff/Gates lives less than a mile from here. It’s a dilapidated houseboat docked at the old defunct yacht club. Hard to miss, since it’s trimmed in neon.”

  Even though all his teeth still ached as an aftereffect of the stungunning, Gomez went ahead and ate the slice of apple pie that Moms 1-A had insisted on slipping him as he took his leave of the clinic. He hadn’t eaten much at the Mexican cafe.

  Most of the buildings he passed were starting to light up. The bistros, shops and art galleries, decorated with intricate twists of neon tubing and long tangles of lightstrips, were flashing multicolored messages into the oncoming darkness. At the corner a phosphorescent robot was doing a mime act, even though he hadn’t as yet attracted an audience.

  Gomez finished the pie just as he spotted the remains of the Venice Sector Community Yacht Club. A skinny man in the tattered uniform of a Brazil War soldier was squatting near the entryway out to the pier.

  “How about some money?” he asked.

  Gomez located a dollar chit in a pants pocket and dropped it into the man’s hand. “Here you go, amigo.”

  “God bless you, buddy.”

  “That may come in handy.”

  The houseboat was the only thing lit up along the swayback pier. Several other craft bobbed there, dark and silent. Sheldon Gates’s place of residence was glowing, its outlines trimmed in long tubes of red, green and yellow neon. From inside the bright-lit living room came the sound of music. A Mozart quartet, guessed Gomez.

  He hurried up the gangway, which was trimmed in orange and green strips of light. The door to the living room was wide open.

  Pausing on the illuminated welcome mat, he called out, “Is Mr. Woodruff at home?”

  There was no response.

  The music, it was definitely Mozart, continued. “Guy Woodruff? We have an important message for you.”

  After another thirty seconds, Gomez entered. There was a lifesize holographic quartet at the far end of the room.

  In the middle of the oval illuminated rug was sprawled the body of a man. A good part of the back of his skull was missing.

  10

  NIGHT HAD ARRIVED AND THE hillside Bower estate was surrounded by deepening darkness. Lights ringed the landing area, which was a white circle in an acre that blended transplanted and simulated jungle foliage.

  Jake circled the area once, but received no challenge from the security system. Shrugging, he settled down to a landing.

  The house consisted of a linking of fifteen plastiglass cubes of varying size. The walls had all been blanked and there wasn’t any light showing.

  Jake eased out of his skycar. A fog was drifting in from the sea and it swirled around him as he crossed the lot. The path through the brush and palm trees wasn’t illuminated. The foggy night soon closed in around him.

  A rustling started up ahead. Three figures, one carrying a lightrod, came pushing out of the dark jungle and onto the path. They were about a hundred feet from Jake, two husky men and a coppery robot in a dark overcoat.

  Halting, Jake said, “Evening, fellas.”

  “Who the hell are you?” The man with the light played the beam across Jake.

  “I’ve got an appointment with Owen Bower.”

  “The old bastard’s in the hospital, hasn’t been here for weeks.”

  “My mistake,” said Jake. “I’ll drop in again when he’s feeling better.” The other man shouted, “We caught us a trespasser.” All three came charging at Jake.

  The corpse wasn’t Sheldon Gates, alias Guy Woodruff. Judging by what was left of his face, the dead man on the living room floor of the houseboat was Ford Jaspers.

  Gomez had his stungun firmly gripped in his right hand and he’d already taken a thorough look around this room and then the rest of the floating residence before returning to scrutinize the body.

  There was no one else aboard. In the bedroom there were signs that someone had hastily gathered up clothes, packed them and taken his leave.

  The living room itself, except for the body, contained nothing unusual. It didn’t appear as though there’d been any sort of struggle, and the weapon used to end the older man’s life hadn’t been left behind.

  “But what’s this elderly member of Alicia’s therapy group doing here?” Gomez asked himself as he knelt beside him. “And here’s another perplexing question—who killed him?”

  Jaspers was still in possession of his wallet, which contained nothing but an ID packet, a Banx card and $90 in money chits. The only other thing in his pockets was a small tri-op photo of the Oceanfront People’s Clinic group, complete with Moms. Gomez borrowed that.

  A trumpet sounded suddenly behind him. Gomez jerked up and around, gunhand swinging upwards.

  Louis Armstrong and his Hot Five had replaced the Mozart group.

  He put his gun back in its holster. Halfway to the doorway he realized he was moving in time to the music.

  Out on the deck he stood still for a moment and scanned the surrounding night. There seemed to be no one else in the vicinity.

  “Perhaps the hombre I made a contribution to saw who paid a call here before I arrived.”

  He moved cautiously, but swiftly, down the gangway.

  When he reached the gate, the ragged vet was gone.

  The largest of the two men tackled Jake before he could yank out his stungun from his shoulder holster.

  Jake fell backwards, sitting down hard on the path.

  As the lout stretched to grab hold of him, Jake twisted to his left and avoided the clutching hands.

  He then kicked out, his booted foot connecting with the lunging man’s prominent jaw.

  The thug said, “Unk.” His head went jerking back, his eyelids fluttered, snapped shut.

  For good measure, Jake booted him a second time.

  Before the man was even stretched out flat on the shadowy path, Jake was on his feet and tugging at his holstered stungun.

  But powerful metal arms grabbed him from behind, circling his torso and pinning his arms.

  Chuckling, the second man stepped in close. Saying nothing, he slammed his fist into Jake’s stomach.

  Jake gagged, staggering in the metallic grip of the coppery bot.

  “Pay attention,” suggested the coppery robot.

  The thug hit Jake again, even harder.

  From the jungle to the right the beam of a stungun came crackling. It touched the thug’s head and he made a strange choking sound, as though he’d been going to chuckle again and then changed his mind.

  He swayed, fell to one knee. Sighing out breath, he went falling over sideways. He hit a holographic bush and dropped down through the foliage. He lay there unconscious with large green leaves seemingly growing out of him.

  “Holy shit,” commented the overcoated robot.

  The beam of the unseen stungun found the robot next.

  11

  THE TEDDYBEAR GRABBED GOMEZ’S trouser leg with a fuzzy paw. “Why don’t ya buy me, ya simp?”

  “Begone, osito,” he advised, detaching the toybot from his leg and replacing it on the low pedestal it had hopped off of at his advent.

  “He’s not for you,” lisped the goldenhaired babydoll on the next display pedestal. “You want somebody like me, who’s cute as a bug’s rear.”

  “Actually, chiquita,” he said, squatting and holding out his palm to prevent the little blonde toyboat from leaping at him, “I dropped in here at Wondersmith’s for the purpose of—”

  “Gomez, honey!” A large, round woman with dazzling silver hair had stepped out of the back room of the toyshop. “Leave the guy alone, Lisa.”

  “I only
just wanna hug him, Corky.”

  “Knock it off,” advised Corky Keepnews.

  “You’re a brave woman,” observed Gomez, “to put up with all this cuteness.”

  “It’s nowhere near as bad as the bordello I used to manage over in the Pasadena Sector.” Corky took hold of his arm. “C’mon into my office, honey.”

  “Want to play checkers?” invited a toybot clown as Gomez passed his pedestal.

  “At some future date, perhaps.”

  “I’m on sale all this week.”

  As he settled into an armchair in the toyshop office, Gomez remarked, “These toys share some of the attributes of your former employees, Cork.”

  “Business is business, no matter what you’re selling.”

  Wondersmith’s was on the seventeenth level of the Westwood Sector supermall. The office’s one narrow viewindow looked down on the brightlit University of SoCal Campus #26.

  When Corky dropped into an armchair facing the detective, it made a surprised whooshing sound. “I’ve been doing some discreet electronic nosing around since you phoned, Gomez.”

  “You remain one of my best freelance sources of information.”

  She smiled broadly. “It was fees from clients like you, honey, that helped me set up my own toy business.”

  “So what about Sheldon Gates?”

  “According to my sources, Sheldon’s been doing a very lucrative job for Mechanix International.”

  “Caramba.” Gomez sat up. “That’s a very interesting bit of news.”

  “One that’s going to cost you 500 bucks.”

  “Give me some specifics as to what Shel was hired to do.”

  “I’m still gathering background on that,” she said. “It has, though, something to do with old Bower himself and his screwball daughter.”

  “What about Harry Moreno?”

  “Clean.”

  “No indication he and Shel are in cahoots?”

  “None.”

  Nodding, Gomez asked her, “How about Ford Jaspers’s murder?”

  “I’m still working on that angle, honey. Nothing has come in yet,” answered Corky. “He and Sheldon were in that loon group at Moreno’s clinic, but that’s the only thing so far that they seem to have in common.”

 

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