by Gene Wolfe
Smith smiled, nodded, and cut himself a piece of steak. As he ate, he could not help noticing how often, and how intently, both the bureaucrat and his red-haired wife looked at the slender woman on his left, even when they were talking to each other or listening to the Captain describe the wonders of the Red Star.
After a time, a robot steward guided in a floating tray of desserts; another gathered up their steak platters and salad domes.
“Look at that one!” the blonde in scarlet exclaimed, pointing. “Cherries for me! What’s it called? Do you know?”
“I don’t know the Russian name,” Smith told her. “In English, it’s cherries jubilee.”
She picked up the dish and hesitantly inserted a spoon. “What a cheerful-sounding word! Does it mean ice cream?”
Smith shook his head. “In the ancient civilization of Israel, all tribal lands were returned to their possessors—even if they had been leased or sold—every fifty years. That fiftieth year was called the jubilee. They held a celebration, because everybody was getting his birth-right back.”
“I see …” She was tasting the dessert.
“You don’t have to look so solemn,” Smith told her. “The wealthy did away with the custom long ago. Only radical economists like me know about it now.”
The blonde nodded. “I like it,” she said.
Merry Houdini’s escape from space was to take place the next “day” after lunch. Smith gathered with the rest of the passengers outside the main air lock. No crowd, he discovered, mills quite like a weightless crowd, in which each nudge and bump produces a visible equal and opposite reaction.
The Captain was on hand, loudly supervising a mixed work force of cosmonauts and robots. So were the bureaucratic couple and the dark Vera Oussenko. The two blond entertainers made an entrance, skimming down the corridor at breakneck speed, red and white skirts snapping like banners. The Captain raised a cheer, which the crowd took up.
“And now!” the Captain proclaimed when he could make himself heard, “Our lovely American friend Comrade Merry Houdini, the heir of that great Harry Houdini of whom we have all read, has volunteered to demonstrate for us something of her art. It is without charge to the Soviet Union, to the Red Star, or to you, her fellow passengers. She acts from public spirit!”
Another cheer.
“We of the Red Star have volunteered to cooperate with her to make this most astounding feat possible. I will let her explain to you herself what she will do.”
The blonde’s voice was nearly drowned by the noise of her audience. “Please!” she called. “Please be quiet!”
Smith found the dark woman floating beside him. “It is amazing, is it not?” she said. “But perhaps you and I have a special interest?”
Someone had given the blond entertainer a microphone. “What I am going to do in a few minutes has never before been attempted!” Her amplified voice had lost none of its charm in the speakers. “I am going to escape from space! You see this steel coffin.”
Held by cosmonauts and robots who surrounded it like the points of a star, it was a long sheet-metal tool locker, nearly as wide as a cot, with a hinged lid closed by a hasp.
“I will climb into it. I will be locked into it. It will be put in this airlock and blown out into the interplanetary void. Isn’t that correct, Captain. Bogdanoff?”
The Captain nodded and addressed the audience. “When we open the inner door to put in the coffin, the lock will of course be filled with air. When we open the outer door, that air will expand into space. Since it will be without weight, just as we are here in the Red Star, the coffin will be carried with the air. To provide some safety, however, I have insisted—as I still insist—that a lifeline must be used. Not to use one would be a direct contravention of regulations.”
“We have one,” the entertainer said. Her clone sister handed her a coil of white nylon rope. She flourished it. “Now we wish to show you that there is nothing in the coffin to assist me.”
The two blondes took the box from the crewman and robots, opened its lid, and held it so the audience could see there was nothing concealed inside. One of the cosmonauts probed the interior with the beam of a flashlight.
The dark Russian woman asked, “Is the beautiful Merry really going to get into that thing and be pushed into space?”
“It looks that way,” Smith said.
As they spoke, the young woman in the white dress was assuming a rigid posture, her arms at her sides. Her clone sister, enthusiastically assisted by two cosmonauts, fitted her into the “coffin” and closed the flat lid.
The Captain stepped forward and snapped a padlock on the hasp. “Open the airlock!” he ordered.
One of the white robots darted toward the control panel, and the massive titanium hatch swung open to reveal the chamber through which Smith and the others had entered the Red Star from the Russian shuttle. Several cosmonauts pushed the “coffin” inside, followed by Smith and other daring members of the audience. The escape artist’s clone sister was tying one end of the nylon rope around a handle at the end of the tool chest. A cleat had been newly welded to the wall of the lock chamber; she tied the other end of the rope to that and hung the coil over it.
“Attention, please!” the Captain called. “You will all leave now.” He made shooing motions. “We will jettison the coffin, and in five minutes, if there is no sign that Comrade Houdini’s trick is working, I will have a cosmonaut in an atmosphere suit retrieve it. Already a man is standing by at one of the utility airlocks.”
As they crowded back, Smith found a soft and fragrant body in a red dress pressed against his. “Hello, Cherry,” he said.
She turned and smiled at him. “Five minutes is plenty of time for poor Merry to suffocate in the vacuum, but my gosh, isn’t it fun! She’s promised to let me try it on the way home.”
Smith attempted to smile in return. “You know the trick, naturally. How she’s going to get back.”
From somewhere behind him, the dark Russian woman added. “Yes, you must.”
“Not yet. This is a new one she’s just worked out.”
The inner hatch of the airlock swung shut. At a signal from the Captain, the robot crewman at the controls flicked several switches. A red warning light above the door began to blink. “Comrade Houdini is now in space,” the Captain announced. “You should be able to see the coffin through the ports on this side of the spacecraft.”
There was a general rush toward the viewports, during which Smith found himself separated from both women. The first port he reached, some fifty feet from the corridor that gave access to the main airlock, was too crowded already for him to see well. Kicking off from the footholds on the walls, he shot down another corridor to the starboard observation gallery.
Passengers there were already shouting and pointing. For a moment, staring into the immensity of the void, he was disoriented. Then he saw it, slowly revolving among stars that burned like unblinking beacons.
“Someone has cut the rope!” A passenger he had not yet been introduced to seized him by the shoulder. “Look!”
It was true—a section of white nylon line that appeared to be no more than six feet long trailed behind the slowly pirouetting steel box like the tail of a kite.
“She will die!” a woman moaned in Russian.
A voice at Smith’s ear asked, “Is it not strange that it keeps pace with us, though we fly so fast?” It was Koroviev.
“We’re coasting,” Smith explained absently. “We have been ever since we attained escape velocity. That box has the same speed we do, and there’s nothing out there to slow it down.”
“To me it appears to be falling.”
“That’s only because of the way you’re oriented. If you were to turn around, you’d think it was rising. Actually, it’s orbiting us as it drifts away.” Smith wondered if Koroviev could be as ignorant as he sounded. “What I can’t understand is why the Captain hasn’t sent his man out after it.”
“It is no simple
affair, such a spacewalk. Perhaps something—”
The Russian was interrupted by a dozen gasps. The lid of the tool chest had opened. A blur of white appeared at the crevice. “It’s her hand,” Smith heard himself say. “Oh, my God!”
An impulse, a half-formed thought, sent him racing back toward the main air lock. Metal clanged somewhere ahead.
As he grasped the grab bar and swung himself into the short corridor leading to the air lock, he saw a thing of scarlet—a thing that floated, turning slowly in the faint air currents. Around it were a few globules of bright, arterial blood, like cherries.
That evening, two cosmonauts appeared to take him to the VIP lounge usually reserved for Party officials. The Captain and the dark Russian woman were already there when he arrived, the Captain looking worried, the woman impassive. The Captain motioned him to a blue vacuum chair without speaking. The woman asked, “You have given orders for Merry Houdini and the others?” The Captain nodded.
The blond escape artist arrived half a minute later. She had changed her white gown for an equally white jumpsuit, but otherwise looked just as she had when Smith had last seen her. The bureaucrat and his biochemist wife were ushered in with the expensively clad Koroviev.
“You know what has taken place—” the Captain began.
The bureaucrat interrupted. “Wait. I do not. I—we—have heard many rumors, but if this meeting is to proceed on the assumption that my wife and I are fully informed, we wish to be told officially what has occurred.”
The Captain hesitated and glanced at the dark Russian woman. She said, “Comrade Cherry Houdini has been murdered. Her body was discovered by Comrade Smith while the rest of us watched the steel chest in which Comrade Merry was imprisoned.”
“Where was poor Cherry found?”
“In front of the main airlock. It would appear that when all the rest hurried away, she remained behind. Presumably her murderer returned and found her there.”
The red-haired woman asked softly, “How did she die?”
“She was stabbed in the heart with a steak knife.”
There was a silence. At last the Captain cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should explain that Comrade Oussenko is in actuality Lieutenant Colonel Oussenko of the State Security Committee. She had felt it would make for a more relaxed atmosphere during our long flight if she remained incognito. But since this unfortunate event, she feels—and I agree—that it is better that her position be known. I think we will all agree that we are most fortunate that she was present when this most unfortunate, uh—”
The dark woman said, “That is sufficient explanation surely, Captain. Let us proceed with the investigation.” She swept the other five with a glance. “Except for the victim of this atrocious crime, we are the same group that was present at the Captain’s dinner last night. No doubt you have all noticed that. There are two reasons, and I will explain them both to you now—no doubt if I did not, one of you would ask it. I shall save him the trouble, before we go further.
“I do not believe I need explain why Captain Bogdanoff was present at his own table, or why he is present now—he is the commander of this spacecraft. I myself was his guest last night in deference to my rank; I am here now to conduct this investigation. You were at the dinner last night because you are each in some way connected with Comrade Merry Houdini, as was, of course, her clone, the late Comrade Cherry. You are here now because it appears plausible that each of you may have killed Cherry.”
There was a chorus of objections.
“I will outline to you now why I believe each of you is to be suspected. Should I be mistaken, here is your opportunity to enlighten me.” Her eyes moved from face to face. “However, it may also be that one of you possesses information material to this investigation. I shall be most grateful for your assistance. I remind all of you that as citizens—or guests—of the Soviet Union, you have an obligation to the truth and to justice. Comrade Houdini, you are fidgeting. You have something to say?”
“Yes!” The blonde rose from her chair, then let it draw her to its embrace again. “What do I call you? Lieutenant Colonel?”
“You may continue to address me as Comrade Oussenko, if it makes you more comfortable.”
“Well, Comrade Oussenko, you’re wrong. You said each of us had some reason for wanting to kill Cherry. I didn’t. My God, she cost me over two hundred thousand, and now she’s dead.”
“Very well, we will begin with you, Comrade. You have a lover—yes, already, though we are only a few days away from Earth. Do you deny it?”
The blonde sat silent.
“Good. Because I have certain knowledge. I ask you now—did your clone know of your affair? I warn you that no matter what you say, I shall proceed on the assumption that she did; you were very close, as we all know, and you and she had adjacent cabins. Did she know?”
“Yes.” It was almost inaudible. “I told her.”
“Good again. My assumption is now shown to be fact. You may have feared she would reveal your activities to an American lover. Or to your American journalists—if it were public knowledge that you had a Soviet lover, it would surely damage your great popularity in your own country.”
“I said I told her!”
“And perhaps regretted it later. Or perhaps told only when she knew already and confronted you with her knowledge. But wait.” The dark Russian woman held up one hand. “I am not accusing you. I only explain your presence.”
She turned toward Smith. “You, Comrade, are the only other American on the Red Star. It may be that your government, knowing that our Soviet scientists have been studying the clone of Merry Houdini, has decided it should be destroyed. If so, then perhaps you have been sent to do it.”
Smith said, “It may be possible, but it’s not true.”
“Or it may be that you knew Comrade Cherry in America, and have some reason now to wish her dead. For example, you may have feared she would reveal your true identity, which may be other than the B. Smith stated in your passport. Thus, you are among us.
“Comrade Petrovsky, you saw Comrade Houdini and her clone often when they visited the Soviet Union. I do not wish to say too much, but clearly I must consider the chance that there was some personal attachment.”
The bureaucrat said, “You suspect that poor Cherry was my lover, and that I feared she would reveal it to Anna. It was not so, but I understand, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel. At such times as this, such things must be considered by the police. Or perhaps she told Anna already, or perhaps taunted her with lies. We understand that as well.” His red-haired wife nodded. Smith observed that they were unobtrusively holding hands.
“And now—”
“And now only I remain! Pah!” Koroviev snorted. “You think I wished Cherry dead? I would have hurled my own body before the knife. Have you no notion of the cost to take myself and these two women—with all their equipment, their luggage—to Mars? My career at the Ministry of Art has been staked on the success of this tour. Now one half is dead. More than half. Do they come to see Comrade Houdini perform her miraculous escapes? Yes, but partly only. They come too because here are the wonderful, beautiful American and her clone. Now the clone is no more.”
The red-haired biochemist asked softly, “May I speak to that, Comrade Lieutenant Colonel?”
“Of course. I have asked for assistance from all of you, and thus far nothing has been given me.”
“On Mars there are many engineers, geologists, even astronomers. Very few biologists. That is why I worked so hard to be permitted to come with Pasik. I do not believe that engineers, geologists, and astronomers are greatly interested by clones. But a murder, the death of a lovely woman …”
Smith said, “All right, we’re all suspects. I’d like to point out that the kind of sexual material you enjoy dreaming up could apply to anybody on the spacecraft.”
The KGB officer shook her head. “No. Only to those who knew Comrade Cherry. Besides, there is another factor.”
�
�I thought there was.”
“I believe I have already mentioned that Comrade Cherry was stabbed with a steak knife—one of those used at dinner last night. Everyone here is perhaps aware that steak is a dish greatly favored by Americans.”
Several persons nodded.
“But perhaps you are not aware that it was only at Captain Bogdanoff’s table that it was served. A special courtesy, you see, extended to our American guests. For the other passengers, and the crew, there was a beef ragout.”
For a moment, no one spoke; then Smith asked, “Is it possible to find out whose knife was missing? The steward might know.”
The red-haired biochemist shook her head. “A robot? It is useless.”
“Fortunately,” the KGB officer said, “it will not be necessary to ask. I know already whose knife was employed. It was mine.”
“Yours!” The Captain stared.
“Yes, mine. When I had eaten as much of the meat as I wished, I thrust my knife into the rest. A few minutes later—before our steward had returned to clear the table for dessert—I noticed it was gone. I supposed it had merely come loose and drifted away, and thought no more about it.”
“But perhaps,” the Captain began, “it was not that knife—”
“With the assistance of your chef I have already inventoried the knives in the galley. Only one is gone. It has been found in Comrade Cherry’s heart.” She paused. “You are all—all save one—trying now to recall our seating. You need not bother. Captain Bogdanoff was on my left, Comrade Koroviev on my right. But there is no significance in those facts; our table was small, so small that I could, as I well remember, extend my hand across it to Comrade Cherry without rising from my chair. Anyone could have taken my knife. Comrade Houdini here is a magician by training, and so could perhaps have done it most easily, but no one can be ruled out.”
“Thank you,” the escape artist muttered.
“You are quite welcome. Now I shall give all of you a lecture on criminology. The detection of crime stands upon three legs—like a camera, do you understand? The camera that will provide us with a picture of Comrade Cherry’s murderer. These legs are motive, means, and opportunity. Motive is of little use to us here; I have shown already that all six may have it. Means is useless also, as we have seen. Any of you might have stolen my knife—and of course by stealing it, the guilty one has prevented us from discovering that his own was gone, which was quite clever of him. Opportunity remains.”