by E. C. Tubb
Now he moved like an irritated bear as she knelt beside the body, his voice a low rumble as he gave orders to the men in attendance. Then he seemed to vanish, the sound of his breath ceasing as did his rustle of movement. But he hadn’t gone as she discovered when, suddenly, he was kneeling at her side.
“I’ve checked the body, Doctor. There are no apparent injuries aside from the crushed back of his skull. My guess is that he was hit several vicious blows with a blunt instrument of some kind. You agree?”
Helena nodded as her questing fingers proved his assumption. Beneath the splintered bone the brain would be pulped, lacerated, pounded into a mash of tissue and blood, the protective membrane ripped and shredded. Then, probing, she frowned.
“But I don’t think those blows actually killed him,” continued the big man. “He was too good to let anyone get that close especially if they had been carrying a weapon. And, at least, he would have sounded the alarm.” His hand reached out to touch the instrument clipped to the man’s belt. A touch and it would summon help but the red button was proud, raised high above the surface of the small box. “He didn’t sound it.”
“A sudden blow and, perhaps, a hand to grip his wrist. It could happen, Chief.”
“Not to any man under my command.” Volochek was emphatic. “I’ve no use for amateurs and Anyang was far from that. He’d known the slums of Hong Kong and some habits never get broken. And look where he’s fallen.”
At the junction of two corridors, falling to face to the right, the direction he would have normally taken on his patrol. To be struck from behind someone must have run towards him from the left or followed him from where he had come. A long section to cover as Helena could see and no one could run up to a suspicious guard and club him without him at least giving a warning.
“Could the assailant have stood pressed hard against the wall?”
“No.” Volochek shook his head, heavy jowls bobbing beneath his chin. “To be any good a guard needs to develop an instinct. He knows when anyone is around and especially when trouble is close. Maybe he smells it like a dog can smell hate or fear, or maybe he has some other talent, but always he has it. If he didn’t he wouldn’t live long enough to collect his bonus and, certainly, he would never be employed for long. No, Doctor, no one stood close. You can take that for a fact.”
“So?”
“Feel his skull again,” Volochek urged. “You noted something, right?”
“A lump of some kind.”
“A ball. Dig it out and let’s take a look at it.”
It was buried deep, yielding only to the leverage of a heavy scalpel, coming free at last with a gush of semi-congealed blood which stained her gloved hand and the uniform up to the elbow. A mess which should and could have been avoided had she waited until the body was in Medical, but Volochek’s impatience was contageous.
He blew air through his nostrils as she wiped the thing she had found free of blood and slime. It was hard, round, two centimetres in diameter.
“A ball bearing.” The big man took it from her hand. “I thought as much. The bastards!”
“Chief?”
“It’s a trick I’ve seen used before. A man stands armed with a slingshot. If skilled he can smash the top off a bottle at thirty metres but they never try to operate at such a range. Usually it’s three metres or less. With strong elastic a slingshot can send this ball with enough force to smash a skull. Certainly to stun. Then a quick run forward, a few blows to make certain, and then away.”
Death delivered with merciless efficiency. No noise, no danger of a scuffle, no chance given to send an alarm. A knife would be more troublesome, a gun no more effective, Chan Anyang could have felt nothing but a sudden, shocking impact which had rendered him immediately helpless if not unconscious or dead.
But why kill an innocent guard?
Volochek knew the answer. His thick finger pointed at the man’s belt, at the empty holster.
“For his gun, Doctor! They killed him for his gun!”
The globe which stood at the end of Koenig’s desk spun beneath the impact of his hand; continents and seas forming a blur, slowing to reveal the expanse of plains, the threads of rivers and the blotches of cities. A world which had never managed to discover the secret of peaceful co-existence. One which had bequeathed its history of blood and violence to its minute colony on the Moon.
“A gun.” Koenig lifted his eyes from the globe. “Why should a man kill in order to obtain a gun?”
Volochek said, flatly, “Power.”
“From an electronic device which can only stun?”
“And kill if necessary, Commander,” reminded the big man. “The circuits can be adapted and the power increased so as to overload the nervous system and cause paralysis of the vagus. Am I correct, Doctor?”
“Yes,” said Helena. “You know quite a bit about medicine, Chief.”
“In my job it helps.”
“And psychology?”
Before he could answer Rita Cantry said, “With respect that is more in my field. I find the theft of the weapon significant in a special sense. It isn’t just the tool itself, the gun, which is important, but the symbol of what it represents. A man with a gun must be obeyed—the lesson has been driven home since the beginning of time. The man with the weapon is boss and it doesn’t matter what the weapon is, a bow, a club, a sword, it gives its owner the greater power. Governments are perfectly aware of that which is why all governments are so hostile to civilians being armed. While they hold the power they must be obeyed.”
Koenig said, “You are making a point, Rita?”
“Yes. The theft tells us what type of a man the murderer must be. I would say that he is in a position of relatively small importance. Physically weak but far from unintelligent. One who talks on unusual subjects, is widely read and who shows signs of emotional stress when discussing politics. A manic-depressive and certainly a man suffering from paranoia. He nurses imaginary grievances and has a hatred of established authority. The gun, he believes, will make him powerful. A prop to bolster his ego.”
“And?” Then, as she hesitated, Koenig said, “What will he do next? Where shall we find him?”
“To the first question—probably nothing unless he feels he has been pushed too far in which case he might use the gun. If he does he will have created a delicate situation which must be handled with care and understanding. As to who or what he does?” Rita shrugged. “I can’t help you there.”
And hadn’t helped at all, thought Helena, looking at the woman. A fact she probably didn’t realize accustomed as she was to the blurring smoke-screen of verbosity. Words mouthed to give the impression of deep concentration and calculated judgements yet which, on analysis, were nothing more than containers empty of substance. Yet she had tried and it was important to let her feel that she was of value and could contribute something to the Council which had assembled in the office.
Helena glanced at them; Volochek, naturally, Carter who as yet had said nothing, Bergman who sat and breathed with rapid, shallow inhalations, Roache from Engineering, Khawaja from Maintenance, others, not too many, but enough to cover the entire complex of the base.
Khawaja said, “I cannot argue with your deductions, Rita, but surely it is not too difficult to determine where we must look for the man? A ball bearing was used. Does that not point to Engineering?”
“Maybe,” said Roache. “But don’t forget a lot of stuff was flying around loose after the Breakaway and he could have picked up the ball then. I’m curious as to the distance involved. Had he stood close to the junction Anyang would have sensed him. Further back and he’d risk either missing or not getting a high enough missile-impact.”
“We’re not on Earth,” said Bergman. “Our gravity isn’t the same. But I agree he must have had some elementary skill. Any clue there. Chief?”
Volochek said, dryly, “How many boys have not played with slingshots? Girls too for that matter. But tell me, Miss Cantry, why are you s
o sure it was a man?”
“Man?”
“You said the act told us what type of man to look for. Why a man?”
“Why, because—” Rita broke off, thinking, then said, slowly, “You’re right, Chief. I jumped to an unwarranted conclusion.”
“But a correct one. Your subconscious guided you and, possibly, with training you would make an excellent Security Guard. It is these little revelations of the inward deductive process which a man in my position has to look for. Would you care to know how you arrived at your conclusion?”
“That the murderer was a man?”
“Yes.” Volochek snuffed air through his nostrils as if clearing it of dust, an involuntary reaction, Helena realized, a prelude to a mini-lecture. Or an act of calculated intent—she doubted if Volochek ever did anything without using it towards a previously determined goal. “First, as a woman you realize that the victim, a man, would have been more highly responsive to your presence than he would to a member of his own sex. There is a biological reaction, an instinctive turning, an awareness of a potential mate. I use the word in the sexual sense, you understand. He would have sensed a female presence, turned, dropped his hand to his belt, anything. A fraction of time but enough. The missile would not have hit where it did.”
“And?” Rita, interested, leaned forward.
“Footsteps. A woman does not walk like a man and her tread would have clashed with his own. A subtle thing but, on the subconscious level, small things take on great importance. Then, of course, there was the muscular energy involved. In my experience a slingshot is not a woman’s weapon though I have known women use it. And, finally, there is the matter of the blows which shattered the skull. A desperate woman using a heavy instrument could have caused them, but no woman wants to get blood on her clothing. They are, even when committing a violent act, surprisingly fastidious. At least so my experience tells me.”
And he would have had a lot of experience. Enough to save a foolish woman’s face, to put her at her ease, to gain a possible recruit. A cunning, crafty man, decided Helena. One taking advantage of his moment of limelight.
She said, “About the blood, Chief. If a woman didn’t want it to spatter her, would a man?”
“No. But if it made no outward difference?” His eyes met her own as he paused, waiting.
“Colors,” she said, understanding. “But that can’t be all.”
“No, there is the weapon. It is a favourite among the scum living in the slums of Kiev. Such a simple thing; a forked stick and a scrap of inner-tube. Cheaply made, easily discarded, impossible to prove as being other than a toy.”
Koenig said, impatiently, “So we look for someone who lived in Kiev. Right?”
“Not necessarily, Commander. But you’re on the right track.”
“And the colors you were talking about?”
“Blood, John,” said Helena. “Drops could have spattered and soiled the sleeve. On yellow they would stand out as they would on white. But on rust?”
The color designating the Technical Section. A man working in it would have easy access to metal, rubber, a ball bearing. Have access also to the knowledge of how to adapt the stolen weapon. Signals he had unwittingly left behind.
“Chief,” Koenig snapped, “I want a check made on every worker in Technical. Where he was, whom he was with, who saw him at the appropriate time. Test all alibis and search all quarters. You have my full authority to do all that is needed to find the murderer.”
“Thank you, Commander, for giving me such authority,” said Volochek, quietly. “But it will not be necessary to take the steps you mention.” He paused, enjoying his moment of triumph. “I already have the criminal under arrest.”
The cell was a compartment set far below the surface; a room gouged from Lunar rock, fitted with bars, a cot, the elemental necessities of hygiene. From where he sat on the edge of the narrow bunk Raoul Anoux said, “A question, Commander. How many man-hours did it take to construct this cell? How much energy was directed away from the effort to survive to build it?”
“It was made before Breakaway.”
“Breakaway? Of course, a new word in the language and one meaning perhaps more than you realize. Breakaway, a leaving, a discarding. You agree?”
Koenig said, “Why did you kill the guard?”
“Did I?”
“The Head of Security has no doubts.”
“And, naturally, you believe the Head of Security.” Anoux nodded, appearing to be perfectly at ease, his thin, narrow face calm, his eyes bright. Eyes which held the cold, unyielding chill of steel, the emotionless resolve of ice. “So it always is with those who cling to power. They believe anything they wish to believe. I am guilty, you say. For you that appears to be enough. No word of evidence, of proof, of motive. No acknowledgement of the possibility of error. I envy you, John Koenig. You have made yourself the equal of God. Both of you are infallible.”
He was too cool, too collected, as if he had anticipated his arrest and decided on the attitude he would take. Decided too, perhaps, on anticipated weakness and doubtful strength. Would an innocent man have reacted in such a way? Koenig doubted it, certain that such a man would have stormed his anger, protested his innocence, raged against his confinement. But a guilty man, guessing that such a reaction would be expected, would surely have provided it.
How to tell? How to be certain?
Anoux said, “I am being held here against my will but, of course, I have no means of redress. We have no lawyers on the Moon. We have no courts to dispense justice. We have no security of individual freedom. We have no rights.” His face hardened still more. “But we do have those who tell us what to do. We have men with guns making us do it. We have endless work so as to give us no time to think. We have no recourse but to obey. Tell me, Koenig, what does it feel like to crack your whip over us slaves?”
“That is ridiculous!”
“Of course.” Rising Anoux stepped to the door and rested his hand on the bars. “As ridiculous as the fact a man, deemed innocent until proven guilty, can be locked up like an animal, denied all contact with others of his kind, refused even the consolation of books and sleep.”
“You can sleep.”
“The light is never extinguished. You know what they used to call that back in the old days? Torture. To lock a man up and subject him to an endless, brilliant illuminatian was regarded as an unnatural form of punishment. But then, of course, I haven’t yet been found guilty, have I? I’m just one of your serfs to be pushed around.” His voice rose as Koenig turned away. “What do you want to be called. Commander? King Koenig? How long will it be before all have to bow and kiss the ground at your approach?”
Volochek grunted as Koenig joined him. “I heard. Pay no attention.”
“He’s right, Chief.”
“How? You think him innocent? The man is guilty. I swear it.”
“You have proof?”
“Enough to satisfy me.”
“The gun? Have you found the gun? No? Then what? The slingshot? The bloodstained uniform? You have a witness? A motive? Damn it, Chief, you can’t just lock a man up on suspicion!”
“Why not?” Volochek stared, his face hard, his eyes bleak. “What else am I to do with him? Let him run around loose so he can kill someone else? To laugh at Security? To commit more crimes? Make up your mind, Commander. Either you want me to do a job or you don’t. You make the rules but don’t think you can be gentle with scum like that and hope they’ll be grateful. Anoux only understands one thing—force. He’ll push and, if you yield, he’ll push all the harder. Before you know it he’ll have you on the run.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I’m sure. I’ve heard the whispers and I know the signs. Did you know he’d worked among the guest-workers in Europe during the eighties? That’s when he must have learned how to use a slingshot. A lot of good men lost eyes and teeth over those damned things. Remember the riots? The burnings? What you’ve got cooped up in there
is the fruit of revolution.”
“He must have been cleared before coming to the Moon.”
“He was, but what were they looking for? My guess he’s a sleeper, maybe a latent maniac, certainly a man who has been contaminated with a hatred for authority. Europe was full of his kind and probably still is. Little groups talking politics, dreaming of revolution, taking what action they can when the pressure builds too high. A match in the right place and a building goes up in flame. A broken pipe and a subway is flooded. A stalled truck and watch how the traffic piles up all to hell.” Volochek drew in his breath. “We don’t want that kind of trouble on the Moon, Commander. We can’t afford it.”
C H A P T E R
Ten
In another age it seemed now, in another place, there had been time to relax and sit and quietly enjoy the softness of fabric, the sound of pleasant melodies, the vistas which an imaginative, artist-architect had provided. That time was over and the place had changed but still the room he had designed existed, the tough plastic of the dome miraculously remained intact. Leaning back in the soft comfort of a chair Koenig studied the alien universe.
Alien, but how? The stars were just stars, thick and brilliant and bathing the interior of the room with a silvery light which touched the bulk of chairs and divans, plumped cushions and small tables on which stood trays and carvings, busts and statuettes fashioned from Lunar stone. The residue of a time when there had been leisure to fabricate such things. A time, he hoped, which would quickly return.
But, for now, it was pleasant to relax and look at the glory of the universe, to let imagination loose so that, mentally, he wandered among the stars and studied alien worlds and strange cultures. Worlds on which there could be cities and learned creatures who would teach him the secrets of this strange place so that he could guide his people back to their lost home. Or, if that was impossible, to find another planet among the billions which must circle those suns and there rebuild what they had lost, planting crops, raising houses, filling the skies with flying craft, listening to the laughter of happy children, the contented sighs of satiated lovers.