The Demolished Man

by Alfred Bester

  Old Man Mose himself occupied the entire circular wall of the giant office. His multitudinous eyes winked and glared coldly. His multitudinous memories whirred and hummed. His mouth, the cone of a speaker, hung open in a kind of astonishment at human stupidity. His hands, the keys of a multiflex typewriter, poised over a roll of tape, ready to hammer out logic. Mose was the Mosaic Multiplex Prosecution Computer of the District Attorney’s Office, whose awful decisions controlled the preparation, presentation, and prosecution of every police case.

  “We won’t bother Mose to start with,” Powell told the D.A. “Let’s take a look at the models and check them against the Crime Schedule. Your staff has the time sheets. Just watch them while the dolls go through the motions. If you catch anything our gang’s missed, make a note and we’ll kick it around.”

  He nodded to De Santis, the harassed Lab Chief, who inquired in an overwrought voice: “One to one?”

  “That’s a little fast. Make it one to two. Half slow motion.”

  “The androids look unreal at that tempo,” De Santis snarled. “It can’t do them justice. We slaved for two weeks and now you—”

  “Never mind. We’ll admire them later.”

  De Santis verged on mutiny, then touched a button. Instantly the model was illumined and the dolls came to life. Acoustics had faked a background. There was a hint of music, laughter, and chatter. In the main hall of Beaumont House, a pneumatic model of Maria Beaumont slowly climbed to a dais with a tiny book in her hands.

  “The time is 11:09 at that point,” Powell said to the D.A.’s staff. “Watch the clock above the model. It’s geared to synchronize with the slow motion.”

  In rapt silence, the legal division studied the scene and jotted notes while the androids reproduced the actions of the fatal Beaumont party. Once again Maria Beaumont read the rules of the Sardine game from the dais in the main hall of Beaumont House. The lights dimmed and went out. Ben Reich slowly threaded his way through the main hall to the music room, turned right, mounted the stairs to the Picture Gallery, passed through the bronze doors leading to the Orchid Suite, blinded and stunned the Beaumont guards, and then entered the suite.

  And again Reich met D’Courtney face to face, closed with him, drew a deadly knife-pistol from his pocket and with the blade pried D’Courtney’s mouth open while the old man hung weak and unresisting. And again a door of the Orchid Suite burst open to reveal Barbara D’Courtney in a frost-white transparent dressing gown. And she and Reich feinted and dodged until Reich suddenly blew the back of D’Courtney’s head out with a shot through the mouth.

  “Got that material from the D’Courtney girl,” Powell murmured. “Peeped her. It’s authentic.”

  Barbara D’Courtney crawled to the body of her father, seized the gun and suddenly dashed out of the Orchid Suite, followed by Reich. He pursued her down into the darkened house and lost her as she darted out through the front entrance into the street. Then Reich met Tate and they marched to the Projection Room, pretending to play Sardine. The drama came to an end at last with the stampede of the guests up to the Orchid Suite where the dolls burst in and crowded around the tiny dead body. There they froze in a grotesque little tableau.

  There was a long pause while the legal staff digested the drama.

  “All right,” Powell said. “That’s the picture. Now let’s feed the data to Mose for an opinion. First, Opportunity. You won’t deny that the Sardine game provided Reich with perfect opportunity?”

  “How’d Reich know they were going to play Sardine?” the D.A. muttered.

  “Reich bought the book and sent it to Maria Beaumont. He provided his own Sardine game.”

  “How’d he know she’d play the game?”

  “He knew she liked games. Sardine was the only legible game in the book.”

  “I don’t know…” The D.A. scratched his head.

  “Mose takes a lot of convincing. Feed it to him. Won’t do any harm.”

  The office door banged open and Commissioner Crabbe marched in as though heading a parade.

  “Mr. Prefect Powell,” Crabbe pronounced formally.

  “Mr. Commissioner?”

  “It has come to my attention, sir, that you are perverting that mechanical brain for the purpose of implicating my good friend, Ben Reich, in the foul and dastardly murder of Craye D’Courtney. Mr. Powell, such a purpose is grotesque. Ben Reich is an honorable and leading citizen of our country. Furthermore, sir, I have never approved of that mechanical brain. You were chosen by the electorate to exercise your intellectual powers, not bow in slavery to that—”

  Powell nodded to Beck, who began feeding the punched data into Mose’s ear. “You’re absolutely right, commissioner. Now, about the Method. First question: How’d Reich knock out the guards. De Santis?”

  “And furthermore, gentlemen…” Crabbe continued.

  “Rhodopsin Ionizer,” De Santis spat. He picked up a plastic sphere and tossed it to Powell who exhibited it. “Man named Jordan developed it for Reich’s private police. I’ve got the empiric processing formula ready for the Computer, and the sample we mocked up. Anybody care to try it?”

  The D.A. looked dubious. “I don’t see the use. Mose can make up his own mind about that.”

  “In addition to which, gentlemen…” Crabbe summarized.

  “Oh come on,” De Santis said with unpleasant cheerfulness. “You’ll never believe us unless you see it for yourself. It doesn’t hurt. Just makes you non compos for six or seven—”

  The plastic bulb shattered in Powell’s fingers. A vivid blue light flared under Crabbe’s nose. Caught in mid-oration, the Commissioner collapsed like an empty sack. Powell looked around in horror.

  “Good heavens!” be exclaimed. “What have I done? That bulb simply melted in my fingers.” He looked at De Santis and spoke severely. “You made the covering too thin, De Santis. Now see what you’ve done to Commissioner Crabbe.”

  “What I’ve done!”

  “Feed that data to Mose,” the D.A. said in a voice rigid with control. “This I know he’ll buy.”

  They made the Commissioner’s body comfortable in a deep chair. “Now, the murder method,” Powell continued. “Kindly watch this, gentlemen. The hand is quicker than the eye.” He exhibited a revolver from the police museum. From the chambers he removed the shells, and from one of the shells he extracted the bullet. “This is what Reich did to the gun Jerry Church gave him before the murder. Pretended to make it safe. A phoney alibi.”

  “Phoney, hell! That gun is safe. Is that Church’s evidence?”

  “It is. Look at your sheet.”

  “Then you don’t have to bother Mose with the problem.” The D.A. threw his papers down in disgust. “We haven’t got a case.”

  “Yes we have.”

  “How can a cartridge kill without a bullet? Your sheet doesn’t say anything about Reich reloading.”

  “He reloaded.”

  “He did not,” De Santis spat. “There was no projectile in the wound or the room. There was nothing.”

  “There was everything. It was easy once I figured the clue.”

  “There was no clue!” De Santis shouted.

  “Why, you located it, De Santis. That bit of candy gel in D’Courtney’s mouth. Remember? And no candy in the stomach.”

  De Santis glared, Powell grinned. He took an eye-dropper and filled a gel capsule with water. He pressed it into the open end of the cartridge above the charge and placed the cartridge in the gun. He raised the gun, aimed at a small wooden block on the edge of the model table, and pulled the trigger. There was a dull, flat explosion and the block leaped into fragments.

  “For the love of—That was a trick!” The D.A. exclaimed. “There was something in that shell besides water.” He examined the fragments of wood.

  “No, there was not. You can shoot an ounce of water with a powder charge. You can shoot it with enough muzzle velocity to blow out the back of a head if you fire through the soft roof of the mouth. That�
��s why Reich had to shoot through the mouth. That’s why De Santis found the bit of gel. That’s why he found nothing else. The projectile was gone.”

  “Give it to Mose,” the D.A. said faintly. “By God, Powell, I’m beginning to think we’ve got a case.”

  “All right. Now, Motive. We picked up Reich’s business records, and Accounting’s gone through them. D’Courtney had Reich with his back to the wall. With Reich it was ‘if you can’t lick ’em, join ’em.’ He tried to join D’Courtney. He failed. He murdered D’Courtney. Will you buy that?”

  “Sure I’ll buy it. But will Old Man Mose? Feed it in and let’s see.”

  They fed in the last of the punched data, warmed the computer up from ‘Idle’ to ‘Run,’ and kicked him into it. Mose’s eyes blinked in hard meditation; his stomach rumbled softly; his memories began to hiss and stutter. Powell and the others waited with mounting suspense. Abruptly, Mose hiccupped. A soft bell began to “Ping-Ping-Ping-Ping-Ping-Ping—” and Mose’s type began to flail the virgin tape under it.

  “IF IT PLEASE THE COURT,” Mose said, “WITH PLEADERING OF NON VULTS AND DEMURERS, LEGAL SIGNATURES. SS. LEADING CASE HAY v. COHOES AND THE RULE IN SHELLEY’S CASE. URP.”

  “What the—” Powell looked at Beck.

  “He gets kittenish,” Beck explained.

  “At a time like this!”

  “Happens now and then. We’ll try him again.”

  They filled the computer’s ear again, held the warmup for a good five minutes and then kicked him into it. Once again his eyes blinked, his stomach growled, his memories hissed, and Powell and the two staffs waited anxiously. A month’s hard work hung on this decision. The type-hammers began to fall.

  “BRIEF #921,088. SECTION C-1. MOTIVE,” Mose said. “PASSION MOTIVE FOR CRIME INSUFFICIENTLY DOCUMENTED. CF STATE v. HANRAHAN, 1202 SUP. COURT. 19, AND SUBSEQUENT LINE OF LEADING CASES.”

  “Passion motive?” Powell muttered. “Is Mose crazy? It’s a profit motive. Check C-1, Beck.”

  Beck checked. “No mistake here.”

  “Try him again.”

  They ran the computer through it a third time. This time he spoke to the point: “BRIEF #921,088. SECTION C-1. MOTIVE. PROFIT MOTIVE FOR CRIME INSUFFICIENTLY DOCUMENTED. CF STATE v. ROYAL 1197 SUP. COURT 388.”

  “Didn’t you punch C-1 properly?” Powell inquired.

  “We got everything in that we could,” Beck replied.

  “Excuse me,” Powell said to the others, “I’ve got to peep this out with Beck. You don’t mind, I hope.” He turned to Beck: “Open up, Jackson. I smelted an evasion in them last words. Let me have it…”

  “Honestly, Linc, I’m not aware of any—”

  “If you were aware, it wouldn’t be an evasion. It’d be a downright lie. Now lemme see… Oh. Of course! Idiot. You don’t have to be ashamed because Code’s a little slow.”

  Powell spoke aloud to the staffs: “Beck’s missing one small datum point. Code’s still working with Hassop upstairs trying to bust Reich’s private code. So far all we’ve got is the knowledge that Reich offered merger and was refused. We haven’t got the definite offer and refusal yet. That’s what Mose wants. A cautious monster.”

  “If you didn’t bust the code, how do you know the offer was made and refused?” the D.A. asked.

  “Got that from Reich himself through Gus Tate. It was one of the last things Tate gave me before he was murdered. I tell you what, Beck. Add an assumption to the tape. Assuming that our merger evidence is unassailable (which it is) what does Mose think of the case?”

  Beck hand punched a strip, spliced it to the main problem and fed it in again. By now well warmed up, the Mosaic Multiplex Computer answered in thirty seconds: “BRIEF #921,088. ACCEPTING ASSUMPTION, PROBABILITY OF SUCCESSFUL PROSECUTION 97.0099%.”

  Powell’s staff grinned and relaxed. Powell tore the tape out of the typewriter and presented it to the D.A. with a flourish. “And there’s your case, Mr. District Attorney… Sewn up and delivered.”

  “By God!” the D.A. said. “Ninety seven per cent! Jesus, we haven’t had one in the ninety bracket all my term. I thought I was lucky when I broke seventy. Ninety seven per cent… Against Ben Reich himself! Jesus!” He looked around at his staff in a kind of wild surmise. “We’ll make goddam history!”

  The office door opened and two perspiring men darted in waving manuscript.

  “Here’s Code now,” Powell said. “You bust it?”

  “We busted it,” they said, “and now you’re busted, Powell. The whole case is busted.”

  “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Reich knocked off D’Courtney because D’Courtney wouldn’t merge, didn’t he? He had a nice fat profit motive for killing D’Courtney, didn’t he? In a pig’s eye he did.”

  “Oh God!” Beck groaned.

  “Reich sent YYJI TTED RRCB UUFE AALK QQBA to D’Courtney. That reads: SUGGEST MERGER BOTH OUR INTERESTS EQUAL PARTNERSHIP.”

  “Damn it, that’s what I’ve said all along. And D’Courtney replied: WWHG. That was a refusal. Reich told Tate. Tate told me.”

  “D’Courtney answered WWHG. That reads: ACCEPT OFFER.”

  “The hell it does!”

  “The hell it don’t. WWHG. ACCEPT OFFER. It was the answer Reich wanted. It was the answer that gave Reich every reason for keeping D’Courtney alive. You’ll never convince any court in the solar system that Reich had a motive for murdering D’Courtney. Your case is washed out.”

  Powell stood stock still for half a minute, his fists clenched, his face working. Suddenly he turned on the model, reached in and pulled out the android figure of Reich. He twisted its head off. He went to Mose, yanked out the tapes of punched data, crumpled them into a wad and hurled the wad across the room. He strode to Crabbe’s recumbent figure and launched a tremendous kick at the seat of the chair. While the staffs watched in an appalled silence, the chair and Commissioner overturned to the floor.

  “God damn you! You’re always sitting in that God damned chair!” Powell cried in a shaking voice and stormed out of the office.

  14

  Explosion! Concussion! The cell doors burst open. And far outside, freedom is waiting in the cloak of darkness and flight into the unknown…

  Who’s that? Who’s outside the cell-block? Oh God! Oh Christ! The Man With No Face! Looking. Looming. Silent. Run! Escape! Fly! Fly!…

  Fly through space. There’s safety in the solitude of this silver-lined launch jetting to the deeps of the distant unknown… The hatch door! Opening. But it can’t. There’s no one on this launch to swing it slowly, ominously… Oh God! The Man With No Face! Looking. Looming. Silent…

  But I am innocent, your honor. Innocent. You will never prove my guilt, and I will never stop pleading my case though you pound your gavel until you deafen my ears and—Oh Christ! On the bench. In wig and gown. The Man With No Face. Looking. Looming. Quintessence of vengeance…

  The pounding gavel dissolved to knuckles on the stateroom door. The steward’s voice called: “Over New York, Mr. Reich. One hour to debarkation. Over New York, Mr. Reich.” The knuckles went on hammering on the door.

  Reich found his voice. “All right,” he croacked. “I hear you.”

  The steward departed. Reich climbed out of the liquid bed and found his legs giving way. He clutched at the wall and cursed himself upright. Still in the grip of the nightmare’s terror, he went into the bathroom, depilated, showered, steamed, and air-washed for ten minutes. He was still reeling. He stepped into the massage alcove and punched ‘Glow-Salt.’ Two pounds of moistened, scented salt were sprayed on his skin. As the massage buffers were about to begin, Reich suddenly decided he needed coffee. He stepped out of the alcove to ring Service.

  There was a dull concussion and Reich was hurled to his face by the force of the explosion in the alcove. His back was slashed by flying particles. He darted into the bedroom, seized his traveling case, and turned like an animal at bay, his hands automatically opening the
case and groping for the cartridge of Detonation Bulbs he always carried. There was no cartridge in the case.

  Reich pulled himself together. He was aware of the bite of salt in the cuts in his back and the streaming blood. He was aware that he was no longer trembling. He went back into the bathroom shut off the massage buffers and inspected the alcove wreckage. Someone had removed the cartridge from his case during the night and planted a bulb in each of the massage buffers. The empty cartridge lay behind the alcove. Only a split-second miracle had saved his life…from whom?

  He inspected his stateroom door. The lock had evidently been gaffed by a past-master. It showed no sign of tampering. But who? Why?

  “Son of a bitch!” Reich growled. With iron nerve he returned to the bathroom, washed off the salt and blood, and sprayed his back with coagulent. He dressed, had his coffee, and descended to the Staging Hall where, after a savage skirmish with the peeper Customs Man (Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun!), he boarded the Monarch launch that was waiting to take him down to the city.

  From the launch he called Monarch Tower. His secretary’s face appeared on the screen.

  “Any news of Hassop?” Reich asked.

  “No, Mr. Reich. Not since you called from Spaceland.”

  “Give me Recreation.”

  The screen herring-boned and then disclosed the chrome lounge of Monarch. West, bearded and scholarly, was carefully binding sheets of typescript into plastic volumes. He looked up and grinned.

  “Hello, Ben.”

  “Don’t look so cheerful, Ellery,” Reich growled. “Where the hell is Hassop? I thought you’d surely—”

  “Not my problem any more, Ben.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  West displayed the volumes. “Just finishing up my work. History of my career with Monarch Utilities & Resources for your files. Said career ended this morning at nine o’clock.”