There could be another explanation. But he could not think of any others.
No time for theories. Find out something about the function of the organ now, if possible. He couldn’t proceed at his leisure, for he had to hurry back to make sure the dead woman’s replacement appeared. Afterwards, he could return for a more thorough examination.
Leif quickly lowered a microscope from the ceiling. This was a bulky instrument with a small control panel and a hooded viewer. Through the viewer, which was at right angles to the object to be scrutinized, he could see the magnification of the organ. And he could see that nerves ran from the grey red-black spotted organ. They ran from the anterior end of the organ along the wall of the vaginal canal almost to the opening.
Leif moved the microscope back and forth while he studied the organ and nerves in detail. He was puzzled. But, obeying a sudden intuition—one of the “hunches” which, coupled with his skill, had made him a great doctor —he swung the microscope back towards the ceiling. From a shelf he took an instrument designed to detect the flow of bio-electricity, the current generated by living cells. It was possible that this organ was not dead yet. If he were to hold the two-pronged tip of the detector against the organ and then rhythmically squeeze the organ with the two fingers of his other hand...
“Ah!” he breathed. With every squeeze of his fingers on the organ, the meter on the detector indicated four hundred milliampères.
His intuition had paid off! The organ was a biological source of electrical energy. It acted as a piezoelectric generator. When it contracted it released energy which traveled down the nerves along the vaginal canal.
He reasoned that the organ, in the living Halla, must have released the bio-electricity when it contracted under muscular action. And the muscular contractions, of course, were in turn affected by a nervous action. He did not know what the cause of triggering nerve action was, and he did not care to speculate. However, the four hundred milliampères were an extremely strong bio-current, and the nerves that conducted it were very thick. What was the whole biological device for?
He could find out. The girl who’d be taking the place of the dead girl might be of the same kind!
The thought galvanized him. He hosed off the body, wrapped it in the sheet, and placed it in a drawer in the freezer. Then he locked the drawer and wheeled the empty cart out into the hall. There he found another cart with Ingolf’s body beneath a sheet. He moved it into the PM, lifted the sheet to satisfy himself that Ava had cut two deep and large initials upon its chest and had left the stiletto stuck in the side.
Evidently, Ava had given the orderlies instructions to leave the body outside in the hall. Supposedly, the men would think that Shant or some other doctor was busy inside and did not wish to be bothered.
Leif didn’t like the setup. It was too complicated. Only the simple plans allowed you to see all the details in one sweep of the eyes. The complex plans were too hard to clean up. They left clues for the keen-nosed hounds of Uzzites to sniff out.
A good thing General Itskowitz couldn’t see him now, he thought. He’d be yanked out of Paris and back to Marsey before you could say Jude Changer!
Chapter 7
WHEN HE STEPPED out of the elevator onto the floor 100, he saw that he’d delayed too long over Halla’s body. A very tall man, half a head higher than Leif, was coming down the hall. He was stooped, and his thin neck was bent forward as if he were running to keep pace with the eager head. The face was long and narrow—hawk-nosed, thin-lipped, shadow-eyed. He looked like a blond Dante.
The Uzzite’s slender hand with its transparent-skinned fingers was curled around the crux ansata handle of the whip stuck in his broad black belt. His eyes were grey beasts poised in the caverns beneath his tufted eyebrows. When they saw Leif, they did not lose any of their crouched-to-spring wariness.
“Candleman!” Leif cried.
The Uzzite dipped his beak in acknowledgment and walked on to the door of 113. When it would not open to his shove, he knocked on it.
Leif said, “You must make as little noise as possible. Mrs. Dannto is not to be disturbed.”
Candleman’s voice was deep. “She is still alive?”
Though his face did not change, he gave Leif the impression that he was surprised.
“Why not?” said Leif. “She’s suffering from nothing more serious than a broken arm, a gash in the solar plexus, shock, and loss of considerable blood. Just now she’s under a sedative.”
“Strange,” muttered Dante-face. “I was told she was dead or dying.”
“Who told you that?” demanded Leif sharply. If Trausti or Palsson had been talking...
“One of my men. He came to the scene of the accident shortly after it happened. And he was certain that Mrs. Dannto couldn’t live.”
“Your men are not medically trained,” said Leif. His eyes clashed with Candleman’s.
“I want to see her and satisfy myself that she’s all right,” said the Uzzite.
“You may take my word for it,” said Leif.
“I insist.”
“I am her physician,” said Leif. “I have Dannto’s word for it that I’m to be in complete charge of her case.”
“Dannto?”
“Yes.”
Candleman took the seven-thonged whip from his belt and began to swish it with gentle meance through the air. He said, “Very well, then, but I can, at least, see her through the QB.”
“It’s not working,” said Leif.
He grinned.
Candleman stared bleakly; it was probably the first time anybody had dared to mock him.
“Why?”
“Ask the tech responsible.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know,” said Leif. “But I can tell you the names of all of the techs in this hospital. It’s easy because we’ve only six. And we need four times that number.”
Candleman said, “I know there’s a shortage of techs. Everything seems to be breaking down nowadays, and we haven’t enough men for repair. We need new and larger schools for techs.”
“Why should young men go into them when the tech professions are so hazardous?”
“What do you mean?”
“This,” said Leif, heart pounding delightedly at this baiting. “If anything breaks down, the machinery is not suspected. No. The tech is. He is at once under the suspicion of sabotage. He is thought to be an enemy of reality, perhaps even a paid agent of the Izzies or the Marchers. He is hauled off and questioned. While he’s being held, the additional burden of maintenance and repair falls on the shoulders of his already overburdened co-workers. If he can’t answer the Uzzites satisfactorily—and their questions are so phrased that even if he’s innocent he’s likely to get rattled and not give the correct ones—he’s sent to H. Whatever that is.
“If he is released, he’s still under surveillance. That puts him under a nervous strain. If more breakdowns occur —and they’re bound to, because of the present shortage of techs and materials—he’ll get blamed. Back he goes to the Uzzite rooms, and so on. The result is that many of the techs are quitting, or trying to. The Sturch won’t allow them to, of course, unless there’s been a lowering in their efficiency or moral rating. The tech is, as the saying goes, caught between Forerunner and Backrunner. If he deliberately lowers his efficiency, he’s accused of unreality. And so on. It’s true he can conduct himself so that his gapt gives him a lower moral rating, and he’ll be dismissed to the ranks of the unskilled.
“But that means a harder life, smaller living quarters, less food, less prestige. He doesn’t want to do that so he stays on his job. But he’s nervous. His work suffers. He’s investigated. Back he goes to the Uzzite questioning rooms.”
Leif was talking as much as he could. He wanted to keep Candleman busy.
Candleman swished the thongs through the air.
“Am I to understand you are criticizing the Sturch?”
Leif rubbed his lamech. “When I’m wearing this
? You know that that’s impossible! No, I’m merely telling you why techs are hard to find.”
Candleman turned and called, “Thorleifsson!”
A stocky young man with a square hard face stepped from around the corner. Leif recognized him as one of the men whom he had anesthetized in the waiting room of his penthouse last night. The three Uzzites had recovered and fled before Leif was through with the girl sent to trap him.
“Yes, abba,” said Thorleifsson.
“Find out the tech responsible for the QB maintenance on this floor. Ask him a few questions about the QB in room 113, but make no arrests. We might want to detain him later, though.”
The lieutenant saluted and left. Candleman wheeled on Leif and said,”The Sandalphon asked me to investigate this case. I can’t intrude upon your medical handling of his wife, but I can demand that you at least allow me to satisfy myself that Mrs. Dannto is in that room.”
The doctor’s brows rose.
“Just what do you mean by that?”
“Barker, I’m a man who never takes anything for granted. I’ve only your word that she’s in there. I trust no man’s word. Only my own eyes.”
“There are some things you’ve got to take on trust— or go insane,” said Leif.
He called softly through the door. “Ava. Let me in.”
He hoped Ava would have sense enough to realize why he wasn’t using their code knocks. He didn’t want to take a chance on giving that away to the human bloodhound whose eyes he could feel biting his back.
The door swung part way open. He grabbed the knob with a firm grip so it wouldn’t open any further and let himself in, edgewise. Candleman stepped up close and peered over Leif’s shoulder.
“There she is,” said Leif. “Are you satisfied?”
Candleman should have been satisfied. The woman in bed had the same mass of rich auburn hair that Halla Dannto had. And the face, in the dim light, looked exactly like the dead woman’s.
Candleman said nothing but sucked in his breath. He was still staring when Leif shut the door in his face.
On the other side of the door, the doctor breathed relief. “When did she get here?”
“About a minute after you left. I thought you were never coming back.”
Leif walked over to the bed. The woman had opened her eyes and given him a half-smile. He smiled back, but he felt that this was the cap to all the shocks he’d gotten that day.
This girl was a live ringer for Halla in more than one way. She tolled bells; except for the dead woman, he’d never seen such beauty.
“Have you any messages for me?” he asked.
“None except that you’re to call me Halla all the time —until my sister recovers from her accident and takes back her proper place.”
Leif hoped he hid his surprise. So they hadn’t told her the truth. Poor girl. It was what had to be done, though. If she had to struggle to hide her grief while carrying out this deception... he shrugged and hoped he wouldn’t have to be the one to tell her. He couldn’t stand a woman’s tears—if they flowed from a genuine emotion.
“Ava,” he said, “I see you’ve put a splint on her arm. That was smart, but it might not be enough. We may have to carry this out to a realistic conclusion.”
Ava spoke over the commie. Leif picked up the sheet over Halla and laid it aside. Her large grey-blue eyes widened, and she opened her mouth.
He said, “Untie that gown, will you? It’s necessary that I examine you.”
“Why should it be?”
Her voice, even when alarmed, as now, was a creamy contralto. It had fingers that knew where his nerves were and plucked them like harp strings so that a delicious chill ran down his spine.
“Your sister was injured in certain places,” he said. “Trausti saw her, and he knows where she was hurt. I’ve got to determine just how I can duplicate the appearance of those injuries without actually hurting you.”
He hoped it sounded plausible. Whether it did or not, he was determined to check the resemblances between the impostor and her dead sister.
“But who besides you is going to check on those injuries?” she asked. “Mrs. Barker and yourself will be the only ones.”
“You’re not acquainted with medical procedures,” he said. “We’ve not the time to argue. As your superior, I order you to disrobe. Believe me,” he said, smiling to soften the effect, “I don’t like to command you. But it’s necessary.”
Ava turned from the commie and watched him. Ava was probably wondering just what he was up to.
Halla showed no signs of obeying him. Leif said, in English, “Halla, I won’t hurt you. I’m L. Barker and no bite.”
She tried to stifle the giggle, but it came out anyway.
Still smiling, Leif reached out to untie the cords of the unlovely hospital robe. The spurious Halla brought up her leg and kneed him expertly in the chin. Half stunned, he reeled back.
Ava laughed and said, “You lecherous goat! That’s good enough for you!”
Leif, holding his jaw, mumbled, “My first contact with you has impressed me very much. I hope you didn’t hurt your knee?”
She laughed again, and the vocal fingers strummed something deep within him.
“I think I like you, Dr. Barker, even if you’re up to no good and consider yourself something of a Don Juan. If I have to be examined like a fatted calf, let your wife do it. You see, doctor, I know why you want to scrutinize me.”
“Then you know my reason is purely professional.”
“No. Not purely,” she answered.
Leif turned to Ava. “Lucky girl.” Ava’s black eyes sizzled.
He laughed as if at a secret joke, and when Ava scowled, he slapped Ava lightly in mock rebuke.
“For the sake of the Forerunner, be serious, Leif,” said Ava.
“The only thing I’m serious about is not being serious,” he replied. “Listen, dear, I’m going back to PM. I’ve some unfinished business there—” he gestured significantly at Halla—“and I’ll be back as quickly as possible. Whatever happens, keep Candleman out.”
“Why in H didn’t you do it when you were down there?” Ava demanded.
Leif said, “I know I’m doing wrong, but I can’t help myself. The scientist has triumphed over the soldier.”
He turned to give his “patient” one last glance. She had sat up and thrown her hair back with a toss of her head.
She looked as proud as a queen is supposed to look. Leif opened the door and slipped quietly out, knowing that never again would he be able to leave her without a sense of loss. He’d never felt that way before about any woman.
Before he went to the PM, Leif stopped off at the pathologist’s office. There was a chance that Shant might be wanting to do a post on Ingolf at once. Leif intended to tell him that he was going to open the man’s skull himself. Shant was one of the few persons in the hospital he didn’t like; he made no pretense otherwise. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d cut the pathologist out of an interesting post.
He hadn’t used the QB to call Shant because he imagined that Candleman had put a censor on it. He didn’t want anybody storming in on him while he was PM-ing the real Halla.
Shant was gone. Leif feigned a certain degree of displeasure because he wasn’t there when wanted, and then he left. The secretary would tell Shant about it, and the pathologist would keep out of his way for a few days.
When he got to the PM door, he checked the spy-register. It showed nothing. That wasn’t surprising, for someone had wiped the magnetic tape clean. A little dial in one corner of the box indicated that that had taken place less than three minutes ago.
Leif was glad he’d insisted on Ava’s installing that device. Checking was good; doublechecking, even better.
The door was locked. Either the person who’d entered had wiped the tape after he’d left the room, or else had obtained a key from one of the authorities. The latter was more probable, which meant that the stranger was an Uzzite. Candleman, or one of hi
s lieutenants, was on the prowl.
Leif didn’t hesitate. He inserted the key and pressed the little button at its end. The other end emitted a frequency which neutralized the magnetic field that locked the metal edges of the door with the steel doorframe. Leif was taking a chance, for if the prowler within had taken the trouble, he could be warned of anyone entering. Uzzites wore wristboxes with such warning devices. Set to the door’s frequency, they would emit an alarm should another key of the same frequency be turned on nearby.
Knowing the Uzzite’s arrogance, Leif doubted if the officer would bother. After all, they had the right to enter any place except a lamech-bearer’s home.
He was right. As he silently swung the door shut behind him, he saw Thorleifsson’s chunky form bending over the end of the drawer that held the body of the original Halla. His key had unlocked the box; he was just beginning to slide it out.
Ingolfs unsheeted form was lying beneath the harsh central lights. The stiletto projected from his ribs, and the deeply gashed initials could be seen across the room. Thorleifsson had made quite a discovery.
Uzzites carried minimatics whose explosive bullets, though capable only of short range, would make a big hole in any man they struck. Leif didn’t give him a chance to use it. As he strode catfooted toward the bent back, he drew a long scalpel from his inside coatpocket.
Leif had gained a certain reputation for eccentricity, a highly calculated one. For one thing, he refused to wear the calf-length boots of the average doctor. He preferred sneakers. His fellow workers thought it was comfort he had in mind. They were half-right. Silence was what he mainly wanted, and what he got now as he approached the broad back.
Leif could not have made a noise to attract Thorleifsson’s attention. The Uzzite must have looked around because he was trained to be always suspicious.
Leif rushed Thorleifsson with his scalpel held before him. Thorleifsson grunted, and his hand flashed down towards the minimatic in the holster on his belt. Then, seeing that Barker was too close for him to draw his gun in time, Thorleifsson threw up one hand to knock the scalpel away. He was partly successful. He did keep the weapon from entering his throat. But he had to pay for his partial success. The scalpel entered his palm and drove through the back of his hand.