"The third time?"
"In three hours. Please, Linc... While I've got the strength."
He permitted himself to wander upward. He could not find upward. The timeless, spaceless chaos roared around him. The image of Barbara D'Courtney appeared, now a caricature of the sexual siren.
"Hi spook."
"Lincoln, for the love of God!"
In momentary panic, he plunged in any direction until his peeper training reasserted itself. Then the Withdrawal Technique went into automatic operation. The blocks banged down in steady sequence; each barrier a step backward toward the light. Halfway up, be sensed Mary alongside him. She stayed with him until he was once more in his living room, seated alongside the urchin, her hands in his. He dropped the hands as though they were red hot.
"Mary, I located the weirdest association with Ben Reich. Some kind of linkage that—"
Mary had an iced towel. She slapped his face with it smartly. He realized that he was shaking.
"Only trouble is... Trying to make sense out of fragments in the Id is like trying to run a qualitative analysis in the middle of a sun... "
The towel flicked again.
"You aren't working with unit elements. You're working with ionized particles... " He dodged the towel and stared at Barbara. "My God, Mary, I think this poor kid's in love with me."
Image of a cockeyed turtle dove.
"No bidding. I kept meeting myself down there. I—"
"And what about you?"
"Me?"
"Why do you think you refused to send her to Kingston Hospital?" she said. "Why do you think you've been peeping her twice a day since you brought her here? Why did you have to have a chaperone? I'll tell you, Mr. Powell..."
"Tell me what?"
"You're in love with her. You've been in love with her since you found her at Chooka Frood's."
"Mary!"
She stung him with a vivid picture of himself and Barbara D'Courtney and that fragment she had peeped days ago... The fragment that had made her turn pale with jealousy and anger. Powell knew it was true.
"Mary, dear..."
"Never mind me. To hell with me. You're in love with her, and the girl isn't a peeper. She isn't even sane. How much of her are you in love with? One tenth? What part of her are you in love with? Her face? Her subconscious? What about the other ninety per cent? Will you love that when you find it? Damn you! I wish I'd let you stay inside her mind until you rotted!" She turned away and began to cry.
"Mary, for the love of—"
"Shut up," she sobbed. "Damn you, shut up! I... There's a message for you. From headquarters. You're to jet for Spaceland as soon as possible. Ben Reich's there, and they've lost him. They need you. Everybody needs you. So why should I complain?"
12
IT WAS YEARS SINCE POWELL had last visited Spaceland. He sat in the police launch that had picked him off the luxury ship "Holiday Queen," and as the launch dropped, Powell stared through the port at Spaceland glittering below like a patchwork quilt worked in silver and gold. He smiled as he always did at the identical image that came to him each time he saw the playground in space. It was a vision of a shipload of explorers from a far galaxy, strange creatures, solemn and studious, who stumbled on Spaceland and researched it. He always tried to imagine how they'd report it and always failed.
"It's a job for Dishonest Abe," he muttered.
Spaceland had started several generations back with a flat plate of asteroid rock half a mile diameter. A mad health cultist had raised a transparent hemisphere of Air-Gel on the plate, installed an atmosphere generator, and started a colony. From that, Spaceland had grown into an irregular table in space, extending hundreds of miles. Each new entrepreneur had simply tacked another mile or so onto the shelf, raised his own transparent hemisphere, and gone into business. By the time engineers got around to advising Spaceland that the spherical form was more efficient and economical, it was too late to change. That table just went on proliferating.
As the launch swung around, the sun caught Spaceland at an angle, and Powell could see the hundreds of hemispheres shimmering against the blue-black of space like a mass of soap bubbles on a checkered table. The original health colony was now in the center and still in business. The others were hotels, amusement parks, health resorts, nursing homes, and even a cemetery. On the Jupiter side of the table was the giant fifty-mile hemisphere that covered the Spaceland Nature Reservation which guaranteed more natural history and more weather per square mile than any natural planet.
"Let's have the story," Powell said.
The police sergeant gulped. "We followed instructions," he said. "Rough Tail on Hassop. Slickie following him. The Rough got taken out by Reich's girl..."
"It was a girl, eh?"
"Yeah. Cute little trick named Duffy Wyg&."
"Damnation!" Powell jerked bolt upright. The sergeant stared at him. "Why I questioned that girl myself. I never — " He caught himself. "Seems like I did some lousing myself. Shows you. When you meet a pretty girl..." He shook his head.
"Well, like I say," the sergeant continued, "she takes out the Rough, and just when the Slickie moves in, Reich jets into Spaceland with a commotion."
"Like?"
"Private yacht. Has a crash in space and limps in hollerin' emergency. One killed. Three injured, including Reich. Front of the yacht stove in. Derelict or meteor stray. They take Reich to the hospital where we figure he's planned for a little. When we turn around, Reich's gone. Hassop too. I grab a peeper interpreter and go looking in four languages. No dice."
"Hassop's luggage?"
"Gone likewise."
"Damnation! We've got to pinch Hassop and that luggage. They're our Motive. Hassop is Monarch's Code Chief. We need him for that last message Reich sent to D'Courtney and the reply..."
"Monday before the murder?"
"Yes. That exchange probably ignited the killing. And Hassop may have Reich's financial records with him. They can probably tell a court why Reich had a hell of a motive for murdering D'Courtney."
"Such as, for instance?"
"The talk around Monarch is that D'Courtney had Reich with his back to the wall."
"You got Method and Opportunity?"
"Yes and no. I opened up Jerry Church and got everything, but it's ticklish. We can show Reich had the opportunity. It'll stand if the other two stand. We can show the murder method. It'll stand if the other two stand. Same goes for Reich's Motive. They're like three wigwam poles. Each of them needs the other two. No one can stand alone. That's Old Man Mose's opinion. And that's why we need Hassop."
"I'll swear they ain't left Spaceland. That efficient I still am."
"Don't hang your head because Reich outsmarted you. He's outsmarted plenty. Me included."
The sergeant shook his head gloomily.
"I'll... I'll start peeping Spaceland for Reich and Hassop at once," Powell said as the launch drifted down for the passage through the air-lock, "but I want to check a hunch first. Show me the corpse."
"What corpse?"
"From Reich's crash."
In the police mortuary, displayed on an air-cushion in the stasis-freeze, the corpse was a mangled figure with dead white skin and a flaming red beard.
"Uh, huh," Powell muttered. "Keno Quizzard."
"You know him?"
"A gimpster. Was working for Reich and turned too hot to be useful. What'll you bet that crash was a cover-up for a killing."
"Hell!" the cop exploded, "those two other guys are hurt bad. Reich might have been faking. Admitted. But the yacht was ruined, and those two other guys—"
"So they were hurt. And the yacht was ruined. So what? Quizzard's mouth is shut for keeps and Reich's that much safer. Reich took care of him. We'll never prove it, but we won't have to if we locate Hassop. That'll be enough to walk friend Reich into Demolition."
Wearing the fashionable spray-gun-tights (Spaceland sport clothes were being painted on, this year), Powell began a lightning tour of
the bubbles... Victoria Hotel, Sportsman's Hotel, Magic, Home From Home, Ye New Neu Bablesberg, The Martian (very chic), the Venusberg (very bawdy), and the other dozens... Powell struck up conversations with strangers, described his dear old friends in half a dozen languages, and peeped gently to make sure they had the precise picture of Reich and Hassop before they answered. And then the answers. Negative. Always negative.
The peepers were easy... and Spaceland was fined with them, at work and at play... but always the reply was negative.
A Revival Meeting at Solar Rheims... hundreds of chanting, genuflecting devotees participating in a kind of hopped-up Midsummer Morn festival. Reply Negative. Sailing Races in Mars From Home... Cat boats and sloops skipping over the water in long hops like scaled stones. Reply Negative. The Plastic Surgery Resort... hundreds of bandaged faces and bodies. Reply Negative. Free-Flight Polo. Reply Negative. Hot Sulphur Springs, White Sulphur Springs, Black Sulphur Springs, No Sulphur Springs... Replies Negative.
Discouraged and depressed, Powell dropped into Solar Dawn Cemetery. The cemetery looked like an English garden... all flagged paths and oak, ash and elm trees with tiny little plots of green grass. Muted music from costumed robot string quartets sawing away in strategic pavilions. Powell began to smile.
There was a faithful reproduction of the Notre Dame Cathedral in the center of the cemetery. It was painstakingly labeled: Ye Wee Kirk O Th' Glen. From the mouth of one of the gargoyles in the tower, a syrupy voice roared: "SEE THE DRAMA OF THE GODS PORTRAYED IN VIBRANT ROBOT-ACTION IN YE WEE KIRK O TH' GLEN. MOSES ON MT. SINAI, THE CRUCIFIXION OF CHRIST, MOHAMMED AND THE MOUNTAIN, LAO TSE AND THE MOON, THE REVELATION OF MARY BAKER EDDY, THE ASCENSION OF OUR LORD BUDDHA, THE UNVEILING OF THE TRUE AND ONLY GOD GALAXY..." Pause, and then a little more matter-of-factly: "OWING TO THE SACRED NATURE OF THIS EXHIBIT, ADMISSION IS BY TICKET ONLY. TICKETS MAY BE PURCHASED FROM THE BAILIFF." Pause. Then another voice, injured and pleading: "ATTENTION ALL WORSHIPERS. ATTENTION ALL WORSHIPERS. NO LOUD TALKING OR LAUGHTER... PLEASE!" A click, and another gargoyle began in another language. Powell burst out laughing.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," a girl said behind him.
Without turning, Powell replied: "I'm sorry. 'No Loud Talking or Laughter.' But don't you think this is the most ludicrous—" Then the pattern of her psyche hit him and he spun around. He was face to face with Duffy Wyg&.
"Well, Duffy!" he said.
Her frown changed to a look of perplexity, then to a quick smile. "Mr. Powell," she exclaimed. "The boy-sleuth. You still owe me a dance."
"I owe you an apology," Powell said.
"Delighted. Can't have enough of them. What's this one for?"
"Underestimating you."
"The story of my life." She linked arms and drew him along the path. "Tell me how reason has finally prevailed. You took another look at me, and—?"
"I realized you're the cleverest person Ben Reich has working for him."
"I am clever. I did do some work for Ben... but your compliment seems to have deep brooding undertones. Is there something?"
"The tail we had on Hassop."
"Just a little more accent on the down-beat, please."
"You took out our tail, Duffy. Congratulations."
"Ah-ha! Hassop is your pet horse. A childhood accident robbed him of a horse's crowning glory. You substituted an artificial one which—"
"Clever-up, Duffy. That isn't going to travel far."
"Then, boy-wonder, will you ream your tubes?"
Her pert face looked up at him, half serious, half amused. "What in hell are you talking about?"
"I'll spell it out. We had a tail on Hassop. A tail is a shadow, a spy, a secret agent assigned to the duty of following and watching a suspect..."
"Contents noted. What's a Hassop?"
"A man who works for Ben Reich. His Code Chief."
"And what did I do to your spy?"
"Following instructions from Ben Reich, you captivated the man, enravished him, turned him into a derelict from duty, kept him at a piano all day, day after day, and—"
"Wait a minute!" Duffy spoke sharply. "I know that one. The little bem. Let's square this off. He was a cop?"
"Now Duffy, if—"
"I asked a question."
"He was a cop."
"Following this Hassop?"
"Yes."
"Hassop... Bleached man? Dusty hair? Dusty blue eyes?"
Powell nodded.
"The louse," Duffy muttered. "The low-down louse!" She turned on Powell furiously. "And you think I'm the kind that does his dirty work, do you! Why, you — you peeper! You listen to me, Powell. Reich asked me to do him a favor. Said there was a man up here working on an interesting musical code. Wanted me to check him. How the hell was I supposed to know be was your goon? How was I supposed to know your goon was masquerading as a musician?"
Powell stared at her. "Are you claiming that Reich tricked you?"
"What else?" She glared back. "Go ahead and peep me. If Reich wasn't in the Reservation you could peep that double-crossing —"
"Hold it!" Powell interrupted sharply. He slipped past her conscious barrier and peeped her precisely and comprehensively for ten seconds. Then he turned and began to run.
"Hey!" Duffy yelled. "What's the verdict?"
"Medal of Honor," Powell called over his shoulder. "I'll pin it on as soon as I bring a man back alive."
"I don't want a man. I want you."
"That's your trouble, Duffy. You want anybody."
"Whooooo?"
"Any-y-bod-y."
"NO LOUD TALKING OR LAUGHTER... PLEASE!"
* * *
Powell found his police sergeant in the Spaceland Globe Theater where a magnificent Esper actress stirred thousands with her moving performances — performances that owed as much to her telepathic sensitivity to audience response as to her exquisite command of stage technique. The cop, immune to the star's appeal, was gloomily inspecting the house, face by face. Powell took his arm and led him out.
"He's in the Reservation," Powell told him. "Took Hassop with him. Took Hassop's luggage too. Perfect alibi. He was shaken up by the crash and he needs a rest. Also company. He's eight hours ahead of us."
"The Reservation, huh?" the sergeant pondered. "Twenty-five hundred square miles of more damned animals, geography, and weather than you ever see is three lives."
"What's the odds Hassop has a fatal accident, if he hasn't had one already?"
"No takers at any price."
"If we want to get Hassop out we'll have to grab a Helio and do some fast hunting."
"Uh-uh. No mechanical transportation allowed in the Reservation."
"This is an emergency. Old Man Mose has got to have Hassop!"
"Go let that damn machine argue with the Spaceland Board. You could get special permission in maybe three four weeks."
"By which time Hassop'd be dead and buried. What about Radar or Sonar? We could work out Hassop's pattern and—"
"Uh-uh. No mechanical devices outside of cameras allowed in the Reservation."
"What the hell plays with that Reservation?"
"Hundred percent guaranteed pure nature for the eager beavers. You go in at your own risk. Element of danger adds spice to your trip. Get the picture? You battle the elements. You battle the wild animals. You feel primitive and refreshed again. That's what the ads say."
"What do they do in there? Rub sticks together?"
"Sure. You hike on your own feet. You carry your own food. You take one Defensive Barrier Screen with you so's the bears don't eat you. If you want a fire you got to build it. If you want to hunt animals, you got to make your own weapons. If you want to catch fish, likewise. You versus nature. And they make you sign a release in case nature wins."
"Then how are we going to find Hassop?"
"Sign a release and go hike for him."
"The two of us? Cover twenty-five hundred square miles of geography? How many squadmen can you spare?"
"Maybe ten."
"Adding up to two hundred and fifty square miles per cop. Impossible."
"Maybe you could persuade the Spaceland Board — No. Even if you could, we wouldn't be able to get the Board together under a week. Wait a minute! Could you get 'em together by peeping 'em? Send out urgent messages or something? How do you peepers work that anyway?"
"We can only pick you up. We can't transmit to anybody except another peeper, so — Hey! Ho! That's an idea!"
"What's an idea?"
"Is a human being a mechanical device?"
"Nope."
"Is he a civilized invention?"
"Not lately."
"Then I'm going to do some fast co-opting and take my own Radar into the Reservation."
Which is why a sudden craving for nature overtook a prominent lawyer in the midst of delicate contractual negotiations in one of Spaceland's luxurious conference rooms. The same craving also came upon the secretary of a famous author, a judge of domestic relations, a job analyst screening applicants for the United Hotel Association, an industrial designer, an efficiency engineer, the Chairman of Amalgamated Union's Grievance Committee, Titan's Superintendent of Cybernetics, a Secretary of Political Psychology, two Cabinet members, five Parliamentary Leaders, and scores of other Esper clients of Spaceland at work and at play.
They filed through the Reservation Gate in a unified mood of holiday festivity and assorted gear. Those that had gotten word on the grapevine early enough were in sturdy camping clothes. Others were not; and the astonished gate guards, checking and inspecting for illicit baggage, saw one lunatic in full diplomatic regalia march through with a pack on his back. But all the nature-lovers carried detailed maps of the Reservation carefully zoned into sectors.
Moving swiftly, they spread out and beat forward across the miniature continent of weather and geography. The TP Band crackled as comments and information swept up and down the line of living radar in which Powell occupied the central position.
"Hey. No fair, I've got a mountain dead ahead."
"Snowing here. Full b-b-blizzard."
"Swamps and (ugh!) mosquitoes in my sector."