The clues. The trail, beginning at the bent aluminum frame of the room's window, where the glass had been melted away; Webster Foote's two leadies crouched at the frame, photographed and analyzed the exact extent of the warpage of the metal, recorded its misalignment, calculated the pressure, in terms of pounds, which would have produced such a warp.
Foote's leadies gathered data like the good and successful machines they were. But he himself felt nothing, stared sightlessly; he was not interested, not involved.
"Spot of blood, Mr. Foote," one of the leadies informed him.
"Good," he said tonelessly.
The Lindblom leady which had opened the deeply embedded case set within the closet wall now informed him, "The brain pattern recept shows on its permanent record, in its repository, the presence of—"
"A man," Foote said. "Who passed by it and emitted an Alphawave pattern."
"The aud recorder, too, contains—"
"The man spoke," Foote said. "He came here to kill a sleeping victim and yet he spoke, loudly enough to get his voice on the iron oxide tape."
"And not only loudly," the leady said, "but distinctly. Would you care to have that sequence of tape rerun for you right now?"
Foote murmured, "No, I'll wait. Later."
One of his own leadies exclaimed in shrill, metallic triumph, "Three human hairs, not those of the victim."
"Keep going," Foote said. There'll be more clues by which to identify the murderer, he said to himself. We've got his unique brain wave pattern, his distinctive voice; we know his weight, we have hairs from his head, a drop of blood—although it seems rather strange that he should all at once have, for no reason, bled a drop, right in the middle of the room: a drop and no more.
Within the next few minutes a fragment of cloth fiber was found. And then, on a low table, fingerprints, not those of the victim.
"You can stop, now," Foote said to his two leadies.
"But sir," one of them said, "we may also find—"
"That's all," Foote said. "All which the standard model 2004 Eisenwerke Gestalt-macher produces. Voice, fingerprints, hairs, drop of blood, fiber of clothing, indication of body weight and idiosyncratic Alpha-wave brain emanation pattern—that's the extent and that's sufficient. Based on those, any reasonably adequate computer can pop a signal card; you've got seven factors of delineation." And actually six were unnecessary. The brain-emanation pattern alone—if not the fingerprints—was adequate.
This was what annoyed him about this wartime West German invention; it overdid its job. Ninety percent of its circuitry, its activities, could have been left out—in which event as portable TV receiver it would have tended to possess the proper weight. But that was the German mentality, their love of the Gestalt, the complete picture.
Now, with the trail of clues, the data which made the Gestalt, in his possession, the question arose as to which population-catalog computer to consult. Actually he had his choice of three, and each possessed an enormous memory bank, an adequate library of crossindexed reference aspects; in fact, by an odd coincidence, the exact aspects which his team of leadies had for the last hour been gathering in these two rooms
He could go to Moscow. The big BB-7 would probably find him the reference card to which these seven aspects, this Gestalt, pertained. Or the 109-A3 at Estes Park. Or even Megavac 6-V at the Yance-man Agency in New York; he could utilize it, relatively small and specialized as it was, in that its memory file consisted solely of Yance-men past and present. Because, Foote intuited, the Gestalt depicted a Yance-man and not one out of all the millions of subsurface tankers; the existence of reference cards representing them was not required. So why not Megavac 6-V?
One very good reason presented itself to Webster Foote immediately. His client, Stanton Brose, would automatically, at his Festung in Geneva, be notified of the event, would be handed a duplicate first of the data fed to the computer and then the computer's response.
And it might serve the interests of all parties concerned that Brose have that information.
Therefore the big BB-7 in Moscow, which was the furthest removed from Brose's control.
As Foote and his two leadies, each of them again lugging a heavy case, got back into their flapple, he said to himself, I wonder whose card the computer will pop . . . and, theoretically anyhow, set the wheels of punitive justice turning. What individual, within the Yanceman class, was this Gestalt-macher programmed to indict? Carefully, as he set the ersatz television set on the seat beside him, again conscious of its inordinate weight—the quality which it could not conceal and hence that which had given it away . . . it could mimic any object of its general size but it could not decide to cease being affected by Earth's gravity.
He had, already, an idea of whose card would emerge. But it would be interesting to have his precog hunch verified.
Three hours later, after happily napping while his flapple made the trip by means of its automatic circuit, Webster Foote arrived in Moscow.
Below him lay the you-kicked-the-toy-basket-over-so-you-pick-it-all-up installations of Eisenbludt's film studios; interested, as he always was, to view this immense factory of the counterfeit, Foote peered down, noting that subsequent to his last trip here the studios had once more expanded: several new buildings of pasted-together rubble had sprung up, leady-built and probably already buzzing offkey with the industrious activity of cranking out fake destructs of cities . . . as he recalled, San Francisco came next on the Agency's agenda and this no doubt meant bridges, water, hills—a nice multisided entity to be erected by all the artisans concerned.
And there, where the original Kremlin had once stood—before the U.S. Queen Dido self-guiding missile of World War Three had abolished it down to the last particle of old red brick—lay Marshal Harenzany's villa, the second largest demesne on Earth.
Brose's demesne, in Geneva, of course was by far the larger. Yet still this vast park with its mighty and palacelike, look-on-my-works-ye-mighty-and-despair central buildings was impressive. And Harenzany's demesne did not have that black, befouled quality of Brose's, the sense of some evil thing hanging upside down with ragged, aged wings. Like his counterpart in Wes-Dem the marshal was underneath it all a soldier, not a pol-com ex mero motu sybarite. Just the ordinary stag-party extraordinary sybaritic type. A man who liked to live.
But also, like General Holt, he remained, despite his nominal control of an army of veteran leadies, under the yoke of Brose.
As his flapple landed, Foote asked himself the question, How really does an eighty-two-year-old semisenile but still cunning colossal abnormality, weighing god knows how many pounds, manage to keep his power? Is it the fact that at Geneva he maintains—owns and operates—an electronic contraption, a fail-safe gimcrack which, in a crisis, pre-empts Holt and Harenzany in their management of the totality of the world's leadies? Or is there something deeper and less crude?
It may be, he decided, what the Christian sect calls "apostolic succession." The process of reasoning would be this: before World War Three the military establishments of Pac-Peop and Wes-Dem held ultimate power; all the civilian governmental bodies were so many league-of-nations relics. And those twin, competing establishments ruled through a demigod, the fakes-factory of Gottlieb Fischer; they ruled through their cynical and professional manipulation of all media of information, including the sides of country barns, but it was not they, the military, who knew precisely how to manipulate these media; it was Fischer. And then the war came, the two establishments struck a deal. And by then Fischer was dead anyhow, but leaving one pupil. Stanton Brose.
But even below that there seemed something more. Charisma, perhaps? That magic aura that great leaders in history such as Gandhi, Caesar, Innocent III, Wallenstein, Luther, F.D.R. have had? Or maybe it's simply that Brose is Brose. He has ruled since the termination of the war; the demigod this time made it, usurped ultimate authority. And even before that he was powerful; he inherited—literally, in the courts—the studios and instrume
nts that had been Fischer's. The fakes-factory sine qua non.
Odd, Fischer's death, so sudden and tragic, out in deep space.
I wish, Foote wished, I had that time scoop gadget that Brose, by means of the advanced weapons archives, has access to. I'd send back a packet of tracers, detection meters to make aud and vid tracks . . . I'd have electronic tails pinned onto the posteriors of both B rose and Fischer in those days, from 1982 on; especially I'd have a monitor following Gottlieb Fischer up to the moment of his death, just to see what really happened there when that ship, landing on Venus, tried to fire its retrojets—fired them and exploded.
As he disemflappled, the vidset of the ship said pinnngggg. A call for him from the corporation's London GHQ; probably Cencio, who was in charge during his absence.
Stepping back into the flapple, Foote turned on the vidset. "Yes, my boy."
Cencio, face appearing in miniature, said, "I've got an animation of the sector from which that destruct beam emanated."
"What destruct beam?"
"That destroyed those two leadies of Yance-man David Lantano. You don't remember."
"Now I do. Go ahead. Who or what fired the destruct beam? A Yance-man, but which one of them?"
Cencio said, "Our shot, of course, is from directly above. So we can scarcely make out the figure. But—" He was silent.
"Go ahead, darn it," Foote said. "I'm just about to go into Marshal Harenzany's office and—"
"The man who fired the destruct beam," Cencio blurted, "according to the film our satellite took, is Talbot Yancy." He waited, Foote said nothing. "I mean," Cencio said, "it looks like Yancy."
"How much like him?"
"Exactly. We've enlarged it to life size. It's exactly what you, I mean they, see on their TV screens. No mistake,"
And I've got to go into Harenzany's office, Foote thought, with that piece of news in my mind. "All right, my boy," he said. "Thank you. And by the way; god bless you for very fine psychological timing in giving me that piece of news just now. When I need it most." He broke the vid connection, hesitated, then went on away from his parked flapple, leaving his two inert leadies aboard.
Yancy did it, he said to himself. Killed Arlene Davidson, then Bob Hig, then Verne Lindblom, and next he'll kill Joseph Adams and after that probably Brose himself and possibly, as a chaser, me as well.
A dummy, bolted to an oak desk, programmed by Megavac 6-V. Stood behind a boulder in the Cheyenne hot-spot and fired a destruct beam at two veteran leadies. To save the life of what was undoubtedly just another poor tanker who had bored his way to the surface for a breath of fresh air and a glimpse again, briefly, of the sun. An ex-tanker, now, squatting in the ruins of Cheyenne with the rest of them, living for, waiting for, god only knows what. And then this dummy, this simulacrum called Talbot Yancy, without anyone at the Agency noticing, returned to its oak desk, rebolted itself back in place, resumed its computer-programmed speech-delivering existence.
Resigned—accepting the insanity of it all—Webster Foote continued on to the down-ramp of the roof field, to Marshal Harenzany's office.
Half an hour later, with a large legal document granting permission to use the computer, supplied by one of Harenzany's clerks, he stood before the big Soviet computer BB-7, and, with the help of the friendly, correct Russian technicians, fed in the seven spurious data elements which his team of leadies had uncovered, the trail of cover clues laid down by the Gestalt-macher.
BB-7, looming ceiling-high before him, began to process, to sort through its human catalog. And presently, as Foote had anticipated, one single punched elongated card slithered from the slot and came to rest in the wire basket.
He picked up the card, read the name typed on it.
He precog hunch had been correct; he thanked the helpful Russian technicians, found an up-ramp, ascended to his parked flapple.
The card had read, BROSE STANTON.
Exactly as he had anticipated.
Had the machine, the Gestalt-macher, which now rested beside him in its cammed form of portable TV set, managed to get away—had Lindblom not possessed a death-rattle—the evidence would legally speaking be pure and absolute in the direction to which it pointed. It would appear beyond a reasonable doubt that Stanton Brose, the man who had hired Foote to look into this felony was the killer. But of course Brose was not; the object beside Foote proved it.
Unless he was wrong. Suppose this was not a Gestalt-macher. He would not know for certain—could not prove it—until he got the machine open, actually saw its works.
And meanwhile, as he and his shopmen struggled to open the machine, and what a good, hard, long struggle it would be, Brose would be on the vidphone relentlessly, demanding to know what the clues, picked up at Lindblom's villa, indicated. Whom did they point to?
I can see myself saying, "To thyself, Mr. Brose," Foote thought to himself archly. "Thou art the murderer and hence I abominate thee and I now put thee under arrest and will see that thou art arraigned before the Recon Dis-In Council."
Hilarious thought.
However, he felt no mirth. Neither by that nor by the recognition of the fight he had on his hands to get open the object beside him. There were plastics so tough, so beyond the power of ordinary drills and thermo fields . . .
And all the time in the back of his mind he was thinking, Is there a Talbot Yancy? And if so, how?
He did not understand it at all.
And yet his job demanded that he, of all people, make sense out of this. If he couldn't who could?
Meanwhile, Foote decided, I will tell Brose nothing. Or rather, as little as I can get away with.
His intuition, his Psionic hunch, remained; it was not to anyone's benefit—including his own—to tell Stanton Brose the facts at this point ascertained.
Because Brose—and this was what made him so personally uneasy— might know what they meant and might know what to do with them.
CHAPTER 22
To Nicholas the bearded ex-tanker Jack Blair said dolefully, "I guess we don't have a cot for you to sleep on, Nick. Not right away. So you'll have to bed down on the cement."
They stood in the dim basement of what had once been an insurance company's central offices. The insurance company had long ago vanished, along with its mighty concrete and steel structure; the basement, however, remained. And was much appreciated.
And all around, on every side, Nicholas saw other ex-tankers, now residents in a sense of the surface. But still so completely, palpably deprived; so devoid, in the most literal physical sense, of what was theirs.
"Not much of a way," Blair said, seeing his expression, "of inheriting the Earth. Maybe we haven't been meek enough."
"Maybe too meek," Nicholas said.
"You're beginning to feel that hate," Blair said acutely. "The desire to get back at them. It's a fine idea. But how? If you think of a way, tell us; all of us. Meanwhile—" He began searching around. "A more immediate issue is your need for bedding. Lantano gave us—"
"I'd like to see this Lantano," Nicholas said. "This one Yance-man that seems to have a decent gene or two." And through him, he thought, bargain for the artiforg.
Blair said, "You should get to, pretty soon. This is usually just about the time he drops by. You'll recognize him because he's so dark. From the radiation burns." He glanced up and then said quietly, "Here he is now."
The man who had entered the basement shelter had not come alone; behind him a file of leadies lurched under their loads, supplies for the ex-tankers squatting here in the ruins. And he was dark; his skin shone a reddish-black. But, Nicholas realized, not from radiation burns.
And, as Lantano made his way through the basement, among the cots, stepping over people, their meager stores, saying hello here, smiling to someone there, Nicholas thought, My god, when he came through the entrance he looked like an old man, weathered, dried-out, but now, closer, Lantano appeared middle-aged; the aura of extreme age had been an illusion due to the scrawny quality of the man an
d the peculiar stiffness in the way he walked; it was as if he were delicate, feared an injury, a fall.
Going up to him, Nicholas said, "Mr. Lantano."
The man with the retinue of leadies—who were now opening their bundles and spreading out the contents for distribution—stopped, glanced at Nicholas. "Yes?" he said, with a ragged, burdened and quite fleeting smile of greeting.
Blair plucked at Nicholas' sleeve. "Don't keep him long; remember he's sick. From the burns. He's got to make it back to his villa so he can lie down." To the dark man, Blair said, "Isn't that right, Mr. Lantano?"
Nodding, the dark man continued to gaze at Nicholas. "Yes, Mr. Blair. I am sick. Otherwise I would get here oftener." Lantano turned, then, to be sure his leadies were distributing their goods as rapidly and efficiently as possible; he turned his attention away from Nicholas.
"He was oppressed and despised," Nicholas said.
At once Lantano turned back, eyed him intently; his eyes, black, deep-set, burned as if overpowered, as if the surge of energy within him had gone beyond the safe limit—the blaze seemed to consume the actual organ of sight through which it found expression, and Nicholas felt awe. "Yes, my friend. What was it you asked me for? A bed to sleep on?"
"That's right," Blair chimed in eagerly. "We're out of cots, Mr. Lantano; we could use ten more, in fact, just to be on the safe side, because there's always somebody like this Nick St. James here every day, it seems like. More and more all the time."
"Perhaps," Lantano said, "the illusion is wearing thin. An error here and there. A weak video signal that interrupts . . . is that why you came up, Nick?"
"No," Nicholas said. "I want a pancreas. I have twenty thousand dollars." He reached into what remained—after the mauling by the leady—of his coat. But the wallet was gone. It had fallen then, when the leady had clawed him, or when it had hooked and dragged him, or during the hours of walking . . . any time. He had no idea. He stood, empty-handed, with no idea what to say or do; he simply stood facing Lantano in silence.