COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 288
"A firm like that—" Carmody said thoughtfully. "WE KILL PEOPLE. Why isn't it stopped?"
"I told you why. I've explained. But now—well, all I can do is find out how they kill people. I can't move economically against them; their weapon is murder, and it's absolutely sure-fire. They've built up a reputation in four years."
"Without proof?"
"Without legal proof. Listen. Kalman, the oil man, told me he'd been approached. Fifteen percent of his assets—they knew exactly how much that'd be, too—or he'd be killed. He told them to go to hell. He got legal aid and police protection. Fortnight later, polio killed him."
"Polio?"
"Yes. Seth Berger—septicemia. Miller—atypical pneumonia. Bronson—rheumatic fever; Jaeckle—cerebrospinal meningitis."
"Lately?"
"Of course not," Blake said, pouring himself a drink. "Most of those were three years ago, at least. Jaeckle died last year, but he had delusions of grandeur. He was guarded day and night. Thought he could escape. Result, meningitis."
"How?"
"Nobody knows. WE KILL PEOPLE didn't send out a man to stick a hypodermic needle into the guy, if that's what you mean. They have some absolutely sure method of committing murder so it looks like death from natural causes."
"Had Jaeckle been exposed to meningitis?"
"How can you answer a thing like that? Maybe, maybe not. And listen, Carmody—people get over meningitis, and pneumonia, and rheumatic fever. But not Jaeckle or Bronson or Miller. With WE KILL PEOPLE, the mortality rate is one hundred percent. Forget about precautions. They won't work. If WE KILL PEOPLE puts the bee on a man, he's dead! No, what I want to find out is how it works. What their trade secret is. Once I know that, I can move. Not necessarily legally, but effectively. I have a good organization, as you've found out."
"I've found out, all right," Carmody said, and Blake swallowed his drink hastily, spilling some of it down his chin. He dabbed ineffectually at his foulard.
"O.K., I've apologized! I told you I'd give you anything you wanted!"
"And you can do it. That's why I'm saying yes. But I need more information. Are you afraid to die?"
Blake sighed, put down his glass, and stared at nothing. "Sure. And I'm afraid of waste. I'm a white rat going crazy in a maze. My plans aren't finished by a long shot. I know my average life expectancy, and I've enough doctors in my pay to keep me healthy—unless I'm murdered. But I don't want to be poor. I'd rather be dead."
"What do WE KILL PEOPLE want? A hundred percent of your dough?"
"It was a frame-up," Blake said. "A very neat, logical frame. I told you how WE KILL PEOPLE works. They're ethical, in their way. But these twenty men—more or less, I don't know how many there are, and that's what's helping to drive me nuts!"
"What about them?"
"Enemies of mine. I've enemies, of course. I suppose they hate me, and I suppose they've got justification. I've probably ruined a lot of 'em in various ways. I don't apologize for that. I can't hunt up everybody who's suffered by my policies and apologize personally—or pay them off. There are too many. And I don't know who all of them are. I open a plastic factory, and an employee of copper somewhere in Burma gets fired, goes hungry, his family starve—he hates me. Do I know anything about it? No."
"So you've got a lot of enemies. What are they doing?"
"Ruining me," Blake said. "They aren't rich, I'm sure. I'm one of the wealthiest men in the world, and there aren't many in my class. No, these are middle-income figures. Call 'em A, B, C, and so on. A is worth practically nothing. No assets to speak of. B has a little more but not much. C has a little more than that. I've figured it out, Carmody, and it makes sense."
"Well?"
"These—enemies—got together and figured out an idea. A cumulative method of ruining me. A went in to WE KILL PEOPLE and offered 'em one percent of his assets if they'd kill me. Fine. WE KILL PEOPLE got in touch with me and told me about it. I paid—one percent of my total holdings. Leaving me ninety-nine percent."
"Oh-oh," Carmody said. "You mean—"
"Then B called on WE KILL PEOPLE and paid 'em two percent of his assets. He could afford that; he had a little more dough than A. WE KILL PEOPLE asked me for two percent of my assets at that date—that is, after one percent had been deducted from the total. I paid. A week later, I was called on to pay three percent. After that, four percent of what I had left. D'you see?"
"But ... uh ... huh. That means the percentage will keep going up as your assets go down."
Blake seized a stylus and figured rapidly on a pad. "I know this by heart. Let's say my total assets, originally, were represented by the arbitrary sum of one hundred dollars. Here's the breakdown, so far."
The figures looked like this:
1% of $100.00 $99.00
2% of 99.00 97.02
3% of 97.02 94.11
4% of 94.11 90.35
5% of 90.35 85.83
6% of 85.83 80.68
7% of 80.68 75.03
8% of 75.03 69.03
"Multiply that by billions and you've got it," Blake said. "A lot of my assets are tied up or frozen. I can't keep jerking out cash without upsetting the apple cart. Can you think of a better way to drive a guy nuts? I don't know how long this will keep up, you see. When I'll get a call for nine percent—and after that, ten and eleven and hell!"
"At the rate of pay you offer," Carmody said, "I'd be a fool if I didn't take the job. However! I'm just one man—"
"All the data we've gathered will be placed at your service. I've a staff of military and strategic experts, you know. And technicians. We've a few gadgets that'll help you. You'll be well equipped for offense and defense. But in the end it'll depend on you personally. I want to know how these—murders!—are committed. After that—"
-
"After that, you'll be notified," French said. "You understand that our investigations come first. Then we accept or reject your case. Finally, we'll give Dale a chance to meet your figure. If he does, of course—he lives."
Carmody took out his checkbook, but French lifted a restraining hand. "That's not necessary yet."
"All right. There's one more thing, though."
"What?"
"I'm looking for employment."
French seemed surprised. "A job?"
"A job. I was fired from a good one by some sort of wire-pulling. I've enough dough to settle down, and I could get another job easily. But ordinary work won't suit me. I want something interesting. Now that I know a little about your set-up, I'm intrigued. Plenty."
"Well," French said, "I don't know. It isn't often we get a client and an applicant for work at the same time."
"I'm an unusual guy. And my qualifications are good—I think. At least, for your line of business. My record will show that."
"You'll have to see Mr. Higgins," French said. "He's the president of the firm. Naturally, personal interviews are pretty important—and so are references."
"You'll save money," Carmody suggested. "You'll be investigating me anyway in connection with Dale, so—"
"Mr. Higgins handles all that," French repeated. "He sees all applicants. It has nothing to do with me, you know. The board of directors is in charge of organizational work; WE KILL PEOPLE is a group of separate units—financial, investigatory, operative, and so on—each one fairly independent. But if you want to see Mr. Higgins, I'll arrange an appointment."
"Will you do that?"
"Of course. You understand, some precautions must be taken—eh?"
"I can see that."
"Very well," French said, smiling for the first time. "You'll be notified, then. Any questions? Well, if not—thank you for giving us your custom, and good afternoon, Mr. Carmody."
He politely stayed on the screen till Carmody went out of the office.
-
Carmody didn't report to Reuben Blake. It wouldn't have been safe. The strategic campaign had been settled a week ago, and the supply line was open whenever Carmody needed material. From now on, the spies of WE KILL PEOPLE might be watching him any time, so his life must be above suspicion. Blake could hold out for a while; the important move now was to gain entrance to the sanctorum of the homicide corporation. Certain of the gadgets Carmody had available would be useful; there was a microscopic wireless microphone-scanner to be planted in the right place, and there were other interesting devices. Meanwhile, he put the whole matter out of his mind and began living the life of a repatriate from South America—which mostly involved entertainment.
After two days French called him on his hotel telaudio. It was a playback, for Carmody had been out when French put through the call, so it was a monologue rather than a conversation, though, as usual, the automatic questioner, originally dictated by Carmody, had been left audible for convenience.
"Mr. Carmody, please."
"He'll be back at noon. Automatic speaking. Who is calling?"
"Samuel French."
"Any message?"
"Yes. The request for an interview has been granted. At two p.m. a blue-and-white copter will sit at Empire Roofport. That's the one."
"Thank you. Good-by."
-
Empire Roofport towered above all the other buildings in the city. It was enormous; it had to be, to accommodate the downblasts of the copters. Slightly before two, a cold, drizzling rain was falling, and Carmody stepped out of the automatic elevator to find the roof field deserted, except for an overcoated figure hunched uncomfortably under the transparent awning, staring over the guard rail at the street, a good half-mile down. No copters were visible. The man at the rail turned a familiar face.
"Lousy weather," he said, and then, "Oh! It's you, eh?"
"It's me. What are you doing here?"
Edward Dale looked uncomfortable. "Waiting for my copter. That chauffeur'll tell me the storm held him up over Long Island."
Carmody wondered if it would be a blue-and-white copter. Dale, of all people! It was impossible. Dale couldn't be president of WE KILL PEOPLE!
"How are you doing?" Dale asked, after a time.
"O.K. I still don't know exactly why you're here."
"I work here," Dale said, pointing down, and Carmody remembered one of the Brazil-U.S.-Combine's offices was at Empire.
"You didn't ... ah ... expect to meet me?"
Dale frankly stared. "Why, no, Carmody. Why should I? Did ... you expect to see me?"
"No," Carmody said, and Dale, after a puzzled moment, turned to glance over the rail.
"I told him two, distinctly. Well, I'm going to wait five more minutes and then get a cab."
Carmody watched Dale, while a puzzled frown grew between his eyes. The drizzle grew to a downpour. Finally Dale hunched his shoulders, scowled, and turned back to the elevators. "I won't wait," he said. "I'll put in a call for an air cab at the booth. See you, Carmody."
"Yeah," Carmody said, still scowling. He glanced at his watch, 2:08.
At 2:11 a blue-and-white copter dropped from the low ceiling, and its door opened. Carmody ran through the rain and sprang aboard, pulling the door shut behind him. Instantly sight and sound of the outer world were cut off.
"Rotten weather," a hoarse voice said. "Let's get to a warmer place, what do you say?"
"You're Mr. Higgins?"
The fattish man at the controls spun his chair to face Carmody. "That's right. Come up here and sit beside me, will you?" He indicated a seat at his right. "Wait'll I lift this windmill. Then we can talk."
Seated, Carmody surreptitiously examined Higgins. He couldn't make out much; the man was bundled up in overcoat and scarf, and his shapeless hands, moving deftly over the controls, were cased in heavy thermal gloves. He wore no hat, though, and his bald head gleamed in the light. He had a round, undistinguished face, a button of a nose, and a mouth that was far too small between those bulging cheeks.
"There," Higgins said, settling back at last. "She's automatic now."
"Our destination's a secret?" Carmody asked, nodding toward the opaqued windows.
"What? Oh, maybe, maybe. Anyway, there's nothing much to look at in this weather, and the rain's not very cheerful. Now, Mr. Carmody, to business!"
Carmody decided that the plane was beginning to travel fast. Already he could feel violent acceleration, though, in the padded seat, it wasn't uncomfortable.
"I didn't expect a personal interview," he said.
"I interview all applicants for positions," Higgins smiled. "However, before we get on to that—there's another matter. This man Dale. It's O.K. We've checked. We'll accept your retainer to kill him. You understand that if he matches your percentage, your money will be refunded, and—no hard feelings?"
"I understand."
"Good. All right, the job. What did you have in mind?"
"I don't know what's available. Not office work, though. I want something that'll keep me interested."
"Uh-huh," Higgins said. He touched a stud. "Too cold here. Take your coat off if you want." He awkwardly struggled out of his own overcoat, pulled the scarf from around his fat neck, and removed his gloves. In a few minutes the copter's cabin was comfortably warm.
"Well," Higgins said, "we've got several branches. There's plenty of paper work. Then we've got our investigatory corps, and our operative group. But the latter is rather specialized."
"I can see how it would be. And I wouldn't expect to get in on that right away—or without thorough investigation. For all you know, I might be in the pay of an insurance company."
"Those insurance companies," Higgins sighed, clicking his tongue. "We have trouble with them. But WE KILL PEOPLE is safe as houses, Mr. Carmody. We protect our staff. You might qualify for investigation, but never for operation."
The acceleration increased. It was slightly incredible, Carmody decided.
"No?"
"I'm afraid not," Higgins said. "In the very nature of things—well, if you want to work for us, I suppose there's no harm in telling you a little. But you understand you mustn't ever repeat this to a living soul."
Carmody turned his head to stare, but apparently the president was quite serious.
-
"Oh, we take precautions," Higgins said. "Our secret hasn't leaked out yet, has it? I don't know what would happen if it did, because our method can't be duplicated artificially. It's ... well, it's natural. All our victims die of natural causes."
"Oh?" Carmody said, beginning to frown again.
"Now this isn't to be repeated," Higgins said chattily, "but I suppose you know that everybody's got bugs in him—germs, viruses, and so on? Even the healthiest man contains the seeds of death. Strep, typhoid, tuberculosis, cancer—all sorts of bugs. But usually in such small quantity that the phagocytes can handle 'em. It's only when the bugs multiply that you run into trouble, and have a prognosis of active polio—or whatever. Well, we just multiply the bugs."
"If you're telling me the truth—" Carmody said.
"It's in confidence. We've got a method of multiplying the bugs, that's all. Ever heard of symbiosis? Give-and-take relationship of two organisms? That's the answer. A virus, let's call it x-virus, that sets up a symbiotic housekeeping business—selectivity. Introduced into the human blood stream, it picks out the strongest bug and proposes. It's a smart little virus. If the polio bug is strongest in your system at the time, it goes into symbiosis with polio. It's stimulative. And very adaptable. Result: the polio bug multiplies fast, plenty fast—though not so fast it seems abnormal. Atypical, maybe, but not abnormal. If the polio's cured, the x-virus is still present in the blood stream, and it looks around for the next-strongest bug. Meningitis, or t.b. Anything available, so long as it's malignant. The human organism can't stand one attack after another—polio, meningitis, t.b., cancer—right down the list. Death is certain. I'm not much good at explaining all this, I'm afraid. I'm an organizer, not a technician. But perhaps you see the angles?"
"I see 'em," Carmody said. "It's death from natural causes, all right."
Higgins nodded and chuckled. "Sure. The only trouble is how to administer the x-virus to a victim. That's where our operatives come in. They're pretty specialized. In fact, you have to be born to the job."
"They sound like radio-controlled anopheles," Carmody said.
"No, they're men—but they're mutants. We had to put 'em on the Board of Directors, for one reason or another. They're the ones who started WE KILL PEOPLE. They're a true mutation. Not many of them, so far, but there'll be more. Unfortunately they can't intermarry with humans, only among themselves. So—" He spread his pudgy hands.
