COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 70
Gallegher, I'm going to ask you some questions and I want straight answers. Don't forget you're under suspicion of murder."
"Whom did I murder?" Gallegher asked. "The two guys who vanished from the morgue? There's no corpus delicti. Under the new Codex, eyewitnesses and photographs aren't enough to prove murder."
"You know why that was put into effect," Mahoney said. "Three-dimensional broadcast images that people thought were real corpses—there was a stink about that five years ago. But those stiffs in your backyard aren't three-dis. They're real."
"Are?"
"Two were. One is. You're still on the spot. Well?"
Gallegher said, "I don't—" He stopped, his throat working. Abruptly, he stood up, eyes closed.
"Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine" Gallegher sang, in a blasting tenor that, though untrained, rang true and resonant. "Or leave a kiss within the cup—"
"Hey!" Mahoney snapped, springing up. "Lay off. Hear me?"
"—and I'll not ask for wine! The thirst that from the soul doth rise—"
"Stop it!" the detective shouted. "We're not here to listen to you sing!"
Nevertheless, he listened. So did the others. Gallegher, caught in the grip of Señor Firez's wild talent, sang on and on, his unaccustomed throat gradually relaxing and pouring out the notes like the beak of a nightingale. Gallegher—sang!
They couldn't stop him. They fled, with threats. They would return later—with a straitjacket.
Grandpa also seemed caught in the throes of some strange affliction. Words poured out of him, strange semantic terms, mathematics translated into word-symbols, ranging from Euclid to Einstein and beyond. Grandpa, it seemed, had certainly acquired Gallegher's wild talent for math.
It came to an end, as all things, good or bad, inevitably do. Gallegher croaked hoarsely from a dry throat and, after a few feeble gasps, relapsed into silence. He collapsed on the couch, eyeing Grandpa, who was crumpled in a chair, wide-eyed. The three Lybblas had come out of hiding and stood in a row, each with a cookie clasped in furry paws.
"The world is mine," the fattest one said.
Events marched. Mahoney 'vised to say he was getting out a special injunction, and that Gallegher would be clapped into jail as soon as the machinery could be swung into action. Tomorrow, that meant.
Gallegher 'vised an attorney—the best one on the Eastern seaboard. Yes, Persson could quash the injunction, and certainly win the case, or—well, anyhow, Gallegher would have nothing to worry about if he retained the lawyer. The fee was payable partially in advance.
"How much?... Uh!n
"Call me," Persson said, "when you wish me to take charge. You may mail your check tonight."
"All right," Gallegher said, and hurriedly 'vised Rufus Hellwig. The tycoon, luckily, was in.
Gallegher explained. Hellwig was incredulous. He agreed, however, to be at the laboratory early the next morning for a test. He couldn't make it before then. Nor could he advance any money till matters had been proved beyond a doubt.
"Make me an excellent concert pianist," he said, "and I'll be convinced."
After that, Gallegher 'vised the teleview studio again, and managed to get in touch with Joey Mackenzie, the blonde, beautiful pianist who had taken New York by storm recently and had instantly been signed by the telecompany. She said she'd be over in the morning. Gallegher had to talk her into it, but he dropped enough hints to rouse the girl's interest to fever pitch. She seemed to class science with black magic, and was fascinated by both.
She'd be there.
And another body appeared in the backyard, which meant probability-line d was taking over. No doubt the third corpse, at the same time, had vanished from the morgue. Gallegher almost felt sorry for Mahoney.
The wild talents settled down. Apparently the irresistible outburst came only at the beginning, some three hours or more after the initial treatment. After that, the ability could be turned on or off at will.
Gallegher was no longer impelled to burst into song, but he found he could sing, and sing well, when he wished. Likewise Grandpa had a fine sense of mathematics when he chose to use it.
Finally, at five o'clock in the morning, Mahoney arrived with two officers, arrested Gallegher, and carried him off to jail.
He was incommunicado for three days.
-
Persson, the attorney, came on the evening of the third day armed with writs of habeas corpus and foul language. He sprang Gallegher, somehow—perhaps on his reputation. Later, in the air taxi, he threw up his hands and howled complaints.
"What kind of a case is this? Political pressure, legal tangles—it's crazy! Corpses appearing in your backyard—seven of them already—and vanishing from the morgue. What's behind it, Gallegher?"
"I'm not sure. You... uh...you're acting as my attorney?"
"Obviously." The taxi skimmed precariously past a skyscraper.
"The check—" Gallegher hazarded.
"Your grandfather gave it to me. Oh, he gave me a message, too. He said he'd treated Rufus Hellwig along the lines you'd suggested, and collected the fee. I can't feel that I've earned any part of my retainer, yet, though. Letting you stay in jail for three days! But I was up against powerful political pull. Had to pull plenty of wires myself."
So that was it. Grandpa, of course, had acquired Gallegher's mathematical talent, and knew all about the mental hookup and how it worked. He'd treated Hellwig—successfully, it seemed. At least, they were in the chips now. But would that be enough?
Gallegher explained as much as he dared. Persson shook his head.
"The time machine's behind it, you say? Well, you've got to turn it off somehow. Stop those corpses from coming through."
"I can't even smash it," Gallegher confessed. "I tried, but it's in a state of stasis. Completely out of this temporal-spatial sector. I don't know how long that'll last. It's set to bring back my own corpse—and it'll keep doing that."
"So. All right. I'll do my best. Anyway, you're a free man now. But I can't guarantee anything unless you eliminate those incessant corpses of yours, Mr. Gallegher. I get out here. See you tomorrow. At my office, at noon? Good."
Gallegher shook hands and directed the cabman to his own place. An unpleasant surprise awaited him. It was Cantrell who opened the door.
The man's narrow, pale face twitched into a smile. "Evening," he said pleasantly, stepping back. "Come in, Gallegher."
"I am in. What are you doing here?"
"Visiting. Visiting your grandfather."
Gallegher glanced around the laboratory. "Where is he?"
"I dunno. See for yourself."
Sensing danger of some kind, the scientist began to search. He found Grandpa eating pretzels in the kitchen, and feeding the Lybblas. The old man evaded his gaze.
"Okay," Gallegher said, "let's have it."
"T'wasn't my fault. Cantrell said he'd turn over the heat ray to the police if I didn't do what he wanted. I knew that'd be your finish—"
"What's been happening?"
"Now take it easy. I got it all worked out. It can't do any harm—"
"What? What?"
"Cantrell's been making me use the machine on him," Grandpa confessed. "He peeked through the window when I treated Hellwig and figured out the answer. He threatened to get you convicted unless I gave him some extra talents."
"Whose?"
"Oh—Gulliver, Morleyson, Kottman. Denys, St Malory—"
"That's enough," Gallegher said weakly. "The greatest technicians of the age, that's all! And their knowledge in Cantrell's brain! How did he wangle 'em into it?"
"Fast talking. He didn't let on what he wanted. Made up some cock-and-bull story. He got your mathematical talent, too. Through me."
"That's just fine," Gallegher said, looking grim. "What the devil is he up to?"
"He wants to conquer the world," the fattest Lybbla said sadly. "Oh, don't let him do it. We want to conquer the world."
"Not quite that," Grandpa said, "but bad enough. He's got the same knowledge we have now—enough to build another mental hookup. And he's taking the stratoliner to Europe in an hour."
"This means trouble," Gallegher said.
"Yeah, I know. I'm commencing to feel Cantrell's just a mite unscrupulous. He's the one responsible for your being kept in jail the last few days."
Cantrell opened the door and looked in. "There's a new corpse in the garden. It just appeared. We won't bother about it now, though. I'll be leaving shortly. Any word from Van Decker?"
"Van Decker!" Gallegher gulped. "You haven't got him—"
The man with the world's highest I.Q.!
"Not yet," Cantrell smiled. "I tried to get in touch with him for days, and he 'vised me only this morning. I was afraid I'd miss him. But he said he'd be over tonight." Cantrell glanced at his watch. "Hope he's on time. Stratoliners won't wait."
"Just a minute," Gallegher said, moving forward. "I'd like to know your plans, Cantrell."
"He's going to conquer the world!" one of the Lybblas piped.
Cantrell sent an amused look downward. "It's not too fantastic, at that," he admitted. "I'm completely amoral, luckily, so I can take full advantage of this opportunity. The talents of the world's greatest minds—they'll come in handy. I'll be a success in almost anything. I mean anything," he added, winking.
"Dictator complex," Grandpa scowled.
"Not yet," Cantrell told him. "Some day, maybe. Give me time. I'm pretty much of a superman already, you know."
Gallegher said, "You can't—"
"No? Don't forget I've got that heat ray of yours."
"Yeah," the scientist said, "and those corpses in the backyard—my own corpses—were all killed with a heat ray. You're the only guy who had one, so far. Apparently you're ticketed to kill me, eventually."
"Eventually's better than now, isn't it?" Cantrell asked softly.
Gallegher didn't answer. The other man went on.
"I've skimmed the cream from the best minds on the East coast, and now I'll do the same thing to Europe. Anything can happen."
One of the Lybblas began to cry bitterly, seeing his plan of world conquest shattered.
The doorbell sang. Grandpa, at Cantrell's nod, went out, to return with a squat, beak-nosed man wearing a bushy red beard. "Ha!" he bellowed. "I am here! Not late I trust? Good."
"Dr. Van Decker?"
"Who else?" the redbeard shouted. "Now hurry, hurry, hurry. I am a busy man. This experiment of yours, as you explained it on the 'visor, it will not work, but I am willing to try. Projecting one's astral is foolishness."
Grandpa nudged Gallegher. "Cantrell told him that was the idea," he muttered.
"Yeah? Listen, we can't—"
"Take it easy," Grandpa said, and one eye closed in a significant wink. "I got your talents now, son. I thought of the answer. See if you can. I used your math. Sh-h-h!" There was no time for more. Cantrell shepherded them all into the laboratory. Gallegher, scowling and biting his lip, pondered the problem. He couldn't let Cantrell get away with this. But, on the other hand, Grandpa had said it was all right—that everything was under control.
The Lybblas, of course, had disappeared, probably in search of cookies. Cantrell, eyeing his watch, urged Van Decker into a chair. He kept one hand significantly on his pocket, and from time to time looked towards Gallegher. The ray gun was still around; its outline was visible beneath the flexocloth of Cantrell's coat.
"Show you how easy I can do it," Grandpa cackled, tottering on spindly legs towards the mental hookup device and throwing switches.
"Careful, Grandpa," Cantrell warned, his voice tight.
Van Decker stared. "Something is wrong?"
"No, no," Grandpa said. "Mr. Cantrell is afraid I will make a mistake. But no. This helmet—"
He fitted it on Van Decker's head. A stylus scratched wavering lines on graphs. Deftly Grandpa sheafed them together, fell over his own feet and collapsed, the cards flying far and wide. Before Cantrell could move the old man was up again, muttering oaths as he collected the charts.
He laid them on a table. Gallegher moved forward, peering over Cantrell's shoulder. Whew! This was the real thing, all right. Van Decker's I.Q. was tremendous. His wild talents were—well, wildly remarkable.
Cantrell—who also knew the details of the mental hookup now, since he had absorbed Gallegher's mathematical ability via Grandpa—nodded with satisfaction. He fitted a helmet on his own head and moved towards the device. With a cursory glance at Van Decker to see that all was well, he threw the switches. Lights blazed; the humming rose to a scream. And died.
Cantrell removed the helmet. As he reached into his pocket, Grandpa lifted a casual hand and showed a small, gleaming pistol.
"Don't do it," Grandpa said.
Cantrell's eyes narrowed. "Drop that gun."
"Nope. I figured you'd want to kill us and smash the machine, so you'd stay unique. It won't work. This gun's got a hair trigger. You can burn a hole in me, Cantrell, but you'll be dead while you're doing it."
Cantrell considered. "Well?"
"Get out. I don't want to be burned down, any more than you want a bullet in your stomach. Live and let live. Beat it."
Cantrell laughed softly. "Fair enough, Grandpa. You've earned it. Don't forget, I still know how to build the machine. And—I've skimmed the cream. You can do the same thing, but not any better than I can."
"So it's even," Grandpa said.
"Yes, it's even. We'll meet again. Don't forget what killed those corpses in your yard, Gallegher," Cantrell said, and backed out of the door, smiling tightly.
Gallegher came to life with a jump. "We've got to 'vise the police!" he snapped. "Cantrell's too dangerous now to let loose."
"Take it easy," Grandpa cautioned, waving the gun. "I told you it was all fixed up. You don't want to be convicted for murder, do you? If Cantrell's arrested—and we couldn't make a charge stick, anyway—the police would find the heat-ray projector. This way's better."
"What way?" Gallegher demanded.
"Okay, Mickey," Grandpa said, grinning at Dr. Simon Van Decker, who took off his red beard and wig and started to laugh triumphantly.
Gallegher's jaw dropped. "A ringer!" he gulped.
"Sure. I 'vised Mickey privately a few days ago. Told him what I wanted. He dressed up, 'vised Cantrell, and pretended to be Van Decker. Made an appointment for tonight."
"But the charts. They showed a genius I.Q.—"
"I switched charts when I dropped 'em on the floor," Grandpa confessed. "I'd made up some fakes in advance."
Gallegher scowled. "That doesn't alter the situation, though. Cantrell's still loose, and with too damn much knowledge."
"Hold your horses, young fellow," Grandpa said. "Wait'll I explain."
He explained.
About three hours later the telecast news came through: a man named Roland Cantrell had fallen to his death from the Atlantic stratoliner.
Gallegher, however, knew the exact moment of Cantrell's death. For the corpse in the backyard had vanished at that time.
Because with the heat-ray projector destroyed, Gallegher's future no longer could involve his death through a heat beam. Unless he made another, which he would take care not to do.
The time machine came out of its stasis and returned to normal. Gallegher guessed why. It had been set to fulfill a definite pattern—involving the death of Gallegher according to a certain set of variables. Within the limits of those variables, it was frozen. It could not stop operating till it had exhausted all the possibilities. As long as any of Gallegher's probable futures held heat-ray death, corpses would appear.
Now the future was altered drastically. No longer did it involve a, b, c, et cetera. The heat ray—the prime factor of the parameter—was destroyed in the present. So Gallegher's probable futures now involved a-i, b-i, c-i, et cetera.
And the machine wasn't set for such radical variations. It had fulfilled the task for which it had been set. Now it awaited new orders.
But Gallegher studied it thoroughly before using it again.
He had plenty of time. Without a single corpus delicti, Persson had no difficulty in getting the case quashed, though the unfortunate Mahoney nearly went mad trying to figure out what had happened. As for the Lybblas—
Gallegher absently passed around the cookies, wondering how he could get rid of the small, stupid creatures without hurting their feelings. "You don't want to stay here all your lives, do you?" he inquired.
