Collected Fiction, page 636
“Well, you didn’t see him go out, but he did,” Gallegher said.
Mackenzie, quite unruffled, went on checking points on his bony fingers.
“This morning I checked your record, Mr. Gallegher, and it is not a good one. Unstable, to say the least. You have been mixed up in some shady deals, and you have been accused of crimes in the past. Nothing was ever proved, but you’re a sly one, I suspect. The police would agree.”
“They can’t prove a thing. Harding’s probably home in bed.”
“He is not. Fifty thousand credits is a lot of money. My partner’s insurance amounts to much more than that. The business will be tied up sadly if Jonas remains vanished, and there will be litigation. Litigation costs money.”
“I didn’t kill your partner!” Gallegher cried.
“Ah,” Mackenzie mused. “Still, if I can prove that you did, it will come to the same thing, and be reasonably profitable for me. You see your position, Mr. Gallegher. Why not admit it, tell me what you did with the body, and escape with five thousand credits.”
“You said ten thousand a while ago.”
“You’re daft,” Mackenzie said firmly. “I said nothing of the sort. At least, you canna prove that I did.”
Gallegher said: “Well, suppose we have a drink and talk it over.” A new idea had struck him.
“An excellent suggestion.”
Gallegher found two glasses and manipulated the liquor-organ. He offered one drink to Mackenzie, but the man shook his head and reached for the other glass. “Poison, perhaps,” he said cryptically. “You have an untrustworthy face.”
Gallegher ignored that. He was hoping that with two drinks available, the mysterious little brown animal would show its limitations. He tried to gulp the whisky fast, but only a tantalizing drop burned on his tongue. The glass was empty. He lowered it and stared at Mackenzie.
“A cheap trick,” Mackenzie said, putting his own glass down on the workbench. “I did not ask for your whisky, you know. How did you make it disappear like that?”
Furious with disappointment, Gallegher snarled: “I’m a wizard. I’ve sold my soul to the devil. For two cents I’d make you disappear, too.”
Mackenzie shrugged. “I am not worried. If you could, you’d have done it before this. As for wizardry, I am far from skeptical, after seeing that monster squatting over there.” He indicated the third dynamo that wasn’t a dynamo.
“What? You mean you see it, too?”
“I see more than you think, Mr. Gallegher,” Mackenzie said darkly. “In fact, I am going to the police now.”
“Wait a minute. You can’t gain anything by that—”
“I can gain nothing by talking to you. Since you remain obdurate, I will try the police. If they can prove that Jonas is dead, I will at least collect his insurance.”
Gallegher said: “Now wait a minute. Your partner did come here. He wanted me to solve a problem for him.”
“Ah. And you solved it?”
“N-no. At least—”
“Then I can get no profit from you,” Mackenzie said firmly, and turned to the door. “You will hear from me vurra soon.”
He departed. Gallegher sank down miserably on the couch and brooded. Presently he lifted his eyes to stare at the third dynamo.
It was not, then, a hallucination, as he had first suspected. Nor was it a dynamo. It was a squat, shapeless object like a truncated pyramid that had begun to melt down, and two large blue eyes were watching him. Eyes, or agates, or painted metal. He couldn’t be sure. It was about three feet high and three feet in diameter at the base.
“Joe,” Gallegher said, “why didn’t you tell me about that thing?”
“I thought you saw it,” Joe explained.
“I did, but—what is it?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Where could it have come from?”
“Your subconscious alone knows what you were up to last night,” Joe said. “Perhaps Grandpa and Jonas Harding know, but they’re not around, apparently.”
Gallegher went to the teleview and put in a call to Maine. “Grandpa may have gone back home. It isn’t likely he’d have taken Harding with him, but we can’t miss any bets. I’ll check on that. One thing, my eyes have stopped watering. What was that gadget I made last night?” He passed to the workbench and studied the cryptic assemblage. “I wonder why I put a shoehorn in that circuit?”
“If you’d keep a supply of materials available here, Gallegher Plus wouldn’t have to depend on makeshifts,” Joe said severely.
“Uh. I could get drunk and let my subconscious take over again . . . no, I can’t. Joe, I can’t drink anymore! I’m bound hand and foot to the water wagon!”
“I wonder if Dalton had the right idea after all?”
Gallegher snarled: “Do you have to extrude your eyes that way? I need help!”
“You won’t get it from me,” Joe said. “The problem’s extremely simple, if you’d put your mind to it.”
“Simple, is it? Then suppose you tell me the answer!”
“I want to be sure of a certain philosophical concept first.”
“Take all the time you want. When I’m rotting in jail, you can spend your leisure hours pondering abstracts. Get me a beer! No, never mind. I couldn’t drink it anyway. What does this little brown animal look like?”
“Oh, use your head,” Joe said.
Gallegher growled; “I could use it for an anchor, the way it feels. You know all the answers. Why not tell me instead of babbling?”
“Men can know the nature of things,” Joe said. “Today is the logical development of yesterday. Obviously you’ve solved the problem Adrenals, Incorporated, gave you.”
“What? Oh. I see. Harding wanted a new animal or something.”
“Well?”
“I’ve got two of ’em,” Gallegher said. “That little brown invisible dipsomaniac and that blue-eyed critter sitting on the floor. Oh-ho! Where did I pick them up? Another dimension?”
“How should I know? You’ve got ’em.”
“I’ll say I have,” Gallegher agreed. “Maybe I made a machine that scooped them off another world—and maybe Grandpa and Harding are on that world now! A sort of exchange of prisoners. I don’t know. Harding wanted non-dangerous beasts elusive enough to give hunters a thrill—but where’s the element of danger?” He gulped. “Conceivably the pure alienage of the critters provides that illusion. Anyway, I’m shivering.”
“Flooding of the blood stream with adrenalin gives tone to the whole system,” Joe said smugly.
“So I captured or got hold of those beasts somehow, apparently, to solve Harding’s problem . . . mmm.” Gallegher went to stand in front of the shapeless blue-eyed creature. “Hey, you,” he said.
There was no response. The mild blue eyes continued to regard nothing. Gallegher poked a finger tentatively at one of them.
Nothing at all happened. The eye was immovable and hard as glass. Gallegher tried the thing’s bluish, sleek skin. It felt like metal. Repressing his mild panic, he tried to lift the beast from the floor, but failed completely. It was either enormously heavy or it had sucking-disks on its bottom.
“Eyes,” Gallegher said. “No other sensory organs, apparently. That isn’t what Harding wanted.”
“I think it clever of the turtle,” Joe suggested.
“Turtle? Oh. Like the armadillo. That’s right. It’s a problem, isn’t it? How can you kill or capture a . . . a beast like this? Its exoderm feels plenty hard, it’s immovable—that’s it, Joe. Quarry doesn’t have to depend on flight or fight. The turtle doesn’t. And a barracudo could go nuts trying to eat a turtle. This would be perfect quarry for the lazy intellectual who wants a thrill. But what about adrenalin?”
Joe said nothing. Gallegher pondered, and presently seized upon some reagents and apparatus. He tried a diamond drill. He tried acids. He tried every way he could think of to rouse the blue-eyed beast. After an hour his furious curses were interrupted by a remark from the robot.
“Well, what about adrenalin?” Joe inquired ironically.
“Shut up!” Gallegher yelped. “That thing just sits there looking at me! Adren . . . what?”
“Anger as well as fear stimulates the suprarenals, you know. I suppose any human would become infuriated by continued passive resistance.”
“That’s right,” said the sweating Gallegher, giving the creature a final kick. He turned to the couch. “Increase the nuisance quotient enough and you can substitute anger for fear. But what about that little brown animal? I’m not mad at it.”
“Have a drink,” Joe suggested.
“All right, I am mad at the kleptomaniacal so-and-so!
You said it moved so fast I can’t see it. How can I catch it?”
“There are undoubtedly methods.”
“It’s as elusive as the other critter is invulnerable. Could I immobilize it by gelling it drunk?”
“Metabolism.”
“Burns up its fuel too fast to get drunk? Probably. But it must need a lot of food.”
“Have you looked in the kitchen lately?” Joe asked.
Visions of a depleted larder filling his mind, Gallegher rose. He paused beside the blue-eyed object.
“This one hasn’t got any metabolism to speak of. But it has to eat, I suppose. Still, eat what? Air?
It’s possible.”
The doorbell sang. Gallegher moaned, “What now?” and admitted the guest. A man with a ruddy face and a belligerent expression came in, told Gallegher he was under tentative arrest, and called in the rest of his crew, who immediately began searching the house.
“Mackenzie sent you, I suppose?” Gallegher said.
“That’s right. My name’s Johnson. Department of Violence, Unproved. Do you want to call counsel?”
“Yes,” said Gallegher, jumping at the opportunity. He used the visor to get an attorney he knew, and began outlining his troubles. But the lawyer interrupted him.
“Sorry. I’m not taking any jobs on spec. You know my rates.”
“Who said anything about spec?”
“Your last check bounced yesterday. It’s cash on the line this time, or no deal.”
“I . . . Now wait! I’ve just finished a commissioned job that’s paying off big. I can have the money for you—”
“When I see the color of your credits, I’ll be your lawyer,” the unsympathetic voice said, and the screen blanked. The detective, Johnson, tapped Gallegher on the shoulder.
“So you’re overdrawn at the bank, eh? Needed money?”
“That’s no secret. Besides, I’m not broke now, exactly. I finished a—”
“A job. Yeah, I heard that, too. So you’re suddenly rich. How much did this job pay you? It wouldn’t be fifty thousand credits, would it?”
Gallegher drew a deep breath. “I’m not saying a word,” he said, and retreated to the couch, trying to ignore the Department men who were searching the lab. He needed a lawyer. He needed one bad. But he couldn’t get one without money. Suppose he saw Mackenzie—
The visor put him in touch with the man. Mackenzie seemed cheerful.
“Hello,” he said, “see, the police have arrived.”
Gallegher said, “Listen, that job your partner gave me—I’ve solved your problem. I’ve got what you want.”
“Jonas’s body, you mean?” Mackenzie seemed pleased.
“No! The animals you wanted! The perfect quarry!”
“Oh. Well. Why didn’t you say so sooner?”
“Get over here and call off the police!” Gallegher insisted. “I tell you, I’ve got your ideal Hunt animals for you!”
“I dinna ken if I can call off the bloodhounds,” Mackenzie said, “but I’ll be over directly. I will not pay vurra much, you understand?”
“Bah!” Gallegher snarled, and broke the connection. The visor buzzed at him. He touched the receiver, and a woman’s face came in.
She said: “Mr. Gallegher, with reference to your call of inquiry regarding your grandfather, we report that investigation shows that he has not returned to our Maine sector. That is all.”
She vanished. Johnson said: “What’s this? Your grandfather? Where’s he at?”
“I ate him,” Gallegher said, twitching. “Why don’t you leave me alone?”
Johnson made a note. “Your grandfather. I’ll just check up a bit. Incidentally, what’s that thing over there?” He pointed to the blue-eyed beast.
“I’ve been studying a curious case of degenerative osteomyelitis affecting a baroque cephalopod!”
“Oh, I see. Thanks. Fred, see about this guy’s grandfather. What are you gaping at?”
Fred said: “That screen. It’s set up for projection.”
Johnson moved to the audio-sonic recorder. “Better impound it. Probably not important, but—” He touched a switch. The screen turned blank, but Gallegher’s voice said: ”We know how to deal with spies in this house, you dirty traitor.”
Johnson moved the switch again. He glanced at Gallegher, his ruddy face impassive, and in silence began to rewind the wire tape. Gallegher said: “Joe, get me a dull knife. I want to cut my throat, and I don’t want to make it too easy for myself. I’m getting used to doing things the hard way.”
But Joe, pondering philosophy, refused to answer.
Johnson began to run off the recording. He took out a picture and compared it with what showed on the screen.
“That’s Harding, all right,” he said. “Thanks for keeping this for us, Mr. Gallegher.”
“Don’t mention it,” Gallegher said. “I’ll even show the hangman how to tie the knot around my neck.”
“Ha-ha. Taking notes, Fred? Right.”
The reel unrolled relentlessly. But, Gallegher tried to make himself believe, there was nothing really incriminating recorded.
He was disillusioned after the screen went blank, at the point when he had thrown a blanket over the recorder last night. Johnson held up his hand for silence. The screen still showed nothing, but after a moment or two voices were clearly audible.
“You have thirty-seven minutes to go, Mr. Gallegher.”
“Just stay where you are. I’ll have this in a minute. Besides, I want to get my hands on your fifty thousand credits.”
“But—”
“Relax. I’m getting it. In a very short time your worries will be over.”
“Did I say that?” Gallegher thought wildly. “What a fool I am! Why didn’t I turn off the radio when I covered up the lens?”
Grandpa’s voice said: “Trying to kill me by inches, eh, you young whippersnapper!”
“All the old so-and-so wanted was another bottle,” Gallegher moaned to himself. “But try to make those flatfeet believe that! Still—” He brightened. “Maybe I can find out what really happened to Grandpa and Harding. If I shot them off to another world, there might be some clue—”
“Watch closely now,” Gallegher’s voice said from last night. “I’ll explain as I proceed. Oh-oh. Wait a minute. I’m going to patent this later, so I don’t want any spies. I can trust you two not to talk, but that recorder’s still turned on to audio. Tomorrow, if I played it back, I’d be saying to myself, ‘Gallegher, you talk too much. There’s only one way to keep a secret safe.’ Off it goes!”
Someone screamed. The shriek was cut off midway. The projector stopped humming. There was utter silence.
The door opened to admit Murdoch Mackenzie. He was rubbing his hands.
“I came right down,” he said briskly. “So you’ve solved our problem, eh, Mr. Gallagher? Perhaps we can do business then. After all, there’s no real evidence that you killed Jonas—and I’ll be willing to drop the charges, if you’ve got what Adrenals, Incorporated, wants.”
“Pass me those handcuffs, Fred.” Johnson requested.
Gallegher protested, “You can’t do this to me!”
“A fallacious theorem,” Joe said, “which, I note, is now being disproved by the empirical method. How illogical all you ugly people are.”
The social trend always lags behind the technological one. And while technology tended, in these days, toward simplification, the social pattern was immensely complicated, since it was partly an outgrowth of historical precedent and partly a result of the scientific advance of the era. Take jurisprudence. Cockburn and Blackwood and a score of others had established certain general and specific rules—say, regarding patents—but those rules could be made thoroughly impractical by a single gadget. The Integrators could solve problems no human brain could manage, so, as a governor, it was necessary to build various controls into those semimechanical colloids. Moreover, an electronic duplicator could infringe not only on patents but on property rights, and attorneys prepared voluminous briefs on such questions as whether “rarity rights” are real property, whether a gadget made on a duplicator is a “representation” or a copy, and whether mass-duplication of chinchillas is unfair competition to a chinchilla breeder who depended on old-fashioned biological principles. All of which added up to the fact that the world, slightly punch-drunk with technology, was trying desperately to walk a straight line. Eventually the confusion would settle down.
It hadn’t settled down yet.
So legal machinery was a construction far more complicated than an Integrator. Precedent warred with abstract theory as lawyer warred with lawyer. It was all perfectly clear to the technicians, but they were much too impractical to be consulted; they were apt to remark wickedly, “So my gadget unstabilizes property rights? Well—why have property rights, then?”
And you can’t do that!
Not to a world that had found security, of a sort, for thousands of years in rigid precedents of social intercourse. The ancient dyke of formal culture was beginning to leak in innumerable spots, and, had you noticed, you might have seen hundreds of thousands of frantic, small figures rushing from danger-spot to danger-spot, valorously plugging the leaks with their fingers, arms, or heads. Some day it would be discovered that there was no encroaching ocean beyond that dyke, but that day hadn’t yet come.
In a way, that was lucky for Gallegher. Public officials were chary about sticking their necks out. A simple suit for false arrest might lead to fantastic ramifications and big trouble. The hard-headed Murdoch Mackenzie took advantage of this situation to vise his own personal attorney and toss a monkey wrench in the legal wheels. The attorney spoke to Johnson.
