Robert Silverberg - Vampires from Outer Space

None of the aliens spoke. In the solemn silence, Harriman continued. “Two witnesses claim they saw a Nirotan struggling with the murdered man in the street. If the witnesses are telling the truth, one of you in this room committed that crime.”

“The witnesses are saying that which is not so,” declared an immense Nirotan boomingly. “We have committed no crimes. The offense you charge us with is unthinkable in Nirotan eyes.”

“I haven’t charged you with anything,” Harriman said. “The evidence implies that a Nirotan was responsible. For your sake and the sake of interstellar relations, I hope it isn’t so. But my job is to find out who is responsible for the killings.”

Harriman shook his head. “My first step has to be to establish guilt or innocence in this room. As a beginning, suppose I ask each of you to account for your whereabouts at the time of the murder?”

“We will give no information,” rumbled the Nirotan who seemed to be the spokesman.

A stone wall again, Harriman thought gloomily. He said, “Don’t you see that by refusing to answer questions or permit us an examination, you naturally make yourselves look suspicious in humanity’s eyes?”

“We have no concern with appearances. We did not commit the crime.”

“On Earth we need proof of that. Your word isn’t enough here.”

“We will not submit to interrogation. We demand the right to leave this planet at once, in order to return to Nirota.”

Harriman’s eyes narrowed. “The Interstellar Trade Agreements prevent any suspected criminals from leaving Earth for their home world. You’ll have to stay here until something definite is settled, one way or the other, on the murder.”

“We will answer no questions,” came the flat, positive, unshakeable reply.

Anger glimmered in Harriman’s eyes. “All right, then. But you’ll rot here until we decide to let you go! See how you like that!”

He turned and spun out of the room.

He slept fitfully and uneasily on the return journey to New York. It was mid-morning when the jetliner touched down at New York Jet Skyport, and it was noon by the time Harriman returned to his office at the Terran Security Agency. He felt deep frustration. There was no way for the investigation to proceed—not when the only suspects refused to defend themselves. Earth couldn’t accuse members of an alien species of murder on the basis of two early-morning eyewitnesses and a lot of circumstantial evidence rising out of old hysterical legends. It was always a risky business when one planet tried people of another world for crime—and in this case, the evidence was simply too thin for a solid indictment.

On the other hand, Earth clamored for a trial. The overwhelming mass of the people, utterly convinced that the Nirotans were vampires, stood ready to enforce justice themselves if the authorities lingered. Already, three Nirotans had died at the hands of the jeering mobs—an incident which would have serious consequences once the hysteria died down.

Director Russell growled a greeting at Harriman as the Agency subchief entered the office. It was obvious from Russell’s harried expression and from the overflowing ashtrays that the Director had been up all night, keeping in touch with the crisis as it unfolded and as new complications developed.

“Well?” Russell demanded. “What’s the word from San Francisco?”

“The word is nothing, chief,” Harriman said tiredly. “The Nirotans clammed up completely. They insist that they’re innocent, but beyond that they refuse to say anything. And they’re demanding to be allowed to return to their home world now.”

“I know. Trinnin Nirot petitioned Secretary-General Zachary late last night to permit all Nirotans on Earth to withdraw.”

“What did Zachary say?”

“He didn’t—not yet. But he doesn’t want to let the Nirotans go until we get to the bottom of this vampire business.”

“Any word from anyplace else?”

“Not much that’s hopeful,” Russell said wearily with a tired shrug. “There are thirty Nirotans under surveillance in London, but they’re not talking. And we have twenty cooped up in Warsaw. Zero there too. Right now we’re busy protecting a couple of thousand of the bats. But how long can this keep up?”

“Couldn’t we seize a Nirotan forcibly and examine him?” Harriman asked.

“I’ve thought of that. But the high brass says no. If`we happen to be wrong, we’ll have committed what the Nirotans are perfectly free to consider as an open act of war. And if we’re right—if the Nirotans were lying—then we still have the problem of finding out which Nirotans did the actual killing.”

“Maybe,” Harriman said, “we ought to just let the bats clear off Earth, as they want to do. That’ll solve all our problems.”

“And bring up a million new ones. It would mean that any alien could come down here and commit crimes, and go away untouched if he simply denied his guilt. I wouldn’t like to see a precedent like that get set. Uh-uh, Harriman. We have to find the killers, and we have to do it legally. Only I’m damned if I know how we’re going to go about doing it.”

We have to find the killers, Harriman thought half an hour later, in the solitude of his own office. And we have to do it legally. Well, the first part of that was reasonable enough.

But how about the second, Harriman thought?

Legally they were powerless to continue the investigation. The forces of law and order were hopelessly stalled, while fear-crazy rioters demanded Nirotan blood in exchange for Terran.

The main problem, he thought, was whether or not a Nirotan—any Nirotan—had actually committed the atrocities. According to the Nirotans, such crimes were beyond their capacities even to imagine. Yet the heavy weight of popular belief—as well as the damning fact of the two San Francisco witnesses—lent validity to the notion of the Nirotans as blood-sucking vampires.

Medical examination of a Nirotan might settle the thing in one direction or another. If it could be proven that the Nirotans might possibly have committed such a crime, it would be reasonable to assume that they had. But, on the other hand, if the Nirotans had definitely not done it, Harriman would have to begin looking elsewhere for the authors of the atrocities.

If only the Nirotans would cooperate, he thought!

But some alien quirk, some incomprehensible pride of theirs, kept them from lowering themselves to take part in anything so humiliating to them as an official inquest. The Security Agency was stymied—officially. They were at an impasse which could not be surmounted.

How about unofficially, though?

Harriman moistened his lips. He had an idea. It was a gamble, a gamble that would be worth his job and his career if he lost. But it was worth taking, he decided firmly. Someone had to risk it.

Picking up the phone, he ordered his special car to be ready for him outside the building. Then, without leaving word with anyone of his intended destination or purpose, he quietly departed.

There were several dozen Nirotans cooped up at the consulate on Fifth Avenue. Any one of those Nirotans would do, for his purposes. The thing he had to remember was that he was in this on his own. He did not dare risk taking on an accomplice. His plan was too risky to share with another person.

The consulate was guarded by armed Security Corpsmen. And, unless there had been a slackening of public animosity, the building was probably still surrounded by a howling mob.

It was. More than a thousand shouting New Yorkers clustered around the building, pressing close to the steps but not daring to approach for fear of the guns of the Security men. The mob, frustrated, kept up a low animal-like murmur beneath the hysteria of the shouts and curses it hurled forth.