Fredric Brown - The Second Fredric Brown Megapack

Rod Caquer looked at the goggles curiously.

“But how is the funny shape of these lenses going to keep the emanations from hurting them, Perry?” he asked.

“That part up on top is a tiny motor. It operates a couple of specially-treated wipers across the lenses. For all the world like an old-fashioned windshield wiper, and that’s why the lenses are shaped like the wiper-arm arcs.”

“Oh,” said Caquer. “You mean the wipers are absorbent and hold some kind of liquid that protects the glass?”

“Yes, except that it’s quartz instead of glass. And it’s protected only a minute fraction of a second. Those wipers go like the devil—so fast you can’t see them when you’re wearing the goggles. The arms are half as big as the arcs and the wearer can see out of only a fraction of the lens at a time. But he can see, dimly, and that’s a thousand per cent improvement in radite mining.”

“Fine, Perry,” said Caquer. “And they can get around the dimness by having ultra-brilliant lighting. Have you tried these out?”

“Yes, and they work. Trouble’s in the rods; friction heats them and they expand and jam after it’s run a minute, or thereabouts. I have to turn them down on Deems lathe—or one like it. Think you could arrange for me to use it? Just for a day or so?”

“I don’t see why not,” Caquer told him. “I’ll talk to whomever the Regent appoints executor, and fix it up. And later you can probably buy the lathe from his heirs. Or does the nephew go in for such things?”

Perry Peters shook his head. “Nope, he wouldn’t know a lathe from a drill-press. Be swell of you, Rod, if you can arrange for me to use it.”

Caquer had turned to go, but Perry Peters stopped him.

“Wait a minute,” Peters said and then paused and looked uncomfortable. “I guess I was holding out on you, Rod,” the inventor said at last. “I do know one thing about Willem that might possibly have something to do with his death, although I don’t see how, myself. I wouldn’t tell it on him, except that he’s dead, and so it won’t get him in trouble.”

“What was it, Perry?”

“Illicit political books. He had a little business on the side selling them. Books on the index—you know just what I mean.”

Caquer whistled softly. “I didn’t know they were made any more. After the council put such a heavy penalty on them—whew!”

“People are still human, Rod. They still want to know the things they shouldn’t know—just to find out why they shouldn’t, if for no other reason.”

“Graydex or Blackdex books, Perry?”

Now the inventor looked puzzled.

“I don’t get it. What’s the difference?”

“Books on the official index,” Caquer explained, “are divided into two groups. The really dangerous ones are in the Blackdex. There’s a severe penalty for owning one, and a death penalty for writing or printing one. The mildly dangerous ones are in the Graydex, as they call it.”

“I wouldn’t know which Willem peddled. Well, off the record, I read a couple Willem lent me once, and I thought they were pretty dull stuff. Unorthodox political theories.”

“That would be Graydex.” Lieutenant Caquer looked relieved. “Theoretical stuff is all Graydex. The Blackdex books are the ones with dangerous practical information.”

“Such as?” The inventor was staring intently at Caquer.

“Instructions how to make outlawed things,” explained Caquer. “Like Lethite, for instance. Lethite is a poison gas that’s tremendously dangerous. A few pounds of it could wipe out a city, so the council outlawed its manufacture, and any book telling people how to make it for themselves would go on the Blackdex. Some nitwit might get hold of a book like that and wipe out his whole home town.”

“But why would anyone?”

“He might be warped mentally, and have a grudge,” explained Caquer. “Or he might want to use it on a lesser scale for criminal reason. Or—by Earth, he might be the head of a government with designs on neighboring states. Knowledge of a thing like that might upset the peace of the Solar System.” Perry Peters nodded thoughtfully. “I get your point,” he said. “Well, I still don’t see what it could have to do with the murder, but I thought I’d tell you about Willem’s sideline. You’ll probably want to check over his stock before whoever takes over the shop reopens.”

“We shall,” said Caquer. “Thanks a lot, Perry. If you don’t mind, I’ll use your phone to get that search started right away. If there are any Blackdex books there, we’ll take care of them all right.”

When he got his secretary on the screen, she looked both frightened and relieved at seeing him.

“Mr. Caquer,” she said, “I’ve been trying to reach you. Something awful’s happened. Another death.”

“Murder again?” gasped Caquer.

“Nobody knows what it was,” said the secretary. “A dozen people saw him jump out of a window only twenty feet up. And in this gravity that couldn’t have killed him, but he was dead when they got there. And four of them that saw him knew him. It was—”

“Well, for Earth’s sake, who?”

“I don’t—Lieutenant Caquer, they said, all four of them, that it was Willem Deem!”

With a nightmarish feeling of unreality Lieutenant Rod Caquer peered down over the shoulder of the Medico-in-Chief at the body that already lay on the stretcher of the utility men, who stood by impatiently.

“You better hurry, Doc,” one of them said. “He won’t last much longer and it takes us five minutes to get there.”

Dr. Skidder nodded impatiently without looking up, and went on with his examination. “Not a mark, Rod,” he said. “Not a sign of poison. Not a sign of anything. He’s just dead.”

“The fall couldn’t have caused it?”

“There isn’t even a bruise from the fall. Only verdict I can give is heart failure. Okay, boys, you can take it away.”

“You through too, Lieutenant?”

“I’m through,” said Caquer. “Go ahead. Skidder, which of them was Willem Deem?”

The medico’s eyes followed the white-sheeted burden of the utility men as they carried it toward the truck, and he shrugged helplessly.

“Lieutenant, I guess that’s your pigeon,” he said. “All I can do is certify the cause of death.”

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Caquer wailed. “Sector Three City isn’t so big that he could have had a double living here without people knowing about it. But one of them had to be a double. Off the record, which looked to you like the original?”

Dr. Skidder shook his head grimly.

“Willem Deem had a peculiarly shaped wart on his nose,” he said. “So did both of his corpses, Rod. And neither one was artificial, or make-up. I’ll stake my professional reputation on that. But come on back to the office with me, and I’ll tell you which one of them is the real Willem Deem.”

“Huh? How?”

“His thumbprint’s on file at the tax department, like everybody’s is. And it’s part of routine to fingerprint a corpse on Callisto, because it has to be destroyed so quickly.”

“You have thumbprints of both corpses?” inquired Caquer.

“Of course. Took them before you reached the scene, both times. I have the one for Willem—I mean the other corpse—back in my office. Tell you what—you pick up the print on file at the tax office and meet me there.”

Caquer sighed with relief as he agreed. At least one point would be cleared up—which corpse was which.

And in that comparatively blissful state of mind he remained until half an hour later when he and Dr. Skidder compared the three prints—the one Rod Caquer had secured from the tax office, and one from each of the corpses. They were identical, all three of them.