Alfred Bester - The Demolished Man

He gripped Tate's shaking elbow and marched him toward the projection room. As he walked he called plaintively: "Hey... Where is everybody? Maria! Ma-ri-aaa! Where's everybody?"

Tate emitted a hysterical sob. Reich shook him roughly. "Play up! We'll be out of here in five minutes. Then you can start worrying."..

"But if we're trapped in here, we won't be able to get the girl.We'll--- "..

"We won't be trapped. ABC, Gus. Audacious, brave, and confident." Reich pushed open the door of the projection room. There was darkness in here, too, but the heat of many bodies. "Hey," he called. "Where is everybody? I'm all alone."

No answer.

"Maria. I'm all alone in the dark."

A muffled sputter, then a burst of laughter.

"Darling, darling, darling!" Maria called. "You've missed all the fun, poor dear." '

"Where are you, Maria? I've come to say good night."

"Oh, you can't be leaving..."

"Sorry, dear. It's late. I've got to swindle a friend tomorrow. Where are you Maria?"

"Come up on the stage, darling."

Reich walked down the aisle, felt for the steps and mounted the stage. He felt the cool perimeter of the projection globe behind him. A voice called: "All right. Now we've got him. Lights!"

White light flooded the globe and blinded Reich. The guests seated in the chairs around the stage started to whoop with laughter, then howled in disappointment.

"Oh Ben, you cheat," Maria screeched. "You're still dressed. That isn't fair. We've been catching everybody divinely flagrante."

"Some other time, Maria dear." Reich extended his hand before him and began the graceful bow of farewell. "Respectfully, Madame. I give you my thanks for---" He broke off in amazement. On the gloaming white lace of his cuff an angry red spot appeared.

In stunned silence, Reich saw a second, then a third red splotch appear on the lace. He snatched his hand back and a red drop spattered on the stage before him, to be followed by a slow, inexorable stream of gleaming crimson droplets.

"That's blood!" Maria screamed. "That's blood! There's someone upstairs bleeding. For God's sake, Ben... You can't leave me now. Lights! Lights! Lights!"

At 12:30 A.M., the Emergency Patrol arrived at Beaumont House in response to precinct notification: "GZ. Beaumont. YLP-R" which, translated, meant: "An Act or Omission, forbidden by law has been reported at Beaumont House, 9 Park South."

At 12:40, the Park precinct Captain arrived in response to Patrol report: "Criminal Act possible Felony-AAA."

At 1:00 A.M„ Lincoln Powell arrived at Beaumont House in response to a frantic call from a deputy inspector: "I tell you, Powell, it's Felony Triple-A. I'll swear it is. The wind's been knocked out of me. I don't know whether to be grateful or scared; but I know none of us is equipped to handle it."

"What can't you handle?"

"Look here, Powell. Murder's abnormal. Only a distorted TP pattern can

produce death by violence. Right?" "Yes." "Which is why there hasn't been a successful Triple-A in over seventy

years. A man can't walk around with a distorted pattern, maturing murder, and go unnoticed these days. He'd have as much chance of going unnoticed as a man with three heads. You peepers always pick 'em up before they go into action."

"We try to... when we contact them."

"And there are too many peeper screens to pass in normal living these days for you to be avoided. A man would have to be a hermit to do that. How can a hermit kill?"

"How indeed?"

"Now here's a killing that must have been carefully planned... and the killer was never noticed. Never reported. Even by Maria Beaumont's peeper secretaries. That means there couldn't have been anything to notice. He must have a passable pattern and yet be abnormal enough to murder. How the hell can we resolve a paradox like that?"

"I see. Any prospects?"

"We've got a pay-load of inconsistencies to iron out. One, we don't know what killed D'Courtney. Two, his daughter's disappeared. Three, somebody robbed D'Courtney's guards of one hour and we can't figure how. Four---"

"Don't count any higher. I'll be right over."

The great hall of Beaumont House blazed with harsh white light. Uniformed police were everywhere. The white-smocked technicians from Lab were scurrying like beetles. In the center of the hall, the party guests (dressed) were assembled in a rough corral, milling like a herd of terrified steers at a slaughter house.

As Powell came down the east ramp, tall and slender, black and white, he felt the wave of hostility that greeted him. He reached out quickly to Jackson Beck, police Inspector 2: "What's the situation Jax?"

"Scramble."

Switching to their informal police code of scrambled images, reversed meanings and personal symbols, Beck continued: "Peepers here. Play it safe." In a microsecond he brought Powell up to date.

"I see. Nasty. What's everybody doing lumped out on the floor? You staging something?"

"The villain-friend act."

"Necessary?"

"It's a rotten crowd. Pampered. Corrupt. They'll never cooperate. You'll have to do some tricky coaxing to get anything out of them; and this case is going to need it. I'll be the villain. You be their friend."

"Right. Good work. Start recording."

Halfway down the ramp, Powell halted. The humor departed from his mouth. The friendliness disappeared from his deep dark eyes. An expression of shocked indignation appeared on his face.

"Beck," he snapped. His voice cracked through the echoing hall. There was dead silence. Every eye turned in his direction.

Inspector Beck faced Powell. In a brutal voice, he said: "Here, sir."

"Are you in charge. Beck?"

"I am, sir."

"And is this your concept of the proper conduct of an investigation? To herd a group of innocent people together like cattle?"

"They're not innocent," Beck growled. "A man's been killed."

"All in this house are innocent, Beck. They will be presumed to be innocent and treated with every courtesy until the truth is uncovered."

"What?" Beck sneered. "This gang of liars? Treated with courtesy? This rotten, lousy, high-society pack of hyenas..."

"How dare you! Apologize at once."

Beck took a deep breath and clenched his fists angrily.

"Inspector Beck, did you hear me? Apologize to these ladies and gentlemen at once."

Beck glared at Powell, then turned to the staring guests. "My apologies," he mumbled.

"And I'm warning you, Beck," Powell snapped. "If anything like this happens again, I'll break you. I'll send you straight back to the gutter you came from. Now get out of my sight."

Powell descended to the floor of the hall and smiled at the guests. Suddenly he was again transformed. His bearing conveyed the subtle suggestion that he was at heart one of them. There was even a tinge of fashionable corruption in his diction.

"Ladies and gentlemen: Of course I know you all by sight. I'm not that famous so let me introduce myself. Lincoln Powell, Prefect of the Psychotic Division. Prefect and Psychotic. Two antiquated titles, eh? We won't let them bother us." He advanced toward Maria Beaumont with hand outstretched. "Dear Madame Maria, what an exciting climax for your wonderful party. I envy all of you. You'll make history."

A pleased rustle ran through the guests. The lowering hostility began to fade. Maria took Powell's hand dazedly, mechanically beginning to preen herself.

"Madame..." He confused and delighted her by kissing her brow with paternal warmth. "You've had a trying time, I know. These boors in uniform."

"Dear Prefect..." She was a little girl, clinging to his arm. "I've been so terrified."

"Is there a quiet room where we can all be comfortable and endure this exasperating experience?"

"Yes. The study, dear Prefect Powell." She was actually beginning to lisp.