Alfred Bester - The Demolished Man

Powell entered the room and walked directly to the center, leaving Reich, Tate, and ?maine behind him. The buzz of conversation stopped, and Maria Beaumont struggled to her feet. Powell motioned her to remain seated. He looked around him, accurately gauging the mass psyche of the assembled sybarites, and measuring the tactics he would have to use. At length he began.

"The law," he remarked, "makes the silliest damned fuss about death. People die by the thousands every day; but simply because someone has had the energy and enterprise to assist old D'Courtney to his demise, the law insists upon turning him into an enemy of the people. I think it's idiotic, but please don't quote me."

He paused and lit a cigarette. "You all know, of course, that I'm a peeper. Probably this fact has alarmed some of you. You imagine that I'm standing here like some mind-peeping monster, probing your mental plumbing. Well... Jo ?maine wouldn't let me if I could. And frankly, if I could, I wouldn't be standing here. I'd be standing on the throne of the universe practically indistinguishable from God. I notice that none of you have commented on that resemblance so far..."

There was a ripple of laughter. Powell smiled disarmingly and continued: "No, mass mind-reading is a trick no peeper can perform. It's difficult enough to probe a single individual. It's impossible when dozens of TP patterns are confusing the picture. And when a group of unique, highly individual people like yourselves is gathered, we find ourselves completely at your mercy."

"And he said I had charm," Reich muttered.

"Tonight," Powell went on, "you were playing a game called `Sardine.'

I wish I had been invited, Madame. You must remember me next time..." "I will," Maria called. "I will, dear prefect..." "In the course of that game, old D'Courtney was killed. We're almost

positive it was premeditated murder. We'll be certain after Lab has finished its work. But let's assume that it is a Triple-A Felony. That will enable us to play another game... a game called `Murder.' "

There was an uncertain response from the guests. Powell continued on the same casual course, carefully turning the most shocking crime in seventy years into a morsel of unreality.

"In the game of `Murder,'" he said, "A make-believe victim is killed. A make-believe detective must discover who killed the victim. He asks questions of the make-believe suspects. Everyone must tell the truth, except the killer who is permitted to lie. The detective compares stories, deduces who is lying, and uncovers the killer. I thought you might enjoy playing this game."

A voice asked: "How?"

Another called: "I'm just one of the tourists."

More laughter.

"A murder investigation," Powell smiled, "explores three facets of a

crime. First, the motive. Second, the method. Third, the opportunity. Our Lab people are taking care of the second two. The first we can discover in our game. And if we do, we'll be able to crack the second two problems that have Lab stumped now. Did you know that they can't figure out what killed D'Courtney? Did you know that D'Courtney's daughter has disappeared? She left the house while you were playing `Sardine.' Did you know that D'Courtney's guards were mysteriously short-circuited? Yes, indeed. Somebody robbed them of a full hour in time. We'd all like to know just how."

They were hanging at the very edge of the trap, breathless, fascinated. It had to be sprung with infinite caution.

"Death, disappearance, and time-theft... we can find out all about them through motive. I'll be the make-believe detective. You'll be the make-believe suspects. You'll tell me the truth... all except the killer, of course. We'll expect him to lie. But we'll trap him and bring this party to a triumphant finish if you'll give me permission to make a telepathic examination of each of you."

"Oh!" cried Maria in alarm.

"Wait, Madame. Understand me. All I want is your permission. I won't have to peep. Because, you see, if all the innocent suspects grant permission, then the one who refuses must be the guilty. He alone will be forced to protect himself from peeping."

"Can he pull that?" Reich whispered to ?maine.

?maine nodded.

"Just picture the scene for a moment." Powell was building the drama

for them, turning the room into a stage. "I ask formally: `Will you permit me to make a TP examination?' Then I go around this room..." He began a slow circuit, bowing to each of the guests in turn. "And the answers come... `Yes... Yes... Of course... Why not?... Certainly... Yes... Yes...' And then suddenly a dramatic pause." Powell stopped before Reich, erect, terrifying." `You, sir,' I repeat. `Will you give me your permission to peep?' "

They all watched, hypnotized. Even Reich was aghast, transfixed by the pointing finger and the fierce scowl.

"Hesitation. His face flushes red, then ghastly white as the blood drains out. You hear the tortured refusal: `No!'..." The Prefect turned and enveloped them all with an electrifying gesture: "And in that thrilling moment, we know we have captured the killer!"

He almost had them. Almost. It was daring, novel, exciting; a sudden display of ultra violet windows through clothes and flesh into the soul...

But Maria's guests had bastardy in their souls... perjury... adultery---the Devil. And the shame within all of them rose up in terror. "No!" Maria cried. They all shot to their feet and shouted "No! No! No!" "It was a beautiful try, Linc, but there's your answer. You'll never get motive out of these hyenas."

Powell was still charming in defeat. "I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but I really can't blame you. Only a fool would trust a cop." He sighed. "One of my assistants will tape the oral statements from those of you who care to make statements. Mr. ?maine will be on hand to advise and protect you."

He glanced dolefully at ?maine: "And louse me."

"Don't pull at my heart-strings like that, Linc. This is the first Triple-A Felony in over seventy years. I've got my career to watch. This can make me."

"I've got my own career to watch, Jo. If my department doesn't crack

this, it can break me." "Then it's every peeper for himself. Here's thinking at you, Linc." "Hell," Powell said. He winked at Reich and sauntered out of the room. Lab was finished in the orchid Wedding Suite. De Santis, abrupt,

testy, harassed, handed Powell the reports and said in an overwrought voice: "This is a bitch!" Powell looked down at D'Courtney's body. "Suicide?" he snapped. He was

always peppery with De Santis who was comfortable in no other relationship. "Tcha! Not a chance. No weapon." "What killed him?" "We don't know." "You still don't know? You've had three hours!" "We don't know," De Santis raged. "That's why it's a bitch." "Why, he's got a hole in his head you could jet through." "Yes, yes, yes, of course. Entry above the uvula. Exit below the

fontanelle. Death instantaneous. But what produced the wound? What drilled the hole through his skull? Go ahead, ask me." "Hard Ray?"

"No burn."

"Crystallization?"

"No freeze."

"Nitro vapor charge?"

"No ammonia residue."

"Acid?"

"Too much shattering. Acid spray might needle a wound like that, but

it couldn't burst the back of his skull." "Thrusting weapon?" "You mean a dirk or a knife?" "Something like that." "Impossible. Have you any idea how much force is necessary to

penetrate like this? Couldn't be done." "Well... I've just about exhausted penetrating weapons. No wait. What

about a projectile?" "How's that?" "Ancient weapon. They used to shoot bullets with explosives. Noisy and

smelly." "Not a chance here." "Why?" "Why?" De Santis spat. "Because there's no projectile. None in the

wound. None in the room. Nothing nowhere." "Damnation!" "I agree." "Have you got anything for me? Anything at all?" "Yes. He was eating candy before his death. Found a fragment of gel in