Alfred Bester - The Demolished Man

his mouth... bit of standard candy wrapping." "And?" "No candy in the suite." "He might have eaten it all." "No candy in his stomach. Anyway, he wouldn't be eating candy with his

throat." "Why not?" "Psychogenic cancer. Bad. He couldn't talk, let alone eat gook."

"Hell and damnation. We need that weapon... whatever it is."

Powell fingered the sheaf of field reports, staring at the waxen body, whistling a crooked tune. He remembered hearing an audio-book once about an Esper who could read a corpse... like that old myth about photographing the retina of a dead eye. He wished it could be done.

"Well," he sighed at last. "They licked us on motive, and they've licked us on method. Let's hope we can get something on opportunity, or we'll never bring Reich down."

"What Reich? Ben Reich? What about him?"

"It's Gus Tate I'm worried about most," Powell murmured. "If he's mixed up in this... What? Oh, Reich? He's the killer, De Santis. I slicked Jo ?maine down in Maria Beaumont's study. Reich made a slip. I staged an act and misdirected Jo while I peeped to make sure. This is off the record, of course, but I got enough to convince me Reich's our man."

"Holy Christ!" De Santis exclaimed. "But that's a long way from convincing a court. We're a long way from Demolition, brother. A long, long way." Moodily, Powell took leave of the Lab Chief, loafed through the

anteroom and descended to field headquarters in the picture gallery. "And I like the guy," he muttered. In the picture gallery outside the Orchid Suite where temporary

headquarters had been set up. Powell and Beck met for a conference. Their mental exchange took exactly thirty seconds in the lightning tempo typical of telepathic talk:

Well, it's Reich for Demolition, Jax. We tripped him up in that talk, and sneaked a peep in Maria's study just to make sure. Ben's our boy.

You'll never prove it, Linc.

Can the guards help? Not a chance. They've lost one solid hour. De Santis says their retinal rhodopsin was destroyed. That's the

visual purple... what you see

Uh-huh.

with in your eye. As far as the

guards are concerned, they were on

duty and alert. Nothing happened

Nothing much!

until the mob suddenly blew in, and

Maria was screeching at them

And how The Gilt Corpse can screech. for falling asleep on the job... which they emphatically swear they did not.

But we know it was Reich. You know it was Reich. Nobody else does.

He went up there while the guests were playing the Sardine game. He destroyed the guards' visual purple some way and robbed them of an hour of How? time. He went into the Orchid Suite and killed D'Courtney. The girl got mixed up in How did he kill D'Courtney? it, somehow, which is why she ran.

And last of all: why did he kill

D'Courtney? I don't know. I don't know any of the answers... yet.

You'll never get a Demolition that way.

That I do know. You've got to show motive, method, and opportunity,

Uh-huh. objectively. All you've got is a peeper's knowledge that Reich killed D'Courtney.

Uh-huh.

Did you peep how or why? Couldn't get in deep enough... not with Jo ?maine watching me.

And you'll probably never get in.

Jo's too careful. Hell & Damnation! Jackson, we need the girl.

Barbara D'Courtney? Yes. She's the key. If she can tell I agree. us what she saw and why she ran, we'll satisfy a court. Collate everything we've got so far and file it. It won't do us any good without the girl. Let everyone go. They won't do Right. us any good without the girl. We'll have to back-track onI'm beginning to hate her. Reich... see what collateral evidence we can dig up, but---

But it won't help without that

goddam girl. Times like this, Mr. Beck, I hate women too. For Christ's sake, why are they all trying to get me married?

Image of a horse laughing. Sar(censored)castic retort. Sar(censored)donic reply. (censored)

Having had the last word, Powell got to his feet and left the picture gallery. He crossed the overpass, descended to the music room and entered the main hall. He saw Reich, ?maine, and Tate standing alongside the fountain, deep in conversation. Once again he fretted over the frightening problem of Tate. If the little peeper really was mixed up with Reich, as Powell had suspected at his party the week before, he might be mixed up in this killing.

The idea of a 1st class Esper, a pillar of the Guild, participating in murder was unthinkable; yet, if actually the fact, a son of a bitch to prove. Nobody ever got anything from a 1st without full consent. And if Tate was (incredible... impossible... 100-1 against) working with Reich, Reich himself might prove impregnable. Resolving on one last propaganda attack before he was forced to resort to police work, Powell turned toward the group.

He caught their eyes and directed a quick command to the peepers: "Jo. Gus. Jet off. I want to say something to Reich. I don't want you to hear. I won't peep him or record his words. That's a pledge."

?maine and Tate nodded, muttered to Reich and quietly departed. Reich watched them go with curious eyes and then looked at Powell. "Scare 'em off?" he inquired.

"Warned them off. Sit down, Reich."

They sat on the edge of the basin, looking at each other in a friendly silence.

"No," Powell said after a pause, "I'm not peeping you."

"Didn't think you were. But you did in Maria's study, eh?"

"Felt that?"

"No. Guessed. It's what I would have done."

"Neither of us is very trustworthy, eh?"

"Pfutz!" Reich said emphatically. "We don't play girl's rules. We play for keeps, both of us. It's the cowards and weaklings and sore-losers who hide behind rules and fair play."

"What about honor and ethics?"

"We've got honor in us, but it's our own code... not the make-believe rules some frightened little man wrote for the rest of the frightened little men. Every man's got his own honor and ethics, and so long as he sticks to 'em, who's anybody else to point the finger? You may not like his ethics, but you've no right to call him unethical."

Powell shook his head sadly. "You're two men, Reich. One of them's fine; and the other's rotten. If you were all killer, it wouldn't be so bad. But there's half louse and half saint in you, and that makes it worse."

"I knew it was going to be bad when you winked," Reich grinned. "You're tricky, Powell. You really scare me. I never can tell when the punch is coming or which way to duck."

"Then for God's sake stop ducking and get it over with," Powell said. His voice burned. His eyes burned. Once again he terrified Reich with his intensity. "I'm going to lick you on this one, Ben: I'm going to strangle the lousy killer in you, because I admire the saint. This is the beginning of the end, for you. You know it. Why don't you make it easier for yourself?"

For an instant, Reich wavered on the verge of surrender. Then he mustered himself to meet the attack. "And give up the best fight of my life? No. Never in a million years, Linc. We're going to slug this out straight down to the finish."

Powell shrugged angrily. They both arose. Instinctlively, their hands

met in the four-way clasp of final farewell. "I lost a great partner in you," Reich said. "You lost a great man in yourself, Ben." "Enemies?" "Enemies." It was the beginning of Demolition.

The Police Prefect of a city of seventeen and one half millions cannot be tied down to a desk. He does not have files, memoranda, notes, and reels of red tape. He has three Esper secretaries, memory wizards all, who carry within their minds the minutiae of his business. They accompany him around headquarters like a triple index. Surrounded by his flying squad (nicknamed Wynken, Blynken, and Nod by the staff) Powell jetted through Center Street, assembling the material for his fight.