Alfred Bester - The Demolished Man

"IF IT PLEASE THE COURT," Mose said, "WITH PLEADERING OF NON VULTS AND DEMURERS, LEGAL SIGNATURES. SS. LEADING CASE HAY v. COHOES AND THE RULE IN SHELLEY'S CASE. URP."

"What the---" Powell looked at Beck.

"He gets kittenish," Beck explained.

"At a time like this!"

"Happens now and then. We'll try him again."

They filled the computer's ear again, held the warmup for a good five

minutes and then kicked him into it. Once again his eyes blinked, his stomach growled, his memories hissed, and Powell and the two staffs waited anxiously. A month's hard work hung on this decision. The type-hammers began to fall.

"BRIEF #921,088. SECTION C-1. MOTIVE," Mose said. "PASSION MOTIVE FOR CRIME INSUFFICIENTLY DOCUMENTED. CF STATE v. HANRAHAN, 1202 SUP. COURT. 19, AND SUBSEQUENT LINE OF LEADING CASES."

"Passion motive?" Powell muttered. "Is Mose crazy? It's a profit

motive. Check C-1, Beck." Beck checked. "No mistake here." "Try him again." They ran the computer through it a third time. This time he spoke to

the point: "BRIEF #921,088. SECTION C-1. MOTIVE. PROFIT MOTIVE FOR CRIME

INSUFFICIENTLY DOCUMENTED. CF STATE v. ROYAL 1197 SUP. COURT 388." "Didn't you punch C-1 properly?" Powell inquired. "We got everything in that we could," Beck replied. "Excuse me," Powell said to the others, "I've got to peep this out

with Beck. You don't mind, I hope." He turned to Beck: "Open up, Jackson. I

smelted an evasion in them last words. Let me have it..." "Honestly, Linc, I'm not aware of any ---" "If you were aware, it wouldn't be an evasion. It'd be a downright

lie. Now lemme see... Oh. Of course! Idiot. You don't have to be ashamed because Code's a little slow." Powell spoke aloud to the staffs: "Beck's missing one small datum point. Code's still working with Hassop upstairs trying to bust Reich's private code. So far all we've got is the knowledge that Reich offered merger and was refused. We haven't got the definite offer and refusal yet. That's what Mose wants. A cautious monster."

"If you didn't bust the code, how do you know the offer was made and refused?" the D.A. asked.

"Got that from Reich himself through Gus Tate. It was one of the last things Tate gave me before he was murdered. I tell you what, Beck. Add an assumption to the tape. Assuming that our merger evidence is unassailable (which it is) what does Mose think of the case?"

Beck hand punched a strip, spliced it to the main problem and fed it in again. By now well warmed up, the Mosaic Multiplex Computer answered in thirty seconds: "BRIEF #921,088. ACCEPTING ASSUMPTION, PROBABILITY OF SUCCESSFUL PROSECUTION 97.0099%."

Powell's staff grinned and relaxed. Powell tore the tape out of the typewriter and presented it to the D.A. with a flourish. "And there's your case, Mr. District Attorney... Sewn up and delivered."

"By God!" the D.A. said. "Ninety seven per cent! Jesus, we haven't had one in the ninety bracket all my term. I thought I was lucky when I broke seventy. Ninety seven per cent... Against Ben Reich himself! Jesus!" He looked around at his staff in a kind of wild surmise. "We'll make goddam history!"

The office door opened and two perspiring men darted in waving manuscript.

"Here's Code now," Powell said. "You bust it?"

"We busted it," they said, "and now you're busted, Powell. The whole case is busted."

"What? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Reich knocked off D'Courtney because D'Courtney wouldn't merge, didn't he? He had a nice fat profit motive for killing D'Courtney, didn't he? In a pig's eye he did."

"Oh God!" Beck groaned.

"Reich sent YYJI TTED RRCB UUFE AALK QQBA to D'Courtney. That reads: SUGGEST MERGER BOTH OUR INTERESTS EQUAL PARTNERSHIP."

"Damn it, that's what I've said all along. And D'Courtney replied:

WWHG. That was a refusal. Reich told Tate. Tate told me." "D'Courtney answered WWHG. That reads: ACCEPT OFFER." "The hell is does!" "The hell it don't. WWHG. ACCEPT OFFER. It was the answer Reich

wanted. It was the answer that gave Reich every reason for keeping D'Courtney alive. You'll never convince any court in the solar system that Reich had a motive for murdering D'Courtney. Your case is washed out."

Powell stood stock still for half a minute, his fists clenched, his face working. Suddenly he turned on the model, reached in and pulled out the android figure of Reich. He twisted its head off. He went to Mose, yanked out the tapes of punched data, crumpled them into a wad and hurled the wad across the room. He strode to Crabbe's recumbent figure and launched a tremendous kick at the seat of the chair. While the staffs watched in an appalled silence, the chair and Commissioner overturned to the floor.

"God damn you! You're always sitting in that God damned chair!" Powell cried in a shaking voice and stormed out of the office.

Explosion! Concussion! The cell doors burst open. And far outside, freedom is waiting in the cloak of darkness and flight into the unknown... Who's that? Who's outside the cell-block? Oh God! Oh Christ! The Man With No Face! Looking. Looming. Silent. Run! Escape! Fly! Fly!...

Fly through space. There's safety in the solitude of this silver-lined launch jetting to the deeps of the distant unknown... The hatch door! Opening. But it can't. There's no one on this launch to swing it slowly, ominously... Oh God! The Man With No Face! Looking. Looming. Silent...

But I am innocent, your honor. Innocent. You will never prove my guilt, and I wilt never stop pleading my case though you pound your gavel until you deafen my ears and---Oh Christ! On the bench. In wig and gown.

The Man With No Face. Looking. Looming. Quintessence of vengeance...

The pounding gavel dissolved to knuckles on the stateroom door. The steward's voice called: "Over New York, Mr. Reich. One hour to debarkation. Over New York, Mr. Reich." The knuckles went on hammering on the door.

Reich found his voice. "All right," he croacked. "I hear you."

The steward departed. Reich climbed out of the liquid bed and found his legs giving way. He clutched at the wall and cursed himself upright. Still in the grip of the nightmare's terror, he went into the bathroom, depilated, showered, steamed, and air-washed for ten minutes. He was still reeling. He stepped into the massage alcove and punched `Glow-Salt.' Two pounds of moistened, scented salt were sprayed on his skin. As the massage buffers were about to begin, Reich suddenly decided he needed coffee. He stepped out of the alcove to ring Service.

There was a dull concussion and Reich was hurled to his face by the force of the explosion in the alcove. His back was slashed by flying particles. He darted into the bedroom, seized his traveling case, and turned like an animal at bay, his hands automatically opening the case and groping for the cartridge of Detonation Bulbs he always carried. There was no cartridge in the case.

Reich pulled himself together. He was aware of the bite of salt in the cuts in his back and the streaming blood. He was aware that he was no longer trembling. He went back into the bathroom shut off the massage buffers and inspected the alcove wreckage. Someone had removed the cartridge from his case during the night and planted a bulb in each of the massage buffers. The empty cartridge lay behind the alcove. Only a split-second miracle had saved his life... from whom?

He inspected his stateroom door. The lock had evidently been gaffed by a past-master. It showed no sign of tampering. But who? Why?

"Son of a bitch!" Reich growled. With iron nerve he returned to the bathroom, washed off the salt and blood, and sprayed his back with coagulent. He dressed, had his coffee, and descended to the Staging Hall where, after a savage skirmish with the peeper Customs Man (Tension, apprehension, and dissention have begun!), he boarded the Monarch launch that was waiting to take him down to the city.