Syaloch rekindled his pipe, an elaborate flint-and-steel process on a world where matches won’t burn. Only when it was drawing well did he suggest: «Is it possible the ship was boarded en route?»
«No. It isn’t possible. Every spacecraft in the System is registered, and its whereabouts are known at any time. Furthermore, imagine trying to find a speck in hundreds of millions of cubic miles, and match velocities with it… no vessel ever built could carry that much fuel. And mind you, it was never announced that the jewels were going back this way. Only the UN police and the Earth Station crew could know till the ship had actually left—by which time it’d be too late to catch her.»
«Most interesting.» Syaloch puffed hard.
«If word of this gets out,» said Gregg miserably, «you can guess the results. I suppose we’d still have a few friends left in your Parliament—»
«In the House of Actives, yesss… a few. Not in the House of Philosophers, which is of course the upper chamber.»
«It could mean a twenty-year hiatus in Earth-Mars traffic—maybe a permanent breaking off of relations. Damn it, Syaloch, you’ve got to find those stones!»
«Hm-m-m. I pray your pardon. This requires thought.» The Martian picked up his crooked instrument and plucked a few tentative chords. Gregg sighed and attempted to relax. He knew the Chlannach temperament; he’d have to listen to an hour of minor-key caterwauling.
The colorless sunset was past, night had fallen with the unnerving Martian swiftness, and the glowsnakes were emitting blue radiance when Syaloch put down the demifiddle.
«I fear I shall have to visit Phobos in person,» he said. «There are too many unknowns for analysis, and it is never well to theorize before all the data have been gathered.» A bony hand clapped Gregg’s shoulder. «Come, come, old chap. I am really most grateful to you. Life was becoming infernally dull. Now, as my famous Terrestrial predecessor would say, the game’s afoot… and a very big game indeed!»
A Martian in an Earthlike atmosphere is not much hampered, needing only an hour in a compression chamber and a filter on his beak to eliminate excess oxygen and moisture. Syaloch walked freely about the port clad in filter, pipe, and tirstokr cap, grumbling to himself at the heat and humidity. He noticed that all the humans but Gregg were reserved, almost fearful, as they watched him—they were sitting on a secret which could unleash red murder.
He donned a spacesuit and went out to inspect the Jane Brackney. The vessel had been shunted aside to make room for later arrivals, and stood by a raw crag at the edge of the field, glimmering in the hard spatial sunlight. Gregg and Yamagata were with him.
«I say, you have been thorough,» remarked the detective. «The outer skin is quite stripped off.»
The spheroid resembled an egg which had tangled with a waffle iron; an intersecting grid of girders and braces above a thin aluminum hide. The jets, hatches, and radio mast were the only breaks in the checkerboard pattern, whose depth was about a foot and whose squares were a yard across at the «equator.»
Yamagata laughed in a strained fashion. «No, the cops fluoroscoped every inch of her, but that’s the way these cargo ships always look. They never land on Earth, you know, or any place where there’s air, so streamlining would be unnecessary. And since nobody is aboard in transit, we don’t have to worry about insulation or airtightness. Perishables are stowed in sealed compartments.»
«I see. Now where were the crown jewels kept?»
«They were supposed to be in a cupboard near the gyros,» said Gregg. «They were in a locked box, about six inches high, six inches wide, and a foot long.» He shook his head, finding it hard to believe that so small a box could contain so much potential death.
«Ah… but were they placed there?»
«I radioed Earth and got a full account,» said Gregg. «The ship was loaded as usual at the satellite station, then shoved a quarter mile away till it was time for her to leave—to get her out of the way, you understand. She was still in the same free-fall orbit, attached by a light cable—perfectly standard practice. At the last minute, without anyone being told beforehand, the crown jewels were brought up from Earth and stashed aboard.»
«By a special policeman, I presume?»
«No. Only licensed technicians are allowed to board a ship in orbit, unless there’s a life-and-death emergency. One of the regular station crew—fellow named Carter—was told where to put them. He was watched by the cops as he pulled himself along the cable and in through the manhatch.» Gregg pointed to a small door near the radio mast. «He came out, closed it, and returned on the cable. The police immediately searched him and his spacesuit, just in case, and he positively did not have the jewels. There was no reason to suspect him of anything—good steady worker—though I’ll admit he’s disappeared since then. The Jane blasted a few minutes late and her jets were watched till they cut off and she went into free fall. And that’s the last anyone saw of her till she got here—without the jewels.»
«And right on orbit,» added Yamagata. «If by some freak she had been boarded, it would have thrown her off enough for us to notice as she came in. Transference of momentum between her and the other ship.»
«I see.» Behind his faceplate, Syaloch’s beak cut a sharp black curve across heaven. «Now then, Gregg, were the jewels actually in the box when it was delivered?»
«At Earth Station, you mean? Oh, yes. There are four UN Chief Inspectors involved, and HQ says they’re absolutely above suspicion. When I sent back word of the theft, they insisted on having their own quarters an so on searched, and went under scop voluntarily.»
«And your own constables on Phobos?»
«Same thing,» said the policeman grimly. «I’ve slapped on an embargo—nobody but me has left this settlement since the loss was discovered. I’ve had every room and tunnel and warehouse searched.» He tried to scratch his head, a frustrating attempt when one is in a spacesuit. «I can’t maintain those restrictions much longer. Ships are coming in and the consignees want their freight.»
«Hnachla. That puts us under a time limit, then.» Syaloch nodded to himself. «Do you know, this is a fascinating variation of the old locked room problem. A robot ship in transit is a locked room in the most classic sense.» He drifted off into a reverie.
Gregg stared bleakly across the savage horizon, naked rock tumbling away under his feet, and then back over the field. Odd how tricky your vision became in airlessness, even when you had bright lights. That fellow crossing the field there, under the full glare of sun and floodlamps, was merely a stipple of shadow and luminance… what the devil was he doing, tying a shoe of all things? No, he was walking quite normally—
«I’d like to put everyone on Phobos under scop,» said Gregg with a violent note, «but the law won’t allow it unless the suspect volunteers—and only my own men have volunteered.»
«Quite rightly, my dear fellow,» said Syaloch. «One should at least have the privilege of privacy in his own skull. And it would make the investigation unbearably crude.»
«I don’t give a fertilizing damn how crude it is,» snapped Gregg. «I just want that box with the crown jewels safe inside.»
«Tut-tut! Impatience has been the ruin of many a promising young police officer, as I seem to recall my spiritual ancestor of Earth pointing out to a Scotland Yard man who—hm—may even have been a physical ancestor of yours, Gregg. It seems we must try another approach. Are there any people on Phobos who might have known the jewels were aboard this ship?»