You've won, he told the computer.
The computer said nothing.
Remembering something Lynda had discarded in the attic while routing through her uncle's possessions, he went up the narrow stairs, turned on the bare bulb and looked for it. He found it in the second box: a.22 pistol and ammunition. It seemed to be in good repair, well kept, perhaps a small game hunting pistol. He took it and the ammunition into the living room, dragged a big easy chair into a corner so his back was not to any windows, and loaded the weapon. Intrepid sat at his side, both curious, playful and tense.
From where Victor sat he could see the entrance to the cellar. If a skinny, sucker-mouth man-lizard so much as stuck a head out of the cellar door, he could blow it to bits with one shot well placed. The creatures did not look particularly sturdy.
But time crawled by with no major events, and his muscles began to uncramp, his nerves to loosen. In half an hour, he realized he was hungry and made himself two sandwiches. He was about to open a beer when he remembered his body's exaggerated reaction to the last one he had drunk. Beer was out. He needed to stay clear and alert tonight. Eating his sandwiches, he began to think. He had been reacting on a gut level up to this point, charging about like a wild boar with a peptic ulcer. He thought some unpleasant things, like: what if the lizard-things on the other side of the portal were the ones who had programmed him to kill Harold Jacobi? Perhaps he was their tool.
Such a thought was almost unbearable. If only the 810-40.04 would come out of its funk, he might have an answer that would make all this seem rosy, though he doubted it.
Then he had a second bad thought. Suppose, in trying to open the computer, he had cracked a casing, a power shell? Suppose he had ruined the computer? Would a briefing ever come now? Or had he stupidly, in a moment of fear and excitement, destroyed his only link with understanding?
He thought about those things until eight in the morning, showing not the faintest interest in sleep. At eight, he took his gun up to the bathroom and took a shower. He first posted Intrepid outside the door, then locked the door behind him. He tilted the white clothes hamper against the inside knob, the lid wedged to keep the knob from turning or the door from opening in the event someone or something found a way to by-pass the lock. He did not draw the shower curtain, and he kept his eyes on the door for a sign of movement, his ears attuned to pick up the first snufflings and whinnyings from the dog.
At 9:15, he put his canine into the luggage shelf behind the front seat of his MGB-GT. Intrepid had just enough room to turn around in and three windows to look out of. He seemed content. Salsbury judged he would be in Harrisburg a little after ten. The first thing on the agenda was to see if the police would let him look at the body of Victor Salsbury or whoever was dead.
The desk sergeant was a dour-faced, yellow-toothed creature who sat behind a scarred and littered desk, chewing a stub of a cigar that was not lit and shuffling papers back and forth to make himself look busy. He ran a heavy, thick-fingered hand through his thinning hair and reluctantly took the delicious cigar morsel from his mouth before he spoke. Yeah?
My name's Victor Salsbury, Salsbury said.
So? He blinked several times, put the cigar back in his mouth.
I'm the one you people think is dead.
What's that supposed to mean? He was immediately defensive. Salsbury realized he had made two mistakes, the first of which was not beginning the conversation logically. A mind like that of Sergeant Brower (that was the name on the plaque on his desk) required tangible, simple statements to work with; phrases that could be turned over in his mind again and again for examination. Secondly, he had not been servile enough with the good sergeant-especially when using the phrase you people.
He changed his tact. I read in yesterday's Evening News, that the body taken from the river was identified as Victor Salsbury. But, you see, I am Victor Salsbury.
Wait a minute, Brower said, paging an officer named Clinton from his desk intercom. Salsbury stood there, fiddling with his hands and trying not to look guilty. Iron Victor would have handled this well, without a nervous shiver of the smallest magnitude. But the unprogrammed Victor that was now in charge of his body could only think about having killed Harold Jacobi little more than two weeks ago and how those uniformed men would love to learn the facts on that one.
Detective Clinton approached the desk from the right, then stopped ten feet away from Salsbury as if he had been hit on the head with an eight-pound sledge. Recovering several long seconds later, he finished the walk to the desk. He was a tall, thin man with the features of a predatory bird. His eyes shifted from Brower to Salsbury; he paled again.
This fellow's here about that unidentified stiff case you were on, Brower said. Little things like mistaken identities for corpses or men coming back from the dead did not interest him. They were not logical thoughts; there was no use pursuing them. He turned back to his papers and began snuffling them assiduously.
I'm Detective Clinton, the hawk man said.
Victor Salsbury, Victor said, accepting the bony hand.
The detective's color drained completely, and he ceased trying to maintain his cool. This way, please. He led Salsbury back to his office, waited for him to enter, followed, and closed the door behind them. He directed Salsbury to a chair, sat in his own comfortable swivel model behind his desk. What can I do for you? he asked.
Victor could think of a dozen snappy rejoinders, but realized it was not the time or place for humor. I read the paper last night saw that piece about the body identified as me.
He was quiet a moment, then smiled. I'm sure there is a mistake, Mr. Salsbury. The names may be the same, but the body was identified correctly.
There are not likely to be two Victor L. Salsburys in a city this size-both artists. Besides, you recognized me out there.
There is a resemblance, he said. We found some pictures at the Salsbury residence. You match pretty well.
Did the corpse?
Somewhat. It was, you have to realize decomposed.
Why did you link the corpse to the name Salsbury?
Your landlady- He flushed. His landlady, a Mrs.-
Pritchard, Victor said, startling himself that he knew it.
Clinton was startled too. Yes. She reported that you had gone out for an evening and had been gone ten days. You were four days overdue on your rent. She was afraid something had happened. She reported you missing.
Identification on the body? Victor asked.
None. Except a note pinned to its shirt. It was inside a plastic window from a wallet and didn't get too wet.
The note said-?
'I'm creative, but they won't let me be. V.'
Not even signed with a full name?
No. But it fits. Victor Salsbury was a commercial artist trying to work creatively but unable to build a reputation.
But I am Salsbury, and I left home for ten days with a batch of work which I sold in New York.
Detective Clinton leaned forward in his chair. But the dental charts matched, he said. There had never been a record of Salsbury's fingerprints, but he had had regular dental care.