“Is that all you read?”
“No, we read everything. Technical books on science as well as novels. How disintegrators are made and so on. We’ll tell you how to make weapons for us.”
“Thanks. That sort of literature is open to the public?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“I should think it would be dangerous.”
“So should I,” the fat Lybbla said thoughtfully, “but it isn’t somehow.”
Gallegher pondered. “Could you tell me how to make a heat ray, for example?”
“Yes,” was the excited reply, “and then we’d destroy the big cities and capture—”
“I know. Pretty girls and hold them for ransom. Why?”
“We know what’s what,” a Lybbla said shrewdly. “We read books, we do.” He spilled his cup, looked at the puddle of milk, and let his ears droop disconsolately.
The other two Lybblas hastily patted him on the back. “Don’t cry,” the biggest one urged.
“I gotta,” the Lybbla said. “It’s in the books.”
“You have it backward. You don’t cry over spilt milk.”
“Do. Will,” said the recalcitrant Lybbla, and began to weep.
Gallegher brought him more milk. “About this heat ray,” he said. “Just how—”
“Simple,” the fat Lybbla said, and explained.
It was simple. Grandpa didn’t get it, of course, but he watched interestedly as Gallegher went to work. Within half an hour the job was completed. It was a heat ray, too. It burned a hole through a closet door.
“Whew!” Gallegher breathed, watching smoke rise from the charred wood. “That’s something!” He examined the small metal cylinder in his hand.
“It kills people, too,” the fat Lybbla murmured. “Like the man in the back yard.”
“Yes, it — What? The man in—”
“The back yard. We sat on him for a while, but he got cold after a bit. There’s a hole burned through his chest.”
“You did it,” Gallegher accused, gulping.
“No. He came out of time, too, I expect. There was a heat-ray hole in him.”
“Who…who was he?”
“Never saw him before in my life,” the fat Lybbla said, losing interest. “I want more milk.” He leaped to the bench top and peered through the window at the towers of Manhattan’s skyline. “Wheeee! The world is ours!”
The doorbell sang. Gallegher, a little pale, said, “Grandpa, see what it is. Send him away in any case. Probably a bill collector. They’re used to being turned away. Oh, Lord! I’ve never committed a murder before—”
“I have,” Grandpa murmured, departing. He did not clarify the statement.
Gallegher went into the back yard, accompanied by the scuttling small figures of the Lybblas. The worst had happened. In the middle of the rose garden lay a dead body. It was the corpse of a man, bearded and ancient, quite bald, and wearing garments made, apparently, of flexible, tinted cellophane. Through his tunic and chest was the distinctive hole burned by a heatray projector.
“He looks familiar, somehow,” Gallegher decided. “Dunno why. Was he dead when he came out of time?”
“Dead but warm,” one of the Lybblas said. “That was nice.”
Gallegher repressed a shudder. Horrid little creatures. However, they must be harmless, or they wouldn’t have been allowed access to dangerous information in their own time-era. Gallegher was far less troubled by the Lybblas than by the presence of the corpse. Grandpa’s protesting voice came to his ears.
The Lybblas scurried under convenient bushes and disappeared as three men entered the back yard, escorting Grandpa. Gallegher, at sight of blue uniforms and brass buttons, dropped the heat-ray projector into a garden bed and surreptitiously kicked dirt over it. He assumed what he hoped was an ingratiating smile.
“Hello, boys. I was just going to notify Headquarters. Somebody dropped a dead man in my yard.”
Two of the newcomers were officers, Gallegher saw, burly, distrustful and keeneyed. The third was a small, dapper man with gray blond hair plastered close to his narrow skull, and a pencil-thin mustache. He looked rather like a fox.
He was wearing an Honorary Badge — which meant little or much, depending on the individual.
“Couldn’t keep ’em out,” Grandpa said. “You’re in for it now, young fellow.”
“He’s joking,” Gallegher told the officers. “Honest, I was just going to—”
“Save it. What’s your name?”
Gallegher said it was Gallegher. “Uh-huh.” The officer knelt to examine the body. He blew out his breath sharply. “Wh-ew! What did you do to him?”
“Nothing. When I came out this morning, here he was. Maybe he fell out of a window up there somewhere,” Gallegher pointed up vaguely to overshadowing skyscrapers.
“He didn’t. Not a bone broken. Looks like you stabbed him with a red-hot poker,” the officer remarked. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know. Never saw him before. Who told you—”
“Never leave bodies in plain sight, Mr. Gallegher. Somebody in a penthouse — like up there — might see it and vise Headquarters.”
“Oh. Oh, I see.”
“We’ll find out who killed the guy,” the officer said sardonically. “Don’t worry about that. And we’ll find out who he is. Unless you want to talk now and save yourself trouble.”
“Circumstantial evidence—”
“Save it.” The air was patted with a large palm. “I’ll vise the boys to come down with the coroner. Where’s the visor?”
“Show him, Grandpa,” Gallegher said wearily. The dapper blond man took a step forward. His voice was crisp with authority.
“Groarty, take a look around the house while Banister’s televising. I’ll stay here with Mr. Gallegher.”
“O.K., Mr. Cantrell.” The officers departed with Grandpa.
Cantrell said, “Excuse me,” and came forward swiftly. He dug slim fingers into the dirt at Gallegher’s feet and brought up the heat-ray tube. Smiling slightly, Cantrell examined the projector.
Gallegher’s heart nosedived. “Wonder where that came from?” he gulped, in a frantic attempt at deception.
“You put it there,” Cantrell told him. “I saw you do it. Luckily the officers didn’t. I think I’ll keep it.” He slipped the small tube into his pocket. “Exhibit A. That’s a damn peculiar wound in your corpse—”
“It’s not my corpse!”
“It’s in your yard. I’m interested in weapons, Mr. Gallegher. What sort of gadget is this?”
“Uh — just a flashlight.”
Cantrell took it out and aimed it at Gallegher. “I see. If I press this button—”
“It’s a heat ray,” Gallegher said quickly, ducking. “For goodness sake, be careful!”
“Hm-m-m. You made it?”
“I…yes.”
“And you killed this man with it?”
“No!”
“I suggest,” Cantrell said, repocketing the tube, “that you keep your mouth shut about this. Once the police get their hands on the weapon, your goose will be cooked. As it is, no known gun can make a wound like that. Proof will be difficult. For some reason, I believe you didn’t kill the man, Mr. Gallegher. I don’t know why. Perhaps because of your reputation. You’re known to be eccentric, but you’re also known to be a pretty good inventor.”
“Thanks,” Gallegher said. “But…the heat ray’s mine.”
“Want me to mark it Exhibit A?”
“It’s yours.”
“Fine,” Cantrell said, grinning. “I’ll see what I can do for you.”
He couldn’t do much, as it proved. Almost anyone could wangle an Honorary Badge, but political pull didn’t necessarily mean a police in. The machinery of the law, once started, couldn’t easily be stopped. Luckily the rights of the individual were sacrosanct in this day and age, but that was chiefly because of the development of communication. A criminal simply couldn’t make a getaway. They told Gallegher not to leave Manhattan, secure in the knowledge that if he tried, the televisor system would quickly lay him by the heels. It wasn’t even necessary to set guards. Gallegher’s three-dimensional photo was already on file at the transportation centers of Manhattan, so that if he tried to book passage on a streetliner or a sea-sled, he could be recognized instantly and sent home with a scolding.