It made Ackers nervous to remain here in the vast lush mansion. The coffee was heating, and the smell of it tickled his nose. And, heaven forbid – there on the table was a basket of apricots.
"Peaches," Lantano corrected, noticing his fixed stare. "Help yourself."
"Where – did you get them?"
Lantano shrugged. "Synthetic dome. Hydroponics. I forget where… I don't have a technical mind."
"You know what the fine is for possessing natural fruit?"
"Look," Lantano said earnestly, clasping his mushy hands together. "Give me the details on this affair, and I'll prove to you I had nothing to do with it. Come on, officer."
"Ackers," Ackers said.
"Okay, Ackers. I thought I recognized you, but I wasn't sure; didn't want to make a fool of myself. When was Heimie killed?"
Grudgingly, Ackers gave him the pertinent information.
For a time Lantano was silent. Then, slowly, gravely, he said: "You better look at those seven cards again. One of those fellows isn't in the Sirius System… he's back here."
Ackers calculated the chances of successfully banishing a man of David Lantano's importance. His organization – Interplay Export – had fingers all over the galaxy; there'd be search crews going out like bees. But nobody went out banishment distance. The condemned, temporarily ionized, rendered in terms of charged particles of energy, radiated outward at the velocity of light. This was an experimental technique that had failed; it worked only one way.
"Consider," Lantano said thoughtfully. "If I was going to kill Heimie – would I do it myself? You're not being logical, Ackers. I'd send somebody." He pointed a fleshy finger at Ackers. "You imagine I'd risk my own life? I know you pick up everybody… you usually turn up enough specifications."
"We have ten on you," Ackers said briskly.
"So you're going to banish me?"
"If you're guilty, you'll have to face banishment like anyone else. Your particular prestige has no bearing."
Nettled, Ackers added, "Obviously, you'll be released. You'll have plenty of opportunity to prove your innocence; you can question each of the ten specifications in turn."
He started to go on and describe the general process of court procedure employed in the twenty-first century, but something made him pause. David Lantano and his chair seemed to be gradually sinking into the floor. Was it an illusion? Blinking, Ackers rubbed his eyes and peered. At the same time, one of the policemen yelped a warning of dismay; Lantano was quietly leaving them.
"Come back!" Ackers demanded; he leaped forward and grabbed hold of the chair. Hurriedly, one of his men shorted out the power supply of the building; the chair ceased descending and groaned to a halt. Only Lantano's head was visible above the floor level. He was almost entirely submerged in a concealed escape shaft.
"What seedy, useless – " Ackers began.
"I know," Lantano admitted, making no move to drag himself up. He seemed resigned; his mind was again off in clouds of contemplation. "I hope we can clear all this up. Evidently I'm being framed. Tirol got somebody who looks like me, somebody to go in and murder Heimie."
Ackers and the police crew helped him up from his depressed chair. He gave no resistance; he was too deep in his brooding.
The cab let Leroy Beam off in front of the bar. To his right, in the next block, was the Interior Building… and, on the sidewalk, the opaque blob that was Harvey Garth's propaganda booth.
Entering the bar, Beam found a table in the back and seated himself. Already he could pick up the faint, distorted murmur of Garth's reflections. Garth, speaking to himself in a directionless blur, was not yet aware of him.
"Banish it," Garth was saying. "Banish all of them. Bunch of crooks and thieves." Garth, in the miasma of his booth, was rambling vitriolically.
"What's going on?" Beam asked. "What's the latest?"
Garth's monologue broke off as he focussed his attention on Beam. "You in there? In the bar?"
"I want to find out about Heimie's death."
"Yes," Garth said. "He's dead; the files are moving, kicking out cards."
"When I left Heimie's apartment," Beam said, "they had turned up six specifications." He punched a button on the drink selector and dropped in a token.
"That must have been earlier," Garth said; "they've got more."
"How many?"
"Ten in all."
Ten. That was usually enough. And all ten of them laid out by a robot device… a little procession of hints strewn along its path: between the concrete side of the building and the dead body of Heimie Rosenburg.
"That's lucky," he said speculatively. "Helps out Ackers."
"Since you're paying me," Garth said, "I'll tell you the rest. They've already gone out on their pick-up: Ackers went along."
Then the device had been successful. Up to a point, at least. He was sure of one thing: the device should have been out of the apartment. Tirol hadn't known about Heimie's death rattle; Heimie had been wise enough to do the installation privately.
Had the rattle not brought persons into the apartment, the device would have scuttled out and returned to Tirol. Then, no doubt, Tirol would have detonated it. Nothing would remain to indicate that a machine could lay down a trail of synthetic clues: blood type, fabric, pipe tobacco, hair… all the rest, and all spurious.
"Who's the pick-up on?" Beam asked.
"David Lantano."
Beam winced. "Naturally. That's what the whole thing's about; he's being framed!"
Garth was indifferent; he was a hired employee, stationed by the pool of independent researchers to siphon information from the Interior Department. He had no actual interest in politics; his Banish It! was sheer window-dressing.
"I know it's a frame," Beam said, "and so does Lantano. But neither of us can prove it… unless Lantano has an absolutely airtight alibi."
"Banish it," Garth murmured, reverting to his routine. A small group of late-retiring citizens had strolled past his booth, and he was masking his conversation with Beam. The conversation, directed to the one listener, was inaudible to everyone else; but it was better not to take risks. Sometimes, very close to the booth, there was an audible feedback of the signal.
Hunched over his drink, Leroy Beam contemplated the various items he could try. He could inform Lantano's organization, which existed relatively intact… but the result would be epic civil war. And, in addition, he didn't really care if Lantano was framed; it was all the same to him. Sooner or later one of the big slavers had to absorb the other: cartel is the natural conclusion of big business. With Lantano gone, Tirol would painlessly swallow his organization; everybody would be working at his desk as always.
On the other hand, there might someday be a device – now half-completed in Tirol's basement – that left a trail of Leroy Beam clues. Once the idea caught on, there was no particular end.
"And I had the damn thing," he said fruitlessly. "I hammered on it for five hours. It was a TV unit, then, but it was still the device that killed Heimie."
"You're positive it's gone?"
"It's not only gone – it's out of existence. Unless she wrecked the car driving Tirol home."
"She?" Garth asked.
"The woman." Beam pondered. "She saw it. Or she knew about it; she was with him." But, unfortunately, he had no idea who the woman might be.
"What'd she look like?" Garth asked.
"Tall, mahogany hair. Very nervous mouth."
"I didn't realize she was working with him openly. They must have really needed the device." Garth added: "You didn't identify her? I guess there's no reason why you should; she's kept out of sight."