No one believed him! No crewmember believed that Alex really knew the killer’s name! Not even the killer himself. Everyone thought his words a bluff, a scene performed for the Zzygou in order to save humanity. Everyone—or almost everyone, except the murderer—was willing to sacrifice himself for the cause.
“The most terrifying thing,” said Alex, looking straight into the Zzygou’s eyes, “is to lose your own individuality. Your ‘self.’ The worst thing is to lose your consciousness and become a puppet, yanked by invisible strings.”
Sey-Zo’s eyes, that had just been so human, suddenly changed. The pupil trembled, split apart, broke into hundreds of tiny dots. Alex felt a short, agonizing spasm of dizziness.
Then it was all over.
And Sey-Zo’s gaze turned human again, the way it couldn’t and shouldn’t have been.
“You probably telling the truth,” the Zzygou said. “I will think.”
At the opposite side of the table, Kim chuckled softly. Then she quietly recited:
The Zzygou did not deign to pay any attention to either Kim O’Hara or to the great poet’s words.
“Who is the murderer?” she asked.
“Will you take my word for it?” asked Alex in reply.
“No.”
“Then wait till tomorrow. In the morning, I will tell you everything.”
“I wait, human.”
The Zzygou turned and walked out of the recreation lounge. Someone—it must have been Morrison—heaved a deep sigh.
“Bravo, Captain,” said Holmes. “You were magnificent.”
“I was ready to believe,” said Generalov, reaching for his wine glass, “that you really do know who the killer is, Captain.”
“I do.”
“Give it up!” Puck shook his head. “You want to set yourself up as bait for the murderer. Am I right? You are hoping that he will decide to get rid of you during the night and get trapped as a result.”
Dr. Watson cheerfully nodded.
“Exactly! Just like in Moto Conan’s The Case of the Boy with a Rubber Eye!”
“That’s useless, Captain,” said Morrison. “If the murderer is cunning enough to hide among us, he won’t fall for such a cheap trick.”
And only Sherlock Holmes, the clone of the great detective Peter Valke, didn’t smile, looking at Alex.
“Are we really going to wait till tomorrow?” asked C-the-Third. “Mr. Holmes… if you know the villain’s name, why not use torture?”
“This question has already been raised. I think that the murderer will endure any amount of pain. And under too much duress, anyone will admit to anything. Torture won’t give us proof.” Holmes began filling his pipe. “So yes. I agree with the captain. Let’s postpone everything till tomorrow.”
“Will you join us for supper, Mr. Holmes?” asked Janet, all of a sudden. The detective looked at her with obvious surprise. And Janet herself seemed a bit startled by her own courtesy.
“Thank you, Ms. Janet Ruello,” said Holmes with exquisite politeness. “Unfortunately, I prefer not to partake of food during an investigation. Especially if its chemical composition is unknown to me. But I appreciate… your offer.”
“Okay, go gnaw on your vitamins under your pillow!” said Janet through clenched teeth, as if coming back to her senses. Puck Generalov giggled.
“She’s got you there, Holmes, old boy!”
He leaned toward Janet and slapped her on the shoulder. The black lady looked at him in surprise. She half-rose and moved closer to him. They sat together, demonstratively hugging and looking at Holmes.
Kim laughed. Poured herself some wine, leaned over to Morrison, and whispered something in his ear. Then both of them roared with laughter.
Alex forced himself to look away. And saw that Holmes, puffing his pipe, was watching what was going on with curiosity.
“More wine, anybody?” asked Paul Lourier.
“Sure,” Generalov eagerly agreed. “But not this red watery stuff—I think there was some decent port in there!”
Lourier got up, walked over to the bar.
“Alex,” said Holmes softly. “Do you smoke a pipe?”
“Yes, but I don’t have one on me.”
“Join me.” Holmes pointed to the chair nearest to him and got a disposable pipe, already filled with tobacco, out of his pocket. It wasn’t the good old briar from Earth, of course, but a worthy imitation of it. Besides, this pipe did not need to be seasoned. And the tobacco was quite good.
Alex lit it up. He managed to hold back a sarcastic remark about the tobacco, whose chemical composition was unknown.
“You’re very interesting to work with,” Holmes said. “I’m really enjoying this investigation, despite the tragic circumstances. The situation itself—the ship, flying through the hyper-channel, the small number of suspects, the exotic nature of the victim… Please don’t think me a cynic!”
“I don’t. You just love your job, that’s all.”
Dr. Jenny Watson perched on the arm of Holmes’s chair.
“Yes, this is a classic murder… like the one in The Case of the Yellow Starship.”
“I believe the captain was the murderer in that one?” inquired Alex.
Holmes nodded with a smile.
“Yes. But I wouldn’t insist on that analogy. You play along with me wonderfully well.”
“And you, with me.”
They looked at each other.
“What is it you want, Alex?” inquired Holmes. “To help me, to help some friend of yours, or to prove that a pilot-spesh can be a detective as well?”
“To help myself.”
“That’s a serious reason,” Holmes agreed.
From then on, they smoked in silence. The hysterical merriment that seemed to have overtaken the crew after the Zzygou’s departure also evaporated. Kim went off to her quarters after a failed attempt to take Alex with her—he just shook his head. Immediately after she left, Morrison, having fetched up a bottle of wine and two glasses, also disappeared from the recreation lounge. Generalov, growing gloomy, emptied a few glasses of whiskey and soda in quick succession and made himself scarce. Lourier excused himself and departed. He loitered briefly in the hallway, as if irresistibly drawn to the sealed door of the reactor module, and then went off to his cabin. Janet, engrossed in her own thoughts, took a long time to notice that she had been left alone with Holmes, Watson, and Alex. She kept swirling her glass, with the remnants of wine splashing at the bottom. For some reason, Alex remembered that Eben had a Red Sea, where the water was actually red because of a myriad of edible plankton. A reserve food source for the entire planet… an artificially created reservoir full of krill. Perhaps, looking at the thick red wine, Janet was thinking of her homeland?
Then the black woman lifted her head.
“Captain, permission to leave?”
“Permission granted.” Alex was slightly surprised by such a formal request, but decided to keep with her tone.
Only the three of them remained.
“Dr. Watson and I will take the vacant passenger cabin,” said Holmes, “if it’s all right with you, Captain.”
“I can let you have mine.” Alex shrugged.
“That won’t be necessary.”
Holmes carefully cleaned out his pipe. He shook his head with disapproval upon seeing the small cleaner-beetle crawling out of a corner. What’s cleanliness to a detective, except more obliterated evidence?
“Do both of you really know who the killer is?” Dr. Watson asked suddenly.