And then—Well, he would worry about what to do when he got there. He would never get to sleep this way.
He thought about Jane, and went to sleep.
After a while, he dreamed. Or was it a dream? If so, then he dreamed that he was lying there in bed, almost but not quite awake, and that there were whispers coming from all corners of the room. Whispers out of the darkness.
For big Jupiter had moved on across the sky now. The window was a dim, scarcely discernible outline, and the rest of the room in utter darkness. Whispers!
“—kill them.”
“You hate them, you hate them, you hate them.”
“—kill, kill, kill.”
“Sector Two gets all the gravy and Sector Three does all the work. They exploit our corla plantations. They are evil. Kill them, take over.”
“You hate them, you hate them, you hate them.”
“Sector Two is made up of weaklings and usurers. They have the taint of Martian blood. Spill it, spill Martian blood. Sector Three should rule Callisto. Three the mystic number. We are destined to rule Callisto.”
“You hate them, you hate them.”
“—kill, kill, kill.”
“Martian blood of usurious villains. You hate them, you hate them, you hate them.”
Whispers.
“Now—now—now.”
“Kill them, kill them.”
“A hundred ninety miles across the flat plains. Get there in an hour in monocars. Surprise attack. Now. Now. Now.”
And Rod Caquer was getting out of bed, fumbling hastily and blindly into his clothing without turning on the light because this was a dream and dreams were in darkness.
His sword was in the scabbard at his belt and he took it out and felt the edge and the edge was sharp and ready to spill the blood of the enemy he was going to kill.
Now it was going to swing in arcs of red death, his unblooded sword—the anachronistic sword that was his badge of office, of authority. He had never drawn the sword in anger, a stubby symbol of a sword, scarce eighteen inches long; enough, though, enough to reach the heart—four inches to the heart.
The whispers continued.
“You hate them, you hate them, you hate them.”
“Spill the evil blood; kill, spill, kill, spill.”
“Now, now, now, now.”
Unsheathed sword in clenched fist, he was stealing silently out the door, down the stairway, past the other apartment doors.
And some of the doors were opening, too. He was not alone, there in the darkness. Other figures moved beside him in the dark.
He stole out of the door and into the night-cooled darkness of the street, the darkness of the street that should have been brightly lighted. That was another proof that this was a dream. Those street-lights were never off, after dark. From dusk till dawn, they were never off.
But Jupiter over there on the horizon gave enough light to see by. Like a round dragon in the heavens, and the red spot like an evil, malignant eye.
Whispers breathed in the night, whispers from all around him.
“Kill—kill—kill—”
“You hate them, you hate them, you hate them.”
The whispers did not come from the shadowy figures about him. They pressed forward silently, as he did.
Whispers came from the night itself, whispers that now began to change tone.
“Wait, not tonight, not tonight, not tonight,” they said.
“Go back, go back, go back.”
“Back to your homes, back to your beds, back to your sleep.”
And the figures about him were standing there, fully as irresolute as he had now become. And then, almost simultaneously, they began to obey the whispers. They turned back, and returned the way they had come, and as silently…
Rod Caquer awoke with a mild headache and a hung over feeling. The sun, tiny but brilliant, was already well up in the sky.
His clock showed him that he was a bit later than usual, but he took time to lie there for a few minutes, just the same, remembering that screwy dream he’d had. Dreams were like that; you had to think about them right away when you woke up, before you were really fully awake, or you forgot them completely.
A silly sort of dream, it had been. A mad, purposeless dream. A touch of atavism, perhaps? A throwback to the days when peoples had been at each other’s throats half the time, back to the days of wars and hatreds and struggle for supremacy.
This was before the Solar Council, meeting first on one inhabited planet and then another, had brought order by arbitration, and then union. And now war was a thing of the past. The inhabitable portion of the solar system—Earth, Venus, Mars, and two of the moons of Jupiter—were all under one government.
But back in the old bloody days, people must have felt as he had felt in that atavistic dream. Back in the days when Earth, united by the discovery of space travel, had subjugated Mars—the only other planet already inhabited by an intelligent race—and then had spread colonies wherever Man could get a foothold.
Certain of those colonies had wanted independence and, next, supremacy. The bloody centuries, those times were called now.
Getting out of bed to dress, he saw something that puzzled and dismayed him. His clothing was not neatly folded over the back of the chair beside the bed as he had left it. Instead, it was strewn about the floor as though he had undressed hastily and carelessly in the dark.
“Earth!” he thought. “Did I sleep-walk last night? Did I actually get out of bed and go out into the street when I dreamed that I did? When those whispers told me to?”
“No,” he then told himself, “I’ve never walked in my sleep before, and I didn’t then. I must simply have been careless when I undressed last night. I was thinking about the Deem case. I don’t actually remember hanging my clothes on that chair.”
So he donned his uniform quickly and hurried down to the office. In the light of morning it was easy to fill out those forms. In the “Cause of Death” blank he wrote, “Medical Examiner reports that shock from a blaster wound caused death.”
That let him out from under; he had not said that was the cause of death; merely that the medico said it was.
He rang for a messenger and gave him the reports with instructions to rush them to the mail ship that would be leaving shortly. Then he called Barr Maxon.
“Reporting on the Deems matter, Regent,” he said. “Sorry, but we just haven’t got anywhere on it yet. Nobody was seen leaving the shop. All the neighbors have been questioned. Today I’m going to talk to all his friends.”
Regent Maxon shook his head.
“Use all jets, Lieutenant,” he said. “The case must be cracked. A murder, in this day and age, is bad enough. But an unsolved one is unthinkable. It would encourage further crime.”
Lieutenant Caquer nodded gloomily. He had thought of that, too. There were the social implications of murder to be worried about—and there was his job as well. A Lieutenant of Police who let anyone get away with murder in his district was through for life.
After the Regent’s image had clicked off the visiphone screen, Caquer took the list of Deems friends from the drawer of his desk and began to study it, mainly with an eye to deciding the sequence of his calls.
He penciled a figure “1” opposite the name of Perry Peters, for two reasons. Peters’ place was only a few doors away, for one thing, and for another he knew Perry better than anyone on the list, except possibly Professor Jan Gordon. And he would make that call last, because later there would be a better chance of finding the ailing professor awake—and a better chance of finding his daughter Jane at home.
Perry Peters was glad to see Caquer, and guessed immediately the purpose of the call.
“Hello, Shylock.”
“Huh?” said Rod.
“Shylock—the great detective. Confronted with a mystery for the first time in his career as a policeman. Or have you solved it, Rod?”