“You’re making this difficult for me,” Lorimer said. “I can’t really believe you’ve changed your mind. I mean, if you had I’d almost be tempted to blackmail you into it—for your own good.”
Fay gave a short laugh. “You couldn’t blackmail me.”
“I could, Fay, believe me. The Primate doesn’t like anybody to engage in adultery, but I’m just a man—with a tendency to venal sin built into him—and I’m not married. I’d probably get a month’s suspended sentence. You, on the other hand, are a woman who has betrayed a faithful husband …”
“Gerard has to be faithful! He isn’t equipped for anything else.”
“The Primate won’t hold that against him. No, sweetie, all the money and fancy lawyers in the world wouldn’t save you from going up for a year. At least a year.” Lorimer was relieved to see that Fay looked suitably horrified. She had the advantages of being rich and beautiful, but when it came to emotional or intellectual in-fighting a certain passivity in her nature guaranteed him victory every time. He paused for a few seconds, long enough to let the threat of prison have maximum effect, then he straddled the bench beside Fay.
“You know, this is the craziest conversation I’ve ever heard,” he said soothingly. “Why are we talking about blackmail and prison when we could be talking about our future together? You hadn’t really changed your mind, had you?”
Fay stared at him in sad speculation. “No, Mike. Not really.”
“That’s great—because this character I found yesterday is too good to waste.” Lorimer squeezed Fay’s hand. “It turns out he’s an unsuccessful artist. I thought you could sell anything in the art line these days, but if there were any garrets on Oregonia this guy would be starving in one of them. That reminds me, can you let me have the pay-off money now?”
“Twenty thousand, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I think there’s more than that in the downstairs safe. I’ll get it for you now.” Fay turned to leave, then paused. “What’s his name?”
“Raymond Settle. Have you heard of him?”
Fay shook her head. “What sort of paintings does he do?”
“I don’t know.” Lorimer was slightly taken aback by the question. Who cares, anyway? The only thing that matters is that he’s determined to kill himself.”
On the way back down the gilded hill and into town Lorimer reviewed his plan. Its elements were simple. Gerard Willen was an industrious and moderately successful businessman, so nobody could really say he had married Fay for her money. He had seen her once, had fallen in love, and had courted her with a desperate ardour to which Fay—always liable to manipulation by anyone with strong motivations—had easily succumbed. The trouble with their marriage was that Gerard, as though having expended the dregs of his vitality on the chase, had almost immediately become paternal rather than passionate. He demanded no more of Fay than that she be seen on his arm at Church functions and formal dinners.
The biological pressures had built up within Fay for more than a year, and Lorimer—fencing coach at an exclusive gymnasium—counted himself lucky to have appeared on the scene at precisely the right time to act as a release mechanism.
In the beginning, for about a month, he had been content just to possess Fay’s body, then had come the conviction that he had earned all the things which went with it. He wanted the money, the splendid houses, the status, and—above all—the escape from the hopeless daily chore of trying to impart grace to plump matrons who used their foils like fly-swatters. But Gerard Willen stood squarely in the way.
On Earth, or one of fifty other planets, there would have been the twin possibilities of divorce or straightforward murder. On Oregonia, neither of these options was open. The dominance of the Mother Church meant that divorce was impossible, except in very extreme circumstances. It was certainly out of the question for a minor thing like sexual incompatibility. And murder due to the fact that Oregonian law prescribed Personality Recompense as a punishment—was much too risky.
It was dark when Lorimer parked his floater at the pre-arranged meeting point on the northern outskirts of the city. For an uneasy moment he thought Settle had failed to make it, then he noticed the thin figure emerging from the blackness of a clump of trees. Settle was moving slowly, weaving a little, and he had difficulty in getting into the vehicle.
“Have you been drinking?” Lorimer demanded, scanning the dimly seen triangular face.
“Drinking?” Settle shook his head. “No, my friend, I’m hungry. Just hungry.”
“I’d better get you something to eat.”
“That’s very kind of you, but …”
“I’m not being kind,” Lorimer interrupted, unable to conceal his disgust. “It would ruin the whole thing if you died on us. I mean, if your body died.”
“It won’t,” Settle told him. “It hangs on to life with a tenacity I find a little disconcerting—that’s my whole problem, after all.”
“Whatever you say.” Lorimer boosted the floater up off the ground and drove it forward. We can’t afford to be seen together, so keep your head down. I’m taking you up to the Willen house.”
“Are we going to do it tonight?” A rare note of animation had crept into Settle’s voice.
“No. Gerard Willen is still out of town, but you’ll have to see the layout of the place in advance, to make sure nothing goes wrong on the big night.”
“I see.” Settle sounded disappointed. He tightened his cloak around himself, huddled down in the passenger seat and remained quiet for the rest of the journey up to the house. Lorimer did not mind the silence—talking to the other man made him feel cold and, in a way he failed to understand, threatened. He made his way up the hill, choosing roads he knew would be deserted, and parked in the lee of the big house. The night air felt crisp as he stepped out of the floater, and the starlight lay like an unseasonal frost on the lawns and hedges. They went through to the patio at the back, where yellow radiance from the windows of the house provided enough illumination for them to see clearly. Lorimer took the cloud gun from his pocket and handed it to Settle, who gripped it with a thin reluctant hand.
“I thought you said it wasn’t tonight,” Settle whispered.
“Just get used to the feel of the gun—we can’t afford for you to miss.” Lorimer urged his companion forward. “The plan is that you’re supposed to be sneaking into the house to steal something—the fact you’re a down-and-out will make the story sound even better. You go in through this french window, which is never locked, and you start looking around for valuables.” Lorimer turned the handle of the window frame and pushed it open. Warm air billowed around them as they went inside the long unlit room.
“What you don’t know is that right next to this room is Gerard Willen’s study where he has a habit of working late at night, when he should be in bed with his wife. You move around in here for a while, then you knock something over. This would do.” Lorimer pointed at a tall vase on a shelf.
“Willen hears the noise, and comes in through that door over there. You panic and smoke him a couple of times with your gun. Do it as many times as you want—just make sure he dies.”
“I’ve never killed anybody,” Settle said doubtfully.
Lorimer sighed. “You’re not killing him—you’re killing yourself. Remember?”
“I guess so.”
“Don’t forget it. When Willen goes down, you stand looking at him—stupefied—until Fay Willen appears in the doorway. You let her get a good look at you, then you throw the gun down and make a run for it, back out the way you came in. The police pick you up in less than an hour. Fay identifies you. You confess. And that’s it!”