The Penultimate Truth

20

Within the hour Webster Foote descended to the roof of the dead Yance-man's villa. Shortly, followed by his two expert leadies who lugged the heavy cases containing his detection equipment, Webster Foote made his way down the deep-pile carpeted hail to the top floor of the villa. Ahead he made out a forlorn sight: a phalanx of alert leadies, guarding a closed door. Within lay the body of their dominus, the lord of the demesne. And, if the type VI leady in charge were correct--that leady still keeping watch outdoors in the night darkness-- the murderer had been trapped within the room, at the spot at which the killing had taken place.

Thus, Foote reflected, does the death rattle function. History has proven, tragically, that one cannot, no matter how highly placed, insure oneself against assassination. But one can threaten--and carry out the threat--_that the killer will be trapped_. At the instant of Verne Lindblom's death the machinery of apprehension, encircling the killer, had gone into operation, and so it could be presumed, as the type VI leady so did, that when he, Webster Foote, opened the bedroom door he would face not only a corpse (he hoped unmangled) but an armed, professional assassin as well--ready to fight it out to save his life.

Foote came to a halt before the phalanx of leadies, who, loyal dogwise, waited, guarded in dignified silence. Turning to his own two leadies he said, "A weapon." He pondered as they set down their heavy loads, opened the cases, waited for a more exact instruction. "One of the ephemeral nerve gasses," Foote decided. "To produce dysfunction temporarily. I doubt the individual within has an oxygen tank and mask in his possession." One of his two leadies obediently handed him the long, slender cylinder with its intricate tip. "Thank you," Foote said, and, passing through the phalanx of silent Lindblom leadies he reached the closed bedroom door.

Presenting the tip of the cylinder to the wooden surface of the door--clearly the door had been lovingly salvaged from some old mansion--he pondered for a moment as to the vanity of life, the fact that all flesh was grass and so forth, and then squeezed the trigger.

The tip of the cylinder rotated at high velocity, bored in an instant through the wooden but solid, not hollow-core, door, broke through, sealed the hole with plastic slime so that none of the gas could back up to affect the weapon's user, and then, on its own cycle, shot a fragile sphere of neurologically disjunctive synapse-depotentiating gas into the room beyond; the sphere landed in the darkness of the room and no power on earth could have intervened to prevent its fracturing; the distinctive noise meant to be audible reached Webster Foote and he then examined his round pocket watch and prepared to wait. The gas would be active for five minutes and then, due to its own constituents, would turn benign. Entry, in safety, could then be made.

Five minutes passed. "Now, sir," one of his leadies said.

Webster Foote withdrew the cylinder, returned it to the nearer of the two leadies, who placed it in the carrying case once more. However, it was within the realm of possibility that the killer had been provident, had come equipped to counter this weapon with a neutralizing agent. So, from the case, Foote selected a funny-gun, as an offensive weapon, and then, after some deep thought, the kind that tended, over past circumstances, to save his hide, he asked for a plastic protective shield which he unfolded, draped awkwardly but effectively over himself; one of his leadies assisted him so that at last the shield, capelike, covered him except for his shins and English wool socks and Londonfabricated Oxfords. Then, carrying the funny-gun, which was not funny at all, he again passed through the phalanx of Lindblom leadies. And--opened the bedroom door.

"A flare," he ordered instantly. The room was dark; no time to grope for--grope and miss--the switch.

One of his two superbly trained ieadies without hesitation obligingly lobbed a safe-style indoor flare into the bedroom; the flare lit up, a warm, comforting yellow light that did not dazzle but clearly illuminated each object. There was the bed; on it, under his covers, lay the dead man, Verne Lindblom, eyes shut. Peaceful, as if unaware; as if he never had been informed of, made acquainted with, the fact of his painless and instantaneous death. Because this was obvious to Foote; the relaxed supine state of the dead man indicated that one of the tried and true, long-tested, much-used cyanide instruments had been employed. Probably a homeostatic dart directly into the brain or the heart or the upper ganglia of the spinal column. _Merciful, anyhow_, Foote said to himself, and he glanced around for what he anticipated: a completely helpless adult male, unable to move or talk, twitching in paroxysms of arrhythmial neurological reflex arc activity; unable to protect himself or escape.

But the bedroom contained no such man. In that or any other state. The dead man, peaceful, under his covers, was alone in the room--he and Webster Foote: no one else. And, as Foote made his way cautiously into the adjoining room, through which entry, by the window, had originally been made, he saw no one there either. Behind him his two trained leadies followed; he saw no one there and they saw no one there and they at once began opening side doors, poking into a bathroom with wondrous mosaiclike tile, then two closets.

"He got away," Foote said, aloud.

His two leadies said nothing; no comment was indicated.

Returning to the phalanx of Lindblom leadies guarding the bedroom hall door, Foote said, "Inform your type VI below that they came too late."

"Yes, Mr. Foote," the in-charge leady said, and did so. "The response," it informed him in its metallic, gracious manner, "is that such could not be. The killer of Mr. Lindblom is in the bedroom area; anything else is impossible."

"According to your kind of deduct leady logic, perhaps," Foote agreed. "But empirical fact says otherwise." He turned to his own two leadies. "I will ask you now," he instructed them, "to begin collecting data. Assuming that the assassin was a human, not a leady, pay special attention for the presence of organic traces. Dermal deposits, hair."

One of the higher-type Lindblom leadies said, "Mr. Foote, there is, within the wall, a brain pattern receptor. Access to which we have the key."

"Good," Foote said. "I'll gather its readings."

"Plus an audio recorder. This also in continuous operation."

"Very good." _If_ the assassin had been a human. _If_ he had said something. And if he had passed near the percept-extensors of the brain pattern receptor. Webster Foote thoughtfully walked back into the bedroom, then into the adjoining room to examine the window through which entry had been made.

On the floor rested a portable TV set.

Bending, he took hold of it by the handle, ignoring the possible loss of fingerprints; it was unlikely that the murderer had involved himself in moving a TV set around.

The TV set was too heavy. He could lift it, but with difficulty. Aloud, Foote said, "This is it."

Within •the room's closet, engaged in unlocking the unit which contained the brain-pattern record, if any, one of Lindblom's leadies said, "Pardon, sir?"

Foote said, "This is the killer. This TV set."

"Sir," the Lindblom leady said and snickered, "a portable television set is not an instrument by which a human death can be--"

"Do you want to take over the job," Foote said, "of finding your lord's slayer? Or will you leave it to me?"

"You, of course, Mr. Foote, are in charge."

"Thank you," Webster Foote said acidly. And wondered how, if at all, he was going to manage to pry open this object masquerading-- chameleoned, as it was called--as a portable TV receiver. Because if he were right, it would resist being pried apart, had been built to withstand every sort of forced, hostile inspection.

He had, then, a bleak precog hunch. It was going to take days, even weeks, to get at the works within this "TV set." Even under the pressure of his many, varied shop assists.

Here in his hands he had the death instrument. But a hell of a lot of good it was going to do him.