Murder in Space

3

Compared to the spacious, luxurious suite which Hautley Quicksilver occupied, that assigned to Carrison Fane was spartan, to say the least. it was essentially a square room, with an adjoining 'fresher cubicle for sanitary purposes. At Hautley's suggestion, the guests joined hands and traversed the space, encountering no confederate who might have been concealed from view behind a light-baffle.

Then seven pneumos unfolded from storage-spaces in the walls. They seated themselves in a circle thusly:

Deacon Fane

Jarles Rapsallion Hautley Quicksilver Turgo Barnavelt Taurean Hakefield

The Great-Mother Novice Alia

They joined hands, after a servitor had been summoned: Hautley's right hand clasped the left hand of Deacon Fane; his left was held by the right hand of Taurean Hakefield, and thus around the circle. On voice command, the servitor left the cabin, turning off the ceiling luminants and locking the door from the outside. They were left in all but utter darkness: a small degree of light leaked in from the lumlnant panels in the 'fresher, whose door was an inch ajar.

The light was just sufficient for Hautley's keen vision to discern the white wings of Carrison Fane's spread collar in the gloom.

"I shall now attain receptor-mode through self-induced trance," the Psychist announced. "Pray be still ..."

"Is there any possible danger attached to this, ah, experiment?” demanded the Matriarch. Deacon Fane assured her that there was none, although:

"Occasionally, a prime node will be bitterly aggrieved at its discarnate state, mischievous, even malignant. We shall simply dismiss from Linkage any entity thus attuned. Silence, now, all, please!"

His breathing deepened, slowly. Hautley unobtrusively placed a forefinger on the Deacon's pulse: it slowed, slowed. The trance-state he was entering seemed genuine enough.

There was no sound, save for the sigh of air-currents through the wall-vent, a barred grill; faint hum of the ship itself; purr of heating units at baseboard; their own breathing.

Every sense alert, searching the all but unbroken gloom, Hauney felt amused, excited. The staging, showmanship, were impeccable: far beyond the gross crudities such as the entrepreneur Rapsallion might approach. The silence became deafening, broken largely by Carrison Fane's breathing, which became ragged, uneven.

Suddenly, there sounded a gargling gasp, as of someone being strangled. A scraping thump, as of a body relaxing, dragging its heels. Cries burst out in alarm:

"Something's gone wrong! Help! Lights—!"

The circle of linked hands was broken; pneumos scraped back; feet thudded on the slick black glassine flooring for the door; bodies grappled in panic for the light-switch.

The luminants came to life, flooding the black cubicle with brilliance.

Hautley, who had not moved from his pneumo, saw three astounding things with utter clarity.

Carrison Fane sprawled, slumped over, in the cushioned embrace of his pneumo. The soft part of his throat, directly beneath his adam's apple, had been punctured. Therefrom leaked scarlet blood.

Between his outspread feet, a steel knife of some sort glittered; its blade was wet with fresh blood.

There was no one else in the room; no one at all, but the seven who had entered the cubicle to contact the spirit-world.

The Matriarch shuddered, gasped, strained the little Novice to her bony bosom. The child observed everything with bright, avid gaze.

The entrepreneur Rapsallion looked pale and shaken; Barnavelt wet dry lips with a dryer tongue; Taurean Hakefield clung to Hautley's arm, seemingly faint.

He knelt swiftly, touched the body of the Psychist at pressure points. There was neither heartbeat nor wrist-pulse to be detected. Lacking such as Rapsallion's huge, ostentatious kerchief, Hautley commandeered same; he wrapped the hilt of the knife with it, to avoid smearing whatever fingerprints might be thereupon. Rising, he addressed the frozen company in sparse words:

"This man is dead. Cn. Barnavelt, you are nearest to the wall unit: please call the Purser. We need a medico, and a ship's officer. Murder has been committed here—"

Whether by a human agency, or a malignant spirit?

That was the one thought that flashed through the minds of many.

The Captain of the Arthur C. Clarke was a large, distinguished-looking man with silver temples; his name was Renwald Larlavon. He assumed command of the situation promptly. The ship's chief medico, a plum-skinned Spican named Ordocovor, examined the body and pronounced it dead some eight minutes from a puncture wound in the throat. The body was carried out of the room on a gravity-lift, to be frozen in the cryonics unit.

"Ladies, gentlemen," said the Captain in somber, measured tones, "when we arrive at Paragon, there will, of course, be a police inquiry. Until then, and until the criminal is apprehended, I declare martial law upon this vessel; all—and I mean all—civil rights are suspended. You may go, so that the cabin may be sealed off. Ser Hautley, I would see you in my stateroom."

"Certainly," murmured Quicksilver.

Captain Larlavon's stateroom proved spacious but sparely appointed. Scanning a computer facsimile at his desk, Larlavan gestured for Hautley to seat himself.

"Ser Hautley, I have asked Computer Central for a brief dossier on every individual present in cabin S-14 during this incredible atrocity: yours came out first, as you are of Prime-A-plus-A status."

Hautley made a noncommittal sound. The Captain eyed him gravely.

"You are, it seems, a private inquiry agent; a professional criminologist?" it was not actually a query, but Hautley replied in the affirmative.

"And one of great distinction, as I read. Ser Hautley, I will not mince words: we are still two full days out of our first port, which is Paragon. No one can keep passengers from gossiping. We cannot tolerate the presence of a vicious murderer aboard the Clarke, if only for passenger morale. Will you assist, advise, in a preliminary round of questioning?"

"My services are at your command," said Quicksilver. "However, I must remind the Captain that, being present at the scene of the crime, I am myself one of the six suspects."

"Understood," nodded Captain Larlavon. "And your offer of assistance, guidance, is gratefully received. What do you advise?"

Hautley concentrated briefly, then said: "Let us interview each of those present in turn. I suggest, also, that you inquire of Computer Central a fax of all financial transactions made by each within the past year."

"Certainly, but . . ." The Captain looked puzzled. Hautley smiled briefly.

"Sir, the one and only motive for murder is personal gain. No other has ever been discovered. Since it seems unlikely that we deal here with a crime of passion, then monetary motives are suspected."

"Personal gain ... what of the actions of a homicidal maniac?” asked the officer.

"All murders, whether premeditated or committed on impulse, are committed for personal gain. Crimes of passion, which you might suspect to be otherwise, are still connected with personal gain—the elimination of an erotic rival, the punishment of a straying mate. Personal gain. Murders committed by paranoid psychotics are for the purpose of removing suspected enemies: personal gain, again. More sordidly, most murders are committed solely with wealth in mind: thus I would scrutinize briefly the monetary records of those involved."

"You shall have the facsimiles shortly," affirmed the Captain, turning to the computer terminal.