The Houses of Iszm Read online

  “Farr Sainh is himself pressing the matter. I have nothing to say. The message I had for him I delivered; he would not expect me to lay bare my soul.”

  Farr nodded and grinned. “One thing you can be sure of—if I see a chance to spike the game you’re playing—I’ll take it.”

  Every hour the star that was Home Sun brightened; every hour Earth was closer. Farr found himself unable to sleep. A sour lump formed in his stomach. Resentment, perplexity, impatience compounded into a malaise whose effects were physical. In addition, his scalp had never healed properly; it itched and smarted. He suspected that he had contracted an Iszic infection. The prospect alarmed him. He pictured the infection spreading, his hair falling out, his scalp bleaching to the watered-milk color of the Iszic skin. Nor did the mysterious inner urgency diminish. He sought through his mind. He reviewed the days and months, he made notes and outlines, synthesized and checked without satisfaction. He bundled the whole problem, all the notes and papers, into an angry ball and cast it aside.

  And at last, after the longest, most exasperating voyage Farr had ever made the SS Andrei Simic drifted into the Solar System.

  IX

  Sun, Earth, the Moon: an archipelago of bright round islands, after a long passage through a dark sea. Sun drifted off to one side, Moon slipped away to the other. Earth expanded ahead: gray, green, tan, white, blue—full of clouds and winds, sunburn, frosts, draughts, chills and dusts, the navel of the universe, the depot, terminal, clearing-house, which the outer races visited as provincials.

  It was at midnight when the hull of the Andrei Simic touched Earth. The generators sang down out of inaudibility, down through shrillness, through treble, tenor, baritone, bass, and once more out of hearing.

  The passengers waiting in the saloon, with the Anderviews like holes in a jaw from which teeth had been pulled. Everyone was taut and apprehensive, sitting forward in their seats or standing stiffly.

  The pumps hissed, adjusting to the outer atmosphere. Lights glared in through the ports. The entrance clanged open; there was a murmur of voices, Captain Dorristy ushered in a tall man with blunt, intelligent features, cropped hair and dark-brown skin.

  “This is Detective Inspector Kirdy of the Special Squad,” said Dorristy. “He will investigate the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Anderview. Please give him your cooperation; we’ll all be at liberty the sooner.”

  No one spoke. The Iszic stood like statues of ice to one side. In deference to Earth convention they wore trousers and capes. Their attitude conveyed suspicion, distrust, as if even on Earth they felt impelled to protect their secrets.

  Three subordinate detectives entered the room, stared around curiously, and the tautness in the room increased.

  Inspector Kirdy spoke in a pleasant voice, “I’ll delay you as little as possible. I’d like to speak to Mr. Omon Bozhd.”

  Omon Bozhd inspected Kirdy through the viewer, which he now carried, but Detective Inspector Kirdy’s right shoulder blazed into no banner of various lights; he had never visited Iszm; he had never ventured past Moon.

  Omon Bozhd stepped forward. “I am Omon Bozhd.”

  Kirdy took him to the captain’s cabin. Ten minutes passed. An assistant appeared in the door. “Mr. Aile Farr.”

  Farr rose to his feet and followed the assistant from the saloon.

  Kirdy and Omon Bozhd faced each other, a study in contrasts: the latter pale, austere, aquiline; the other dark, warm, blunt.

  Kirdy said to Farr, “I’d like you to listen to Mr. Bozhd’s story, tell me what you think of it.” He turned to the Iszic. “Would you be kind enough to repeat your statement?”

  “In essence,” said Omon Bozhd, “the situation is this. Even before leaving Jhespiano I had reason to suspect that the Anderviews were planning harm to Farr Sainh. I communicated my suspicions to my friends.”

  “The other Iszic gentlemen?” asked Kirdy. “Exactly. With their help I installed an inspection-cell in the Anderviews’ cabin. My fears were justified. They returned to their cabin, and here they themselves were killed. In my cabin I witnessed the occurrence. Farr Sainh of course had no part in the matter. He was—and is—completely innocent.”

  They scrutinized Farr. Farr scowled. Was he so obviously ingenuous, so undiscerning?

  Omon Bozhd turned a fraction of his eyes back to Kirdy. “Farr as I say, was innocent. But I considered it wise to have him confined away from further danger, so I falsely accused him. Farr Sainh, understandably, refused to cooperate, and forestalled me. My accusation was arousing no conviction in Captain Dorristy, so I withdrew it.”

  Kirdy turned to Farr. “What do you say to all this, Mr. Farr? Do you still believe Mr. Bozhd to be the murderer?”

  Farr struggled with his anger. “No,” he said between his teeth. “His story is so—so utterly fantastic that I suppose it’s the truth.” He looked at Omon Bozhd. “Why don’t you talk? You say you saw the whole thing. Who did the killing?”

  Omon Bozhd swung his viewer. “I have glanced over your laws of criminal procedure. My accusation would carry no great weight, the authorities would need corroborative evidence. That evidence exists. If and when you find it my statement becomes unnecessary, or at best supplementary.”

  Kirdy turned to his assistant. “Take skin-scrapings, breath and perspiration samples of all the passengers.”

  After the samples were collected, Kirdy stepped into the saloon and made a statement. “I will question you separately. Those who so desire will be allowed to give their evidence with the cephaloscope as an adjunct, and these responses will naturally take on more weight. I remind you that cephaloscope evidence can not be introduced in court to prove guilt—only to prove innocence. The cephaloscope at worst can only fail to eliminate you from the suspects. I remind you further that refusal to use the cephaloscope is not only a privilege and a right, but considered by many a moral duty. Hence those who prefer to give evidence without cephaloscope verification incur no prejudice. Use of the instrument is optional with you.”

  The interrogations lasted three hours. First to be queried were the Iszic. They left the saloon one at a time, returning with identical expressions of bored patience. The Codain were interviewed next, then the Monagi, then the various other non-Earthers, and then Farr. Kirdy indicated the cephaloscope. “Use of the instrument is at your option.”

  Farr was in a bad humor. “No,” he said. “I despise the contraption, you take my evidence as I give it or not at all.”

  Kirdy nodded politely. “Very well, Mr. Farr.” He consulted his notes. “You first met the Anderviews at Jhespiano, on Iszm?”

  “Yes.” Farr described the circumstances.

  “You had never seen them before?”

  “Never.”

  “I understand that during your visit to Iszm you witnessed a tree-raid.”

  Farr described the event and his subsequent adventures. Kirdy asked one or two questions, then allowed Farr to return to the saloon.

  One at a time the remaining Earthers were interrogated: Ralf and Willeran, the Wlewskas, the young students, until only Paul Bengston, the gray-haired sanitary engineer remained. Kirdy accompanied the students back to the saloon. “So far,” he said, “either the cephaloscope or other evidence has cleared everyone I have interviewed. The other evidence consisting principally of the fact that the breath components of no one I have interviewed match the film detected on the wrist-band worn by Mrs. Anderview.”

  Everyone in the room stirred. Eyes wandered to Paul Bengston, who went white and red by turns. “Will you come with me, sir?”

  He rose, took short steps forward, looked left and right, then preceded Kirdy into the captain’s cabin.

  Five minutes passed. Kirdy’s assistant appeared in the lounge. “We are sorry to have kept you waiting. You are all at liberty to debark.”

  There was talk around the lounge—a sputter and hum. Farr sat silent. A pressure began to build up inside him: anger, frustration, humiliation. The pressure grew and finally bur
st up, to flood his mind with fury. He jumped to his feet, strode across the lounge, and climbed the steps to the captain’s cabin.

  Kirdy’s assistant stopped him. “Excuse me, Mr. Farr. I don’t think you’d better interrupt.”

  “I don’t care what you think,” snapped Farr. He yanked at the door. It was locked. He rapped. Captain Dorristy slid it open a foot and pushed his square face out. “Well? What’s the trouble?”

  Farr put his hand on Dorristy’s chest, pushed him back, thrust open the door, and stepped inside. Dorristy started a punch for Farr’s face. Farr would have welcomed it as an excuse to strike back, to smash, to hurt. But one of the assistants stepped between.

  Kirdy stood facing Paul Bengston. He turned his head. “Yes, Mr. Farr?”

  Dorristy, seething, muttering, red in the face, stood back.

  Farr said, “This man—he’s guilty?”

  Kirdy nodded. “The evidence is conclusive.”

  Farr looked at Bengston. His face blurred and swam and seemed to alter, as if by trick photography, with the candor and mild good humor becoming deceit and cruelty and callousness. Farr wondered how he could have been deceived. He bent a little forward. Paul Bengston met his eyes with defiance and dislike.

  “Why?” he asked. “Why did all this happen?”

  Bengston made no answer.

  “I’ve got to know,” said Farr. “Why?”

  Still no answer.

  Farr swallowed his pride. “Why?” he asked humbly, “won’t you please tell me?”

  Paul Bengston shrugged, laughed foolishly.

  Farr pled with him. “Is it something I know? Something I’ve seen? Something I own?”

  An emotion close to hysteria seemed to grip Bengston. He said, “I just don’t like the way your hair is combed.” And he laughed till the tears came.

  Kirdy said grimly, “I haven’t got any better from him.”

  “What could be his motive?” asked Farr plaintively. “His reason? Why would the Anderviews want to kill me?”

  “If I find out I’ll let you know,” said Kirdy. “Meanwhile—where can I get in touch with you?”

  Farr considered. There was something he had to do… It would come to him, but in the meantime! “I’m going to Los Angeles. I’ll be at the Imperador Hotel.”

  “Fool,” said Bengston under his breath.

  Farr took a half-step forward. “Easy, Mr. Farr,” said Kirdy.

  Farr turned away.

  “I’ll let you know,” said Kirdy.

  Farr looked at Dorristy. Dorristy said, “Never mind. Don’t bother to apologize.”

  X

  When Farr returned to the lounge, the other passengers had debarked and were passing through the immigration office. Farr hurriedly followed them out, almost in claustrophobic panic. The SS Andrei Simic, the magnificent bird of space, enclosed him like a clamp, a coffin; he could wait no longer to leave, to stand on the soil of Earth.

  It was almost morning. The wind off the Mojave blew in his face, aromatic with sage and desert dust, the stars glinted, paling in the east. At the top of the ramp, Farr automatically looked up and searched out Aurigae. There: Capella, there—the faintest of glitters— Xi Aurigae beside which swung Iszm. Farr walked down the ramp and planted his foot on the ground. He was back on Earth. The impact seemed to jar an idea into his head. Of course, he thought, with a feeling of relief, the natural thing to do, the obvious man to see: K. Penche.

  Tomorrow. First to the Hotel Imperador. A bath in a hundred gallons of hot water. A hundred gallons of Scotch for a nightcap. Then bed.

  Omon Bozhd approached. “It has been a pleasure knowing you, Farr Sainh. A word of advice: use vast caution. I suspect that you are still in great danger.” He bowed, then walked away. Farr stood looking after him. He felt no disposition to scoff off the warning.

  He passed immigration quickly and dispatched his luggage to the Imperador. By-passing the line of heli-cabs, he stepped down the shaft to the public tube. The disk appeared under his feet (always a thrill in the shaft, always the thought: suppose the disk doesn’t come? Just this once?).

  The disk slowed to a stop. Farr paid his fare, summoned a one-man car to the dock, jumped in, dialed his destination, and relaxed into the seat. He could not marshal his thoughts. Visions seeped through his mind: the regions of space, Iszm, Jhespiano, the many-podded houses. He sailed in the Lhaiz to Tjiere atoll. He felt the terror of the raid on the fields of Zhde Patasz, the fall down the root into the dungeon, the confinement with the Thord—and later, the terrible experience on Zhde Patasz’s experimental islet… The visions passed, they were a memory, far away, farther than the light years to Iszm.

  The hum of the car soothed him. His eyes grew heavy; he started to doze.

  He pulled himself awake, blinking. Shadowy, phantasmagorical, this whole affair. But it was real. Farr forced himself into a sober frame of mind. But his mind refused to reason, to plan. The stimuli had lost their sting. Here in the tube, the sane normal underground tube, murder seemed impossible…

  One man on Earth could help him: K. Penche, Earth agent for the Iszic houses, the man to whom Omon Bozhd brought bad news.

  The car vibrated, jerked, and shunted off the main tube toward the ocean. It twisted twice more, threading the maze of local tubes, and coasted finally to a stop.

  The door snapped open and an uniformed attendant assisted him to the deck. He registered at a stereoscreen booth; an elevator lofted him two hundred feet to the surface, then another five hundred feet to his room level. He was shown into a long chamber, finished in pleasant tones of olive green, straw, russet and white. One wall was sheer glass looking over Santa Monica, Beverly Hills and the ocean. Farr sighed in contentment. Iszic houses in many ways were remarkable, but never would they supersede the Hotel Imperador.

  Farr took his bath, floating in hot water faintly scented with lime. Rhythmical fingers of cooler water jetted and surged, massaging his legs, back, ribs, shoulders… He almost fell asleep. The bottom of the tub elevated, angled gently to vertical, and set him on his feet. Blasts of air removed his wetness; sunlamp radiation gave him a quick pleasant scorch.

  He came out of the bath to find a tall Scotch-and-soda waiting for him—not a hundred gallons, but enough. He stood at the window, sipping, enjoying the sense of utter fatigue.

  The sun came up; golden light washed in like a tide across the vast reaches of the world-city. Somewhere out there, in the luxury district that had once been Signal Hill, dwelt K. Penche. Farr felt an instant of puzzlement. Strange, he thought, how Penche represented the solution to everything. Well, he’d know whether that was right or not when he saw the man.

  Farr polarized the window and light died from the room. He set the wall clock to call him at noon, sank into bed, and fell asleep.

  The window depolarized, and daylight entered the room. Farr awoke, sat up in bed, and reached for a menu. He ticked off coffee, grapefruit, bacon, eggs. Then he jumped out of bed and went to the window. The world’s largest city spread as far as he could see, white spires melting into the tawny haze, everywhere a trembling and vibration of commerce and life.

  The wall extruded a table set with his breakfast. Farr turned away from the window, seated himself, ate and watched news on the stereoscreen. For a minute he forgot his troubles. After his long absence, he had lost the continuity of the news. Events which he might have overlooked a year ago suddenly seemed interesting. He felt a cheerful flush. It was good to be home on Earth.

  The news-screen voice said, “Now for some flashes from outer space. It has just been learned that aboard the Sed Ball Packet Andrei Simic two passengers, ostensibly missionaries returning from service in the Mottram Group…”

  Farr watched, his breakfast forgotten, the cheerful glow fading.

  The voice recounted the affair. The screen modeled the Andrei Simic: first the exterior, then a cutaway, with an arrow directing attention to “the death cabin.” How pleasant and unconcerned was this commentator! How
remote and incidental he made the affair seem!

  “… the two victims and the murderer have all been identified as members of the notorious Heavy Weather crime-syndicate. Apparently they had visited Iszm, third planet of Xi Aurigae, in an attempt to smuggle out a female house.”

  The voice spoke on. Simulacra of the Anderviews and Paul Bengston appeared.

  Farr clicked off the screen and pushed the table back into the wall. Rising to his feet, he went to look out over the city. It was urgent. He must see Penche.

  From the Size 2 cupboard he selected underwear, a suit of pale blue fiber, fresh sandals. As he dressed he planned out his day. First, of course, Penche… Farr frowned and paused in the buckling of his sandals. What should he tell Penche? Come to think of it, why would Penche worry about his troubles? What could Penche do? His monopoly stemmed from the Iszic; he would hardly risk antagonizing them.

  Farr took a deep breath and shrugged aside these annoying speculations. It was illogical, but quite definitely the right place to go. He was sure of this; he felt it in his bones.

  He finished dressing, went to the stereoscreen, and dialed the office of K. Penche. Penche’s symbol appeared—a conventionalized Iszic house, with vertical bars of heavy type, reading K. Penche—Houses. Farr had not touched the scanning button, and his own image did not cross to Penche’s office, an act of instinctive caution.

  A female voice said, “K. Penche Enterprises.”

  “This is—” Farr hesitated and withheld his name. “Connect me to Mr. Penche.”

  “Who is speaking?”

  “My name is confidential.”

  “What is your business, please?”

  “Confidential.”

  “I’ll connect you to Mr. Penche’s secretary.”

  The secretary’s image appeared—a young woman of languid charm. Farr repeated his request. The secretary looked at the screen. “Send over your image, please.”

  “No,” said Farr. “Connect me with Mr. Penche—I’ll talk directly to him.”