As a result, Sam's desert house in the brilliant arid Mesa outside Venusburg was overrun by charity cases. He invited everyone in the low income brackets to trek their problems out to him, and while he was solving them, he was carefully attempting to foster telepathy in his patients. Sam's reasoning was quite simple. If, say, peeping were a question of developing unused muscles, it might well be that the majority of people had been too lazy or lacked opportunity to do so. But when a man is caught up in the press of a crisis, he can not afford to be lazy; and Sam was there to offer opportunity and training. So far, his results had been the discovery of 2% Latent Espers, which was under the average of the Guild Institute interviews. Sam remained undiscouraged.
Powell found him charging through the rock garden of his desert home vigorously destroying desert flowers under the impression that he was cultivating, and conducting simultaneous conversations with a score of depressed people who followed him about like puppies. The perpetual clouds of Venus radiated dazzling light. Sam's bald head was burned pink. He was snorting and shouting at plants and patients alike.
"Damn it! Don't you tell me that's a Glow-wart. It's a weed. Don't I know a weed when I see it? Hand me the rake, Bernard."
A small man in black handed him the rake and said: "My name is Walter, Dr. @kins."
"And that's your whole trouble," @kins grunted, tearing out a clump of rubbery red. It changed colors in prismatic hysteria and emitted a plaintive wail which proved it was neither weed nor Glow-wart but the disconcerting Pussy-Willow of Venus.
@kins eyed it with disfavor, watching the collapsing air-bladders cry. Then he glared at the small man. "Semantic escape, Bernard. You live in terms of the label, not the object. It's your escape from reality. What are you running away from, Bernard?"
"I was hoping you'd tell me, Dr. @kins," Walter replied.
Powell stood quietly, enjoying the spectacle. It was like an illustration from a primitive Bible. Sam, an ill-tempered Messiah, glowering at his humble disciples. Around them the glittering silica stones of the rock-garden, crawling with the dry motley-colored Venus plants. Overhead, the blinding nacre glow; and in the background, as far as the eye could reach, the red, purple, and violet Bad-Lands of the planet.
@kins snorted at Walter/Bernard: "You remind me of the redhead. Where is that make-believe courtesan anyway?"
A pretty red-headed girl jostled through the crowd and smirked: "Here I am, Dr. @kins."
"Well, don't preen yourself, because I labelled you." @kins frowned at her and continued on the TP level: "You're delighted with yourself because you're a woman, aren't you? It's your substitute for living. It's your phantasy. ' I'm a woman,' you tell yourself. 'Therefore, men desire me. It's enough to know that thousands of men could have me if I'd let them. That makes me real.' Nonsense! You can't escape that way. Sex isn't make-believe. Life isn't make-believe. Virginity isn't an apotheosis."
@kins waited impatiently for a response, but the girl merely smirked and postured before him. Finally he burst out: "Didn't any of you hear what I told her?"
"I did, teacher."
"Lincoln Powell! No! What are you doing here? Where'd you sneak up from?"
"From Terra, Sam. Came for a consultation and can't stay long. Got to jet back on the next rocket."
"Couldn't you phone Interplanetary?"
"It's complicated, Sam. Has to be done peeper-wise. It's the D'Courtney case."
"Oh. Ah. Hm. Right. Be with you in a minute. Go get something to drink," @kins let out a warning blast. "SALLY. COMPANY."
One of @kins' flock unaccountably flinched and Sam turned on the man excitedly. "You heard that, didn't you?"
"No sir. I didn't hear anything."
"Yes you did. You picked up a TP broadcast."
"No, Dr. @kins."
"Then why did you jump?"
"A bug bit me."
"It did not," @kins roared. "There are no bugs in my garden. You heard me yell to my wife." And then he began a frightful racket. "YOU CAN ALL HEAR ME. DON'T SAY YOU CAN'T. DON'T YOU WANT TO BE HELPED? ANSWER ME. GO AHEAD. ANSWER ME!"
Powell found Sally @kins in the cool, spacious living room of the house. The ceiling was open to the sky. It never rained on Venus. A plastic dome was enough to provide shade from the sky that blazed through the seven hundred hour-long Venus day. And when the seven hundred hour night began its deadly chill, the @kinses simply packed up and returned to their heated city-unit in Venusburg. Everyone on Venus lived in thirty-day cycles.
Sam came bouncing into the living room and engulfed a quart of ice-water. "Ten credits down the drain, black market," he shot at Powell. "You know that? We've got a water black market on Venus. And what the devil are the police doing about it? Never mind, Linc. I know it's out of your jurisdiction. What's with D'Courtney?"
Powell presented the problem. Barbara D'Courtney's hysterical recall of the death of her father was susceptible of two interpretations. Either Reich had killed D'Courtney, or merely been a witness to D'Courtney's suicide. Old Man Mose would insist on that being cleared up.
"I see. The answer is yes. D'Courtney was suicidal."
"Suicidal? How?"
"He was crumbling. His adaptation pattern was shattering. He was regressing under emotional exhaustion and on the verge of self-destruction. That's why I rushed over to Terra to cut him off."
"Hmmm. That's a blow, Sam. Then he could have blown the back of his head out, eh?"
"What? Blown the back of his head out?"
"Yes. Here's the picture. We don't know what the weapon was, but---"
"Wait a minute. Now I can give you something definite. If D'Courtney died that way he certainly did not commit suicide."
"Why not?"
"Because he had a poison fixation. He was set on killing himself with narcotics. You know suicides, Linc. Once they've fixed on a particular form of death, they never change it. D'Courtney must have been murdered."
"Now we're jetting places, Sam. Tell me, why was D'Courtney set on suicide by poison?"
"You supposed to be funny? If I knew, he wouldn't have been. I'm not too happy about all this, Powell. Reich turned my case into a failure. I could have saved D'Courtney. I---"
"You made any guesses why D'Courtney's pattern was crumbling?"
"Yes. He was trying to take drastic action to escape deep guilt sensations."
"Guilt about what?"
"His child."
"Barbara? How? Why?"
"I don't know. He was fighting irrational symbols of abandonment... desertion... shame... loathing... cowardice. We were going to work on that. That's all I know."
"Could Reich have figured and counted on all this? That's something Old Man Mose is going to fuss about. When we present him the case."
"Reich might have guessed---No. Impossible. He'd need expert help to---"
"Hold it, Sam. You've got something hidden under that. I'd like to get it if I can..."
"Go ahead. I'm wide open."
"Don't try to help me. You're just mixing everything. Easy, now... association with festivity... party... conversation at---my party. Last month. Gus Tate, an expert himself, but needing help on a similar patient of his own, he said. If Tate needed help, you reasoned, Reich certainly would need help." Powell was so upset he spoke aloud. "Well how about that peeper!"
"How about what?"
"Gus Tate was at the Beaumont party the night D'Courtney was killed. He came with Reich, but I kept hoping---"
"Linc, I don't believe it!"
"Neither did I, but there it is. Little Gus Tate was Reich's expert. Little Gus laid it out for him. He pumped you and turned his information over to a killer. Good old Gus. What price the Esper Pledge now?"
"What price Demolition!" @kins answered fiercely.
From somewhere inside the house came an announcement from Sally @kins: "Linc. Phone."
"Hell! Mary's the only one who knows I'm here. Hope nothing's happened to the D'Courtney girl."
Powell loped down a hall toward the v-phone alcove. In the distance he saw Beck's face on the screen. His lieutenant saw him at the same moment and waved excitedly. He began talking before Powell was within earshot.
"... gave me your number. Lucky I caught you, boss. We've got twenty-six hours."
"Wait a minute. Take it from the top, Jax."
"Your Rhodopsin man, Dr. Wilson Jordan, is back from Callisto. Now a man of property by courtesy of Ben Reich. I came back with him. He's on earth for twenty-six hours to settle his affairs, and then he rockets back to Callisto to live on his brand new estate forever. If you want anything from him, you'd better come quick."
"Will Jordan talk?"
"Would I call you Interplanetary if he would? No, boss. He's got money-measles. Also he's grateful to Reich who (I am now quoting) generously stepped out of the legal picture in favor of Dr. Jordan and justice. If you want anything, you'd better come back to Terra and get it yourself."
"And this," Powell said, "is our Guild Laboratory, Dr. Jordan."
Jordan was impressed. The entire top floor of the Guild building was devoted to laboratory research. It was a circular floor, almost a thousand feet in diameter, domed with a double layer of controlled quartz that could give graded illumination from full to total darkness including monochrome light to within one tenth of an angstrom. Now, at noon, the sunlight was modulated slightly so that it flooded the tables and benches, the crystal and silver apparatus, the cover-alled workers with a gentle peach radiance.
"Shall we stroll?" Powell suggested pleasantly.
"I haven't much time, Mr. Powell, but..." Jordan hesitated.
"Of course not. Very kind of you to give us an hour, but we need you desperately."
"If it's anything to do with D'Courtney," Jordan began.
"Who? Oh yes. The murder. Whatever put that into your mind?"
"I've been hounded," Jordan said grimly.
"I assure you, Dr. Jordan. We're asking for research guidance, not information on a murder case. What's murder to a scientist? We're not interested."
Jordan unfolded a little. "Very true. You have only to look at this laboratory to realize that."
"Shall we tour?" Powell took Jordan's arm. To the entire laboratory he broadcast: "Stand by, peepers! We're pulling a fast one."
Without interrupting their work, the lab technicians responded with loud raspberries. And amid a hail of derisory images came the raucous cry of a backbiter: "Who stole the weather, Powell?" This apparently referred to an obscure episode in Dishonest Abe's lurid career which no one had ever succeeded in peeping, but which never failed to make Powell blush. It did not fail now. A silent cackle filled the room.
"No. This is serious, peepers. My whole case hangs on something I've got to coax out of this man."
Instantly the silent cackle was stilled.
"This is Dr. Wilson Jordan," Powell announced. "He specializes in visual physiology and he's got information I want him to volunteer. Lets make him feel paternal. Please fake obscure visual problems and beg for help. Make him talk."
They came by ones, by twos, in droves. A red-headed researcher, actually working on a problem of a transistor which would record the TP impulse, hastily invented the fact that TP optical transmission was astigmatic and humbly requested enlightenment. A pair of pretty girls, engrossed in the infuriating dead-end of long range telepathic communication, demanded of Dr. Jordan why transmission of visual images always showed color aberration, which it did not. The Japanese team, experts on the extra sensory Node, center of TP perceptivity, insisted that the Node was in curcuit with the Optic Nerve (it wasn't within two millimeters of same) and besieged Dr. Jordan with polite hissings and specious proofs.
At 1:00 P.M., Powell said: "I'm sorry to interrupt, Doctor, but your hour is finished and you've got important business to---"
"Quite all right. Quite all right," Jordan interrupted. "Now my dear doctor, if you would try a transaction of the optic---" &c.
At 1:30 P.M., Powell gave the time-signal again. "It's half past one. Dr. Jordan. You jet at five. I really think---"
"Plenty of time. Plenty of time. Women and rockets, you know. There's always another. The fact is, my dear sir, your admirable work contains one significant flaw. You have never checked the living Node with a vital dye. Ehrlich Rot, perhaps, or Gentian Violet. I would suggest..." &c.
At 2:00 P.M., a buffet luncheon was served without interrupting the feast of reason.
At 2:30 P.M., Dr. Jordan, flushed and ecstatic, confessed that he loathed the idea of being rich on Callisto. No scientists there. No meetings of the minds. Nothing on the level of this extraordinary seminar.
At 3:00 P.M., he confided to Powell how he had inherited his foul estate. Seemed that Craye D'Courtney originally owned it. The old Reich (Ben's father) must have swindled it one way or another, and placed it in his wife's name. When she died, it went to her son. That thief Ben Reich must have had conscience qualms for he threw it into open court, and by some legal hokey-pokey Wilson Jordan came up with it.
"And he must have plenty more on his conscience," Jordan said. "The things I saw when I worked for him! But all financiers are crooks. Don't you agree?"
"I don't think that's true of Ben Reich," Powell replied, striking the noble note. "I rather admire him."
"Of course. Of course," Jordan agreed hastily. "After all, he does have a conscience. That's admirable indeed. I wouldn't want him to think that I---"
"Naturally." Powell became a fellow-conspirator and captivated Jordan with a grin. "As fellow scientists we can deplore; but as men of the world we can only praise."
"You do understand." Jordan shook Powell's hand effusively.
And at 4:00 P.M., Dr. Jordan informed the genuflecting Japanese that he would gladly volunteer his most secret work on Visual Purple to these fine youngsters to aid them in their own research. He was handing on the torch to the next generation. His eyes moistened and his throat choked with sentiment as he spent twenty minutes carefully describing the Rhodopsin Ionizer he had developed for Monarch.
At 5:00 P.M., the Guild scientists escorted Dr. Jordan by launch to his Callisto Rocket. They filled his stateroom with gifts and flowers; they filled his ears with grateful testimonials, and he accelerated toward Jupiter's IVth Satellite with the pleasant knowledge that he had materially benefited science and never betrayed that fine and generous patron, Mr. Benjamin Reich.
Barbara was in the living room on all-fours, crawling energetically. She had just been fed and her face was eggy.
"Hajajajajaja," she said. "Haja."
"Mary! Come quick! She's talking!"
"No!" Mary ran in from the kitchen. "What'd she say?"
"She called me Dada."
"Haja," said Barbara. "Hajajajahajaja."
Mary blasted him with scorn. "She said nothing of the kind. She said Haja." She returned to the kitchen.