The Heaven Makers Part 25

"I see a four-p.r.o.nged attack," Bondelli said. "There're four common essentials with insane killers."

Thurlow started to say something, thought better of it as Bondelli raised a hand, four fingers extended.

"First," Bondelli said, "did the victim's death profit the killer. Psychopaths usually kill strangers or persons close to them. You see, I've been doing my homework in your field, too."

"I see that," Thurlow said.

"And Adele had no insurance," Bondelli said. He lowered one finger. "Next, was the murder carefully planned?" Another finger came down. "Psychopaths don't plan their crimes. Either they leave escape to chance, or they make it ridiculously easy for the police to catch them. Joe practically advertised his presence in that office."

Thurlow nodded and began to wonder if Bondelli could be right. Am I unconsciously attacking Ruth through her father? Where the h.e.l.l did she go?

"Third," Bondelli said, "was a great deal more violence than necessary used in the crime? Deranged people continue an attack beyond all reason. There's no doubt the first thrust of that sword would've killed Adele." A third finger came down.

Thurlow returned his gla.s.ses to his nose, stared at Bondelli. The attorney was so intent, so sure of himself. Was it possible?

"Fourth," Bondelli said, "was the killing accomplished with an improvised weapon? Persons who plan set themselves up with a lethal weapon beforehand. A psychopath grabs anything at hand -- a cleaver, a club, a rock, a piece of furniture." The fourth finger came down and Bondelli lowered a fist to the desk. "That d.a.m.ned sword hung on Joe's study wall for as long as I can remember."

"It all sounds so easy," Thurlow said. "But what's the prosecution gong to be doing all this time?"

"Oh, they'll have their experts, naturally."

"Whelye among them," Thurlow said.

"Your boss at the hospital?"

"The same."

"Does . . . that put you . . . on a spot?"

"That doesn't bother me, Tony. He's just another part of the community syndrome. It's . . . it's the whole mad mess." Thurlow looked down at his hands. "People are going to say Joe's better off dead -- even if he is insane. And the prosecution experts you kiss off with a wave of the hand, they're going to be saying things the community wants to hear. Everything the judge says is likely to be interpreted . . ."

"I'm sure we can get an impartial judge."

"Yes . . . no doubt. But judges invariably say the question to be determined is whether at the time of the crime the accused had not the use of that part of his understanding which allowed him to know he was doing a wrong and wicked act. That part, Tony; as though the mind could be divided into compartments, part of it sane, part insane. Impossible! The mind's a unified thing. A person can't be mentally and emotionally diseased in some fict.i.tious part without infecting the total personality. A knowledge of right and wrong -- the ability to choose between G.o.d and the devil -- is profoundly different from the knowledge that two plus two equals four. To make the judgment of good and evil requires an intact personality."

Thurlow looked up, studied Bondelli.

The attorney was staring out the window, lips pursed in thought. He obviously hadn't been listening.

Thurlow turned toward the window. He felt sick with frustration and despair, Ruth had run away. That was the only logical, sane, reasonable explanation. Her father was doomed, no matter . . . Thurlow's muscles locked into frozen, glaring suspense. He stared out the window.

Some ten feet out, poised in the air, hovering, was an object . . . a dome-shaped object with a neat round opening that faced Bondelli's window. Behind the opening, figures moved.

Thurlow opened his mouth to speak, found he had no voice. He lurched out of his chair, groped his way around the desk away from the window.

"Andy, is something wrong?" Bondelli asked. The attorney swiveled back, stared up at Thurlow.

Thurlow leaned on the desk facing the window. He looked right into the round opening in the hovering object. There were eyes inside, glowing eyes. A slender tube protruded from the opening. Painful, constricting force pressed in on Thurlow's chest. He had to fight for each breath.

My G.o.d! They're trying to kill me! he thought.

Waves of unconsciousness surged over his mind, receded, returned. His chest was a great gasping region of fire. Dimly, he saw the edge of the desk surge upward past his eyes. Something hit a carpeted floor and he realized with fading consciousness that it was his head. He tried to push himself up, collapsed.

"Andy! Andy! What's wrong? Andy!" It was Bondelli's voice. The voice bounced and receded in a wavering, ringing echo box. "Andy . . . Andy . . . And . . ."

Bondelli stood up -- from a quick examination of Thurlow, shouted for his secretary: "Mrs. Wilson! Call an ambulance! I think Dr. Thurlow's had a heart attack."

14.

I must not grow to like this life, Kelexel told himself. I have a new pet, yes, but I also have a duty. A moment will come when I must leave, taking my pet, abandoning all the other pleasures of this place.

He sat in Ruth's private quarters, a bowl of native liquor on a low table between them. Ruth appeared oddly pensive, quiet. The manipulator had required quite heavy pressure to bring her into a responsive mood. This bothered Kelexel. She had been coming along so nicely, taking the training with an ease which delighted him. Now -- relapse . . . and just after he had given her such a pleasant toy, the pantovive.

There were fresh flowers on the table beside the liquor. Roses, they were called. Red roses. The liquor had been sent along by Ynvic. Its aroma, a touch on the palate, surprised and delighted Kelexel. Subtle esthers danced on his tongue. The heady central substance required constant readjustment of his metabolism. He wondered how Ruth adapted to the stuff. She was taking an inordinate amount of it.

In spite of the distracting effort at keeping his metabolism in balance, Kelexel found the total experience pleasant. The senses came alert: boredom retreated.

Ynvic had said the liquor was a wine from a sunny valley ". . . up there east of us." It was a native product, lovely stuff.

Kelexel looked up at the silvery gray curve of ceiling, noted the gravity anomaly lines like golden chords above the manipulator. The room was taking on a pleasant air of familiarity with its new touches denoting occupancy by his delightful pet.

"Have you noticed how many of the s.h.i.+p people wear native clothing?" Kelexel asked.

"How could I?" Ruth asked. (How fuzzy her voice sounded.) "When do I ever get out of here?"

"Yes, of course," Kelexel agreed. "I was thinking I might try some of your clothing myself. Ynvic tells me that the garments of some of your larger children often fit the Chem with very slight alteration. Ynvic calls that a fringe benefit."

Ruth refilled her gla.s.s from the wine bowl, drank deeply.

The little pig of a gnome! she thought The dirty little troll!

Kelexel had been drinking from a flagon. He dipped it into the bowl, raised it dripping amber. "Good drink, delightful foods, comfortable clothing -- all this and great enjoyment, amus.e.m.e.nt. Who could grow bored here?"

"Yes, indeed," Ruth muttered. "Who c'd grow bored?" Again, she drank deeply of the wine.

Kelexel took another sip from his flagon, adjusted his metabolism. Ruth's voice sounded so strange. He noted the manipulator's setting, wondered if he should apply a bit more pressure. Could it be the liquor? he asked himself.

"Did you enjoy yourself with the pantovive?" he asked.

The dirty, evil little troll! she thought "'S great fun," she sneered. "Why'ntch go play with it y'rself f'r awhile?"

"Lords of Preservation!" Kelexel muttered. He had just realized that the liquor was inhibiting Ruth's higher centers. Her head rolled crazily on her neck. She spilled part of her drink.

Kelexel reached over, took the gla.s.s from her, placed it gently on the table. She either was incapable or had never learned how to adjust her metabolism, he realized.

"Don'tcha like th' stories?" Ruth asked.