Stranglers moon, p.3
Stranglers' Moon, page 3
Reaching down onto the surface of the console, the Head picked up three book reels.
"These are her findings," he said. "They came straight to Helena on arrival, and she brought them instantly to my attention. I'll give them to you before you leave; they'll probably shock you as much as they did us. There are a few more reels, also, because we correlated some data of our own. The total picture is frightening.
He went back and sat down behind the console, never taking his eyes from the d'Alemberts' faces. "The disappearance of the Bjendens was no isolated phenomenon.
Over the past twenty years more than two hundred and fifty thousand people have vanished on Vesa without a trace!
Jules sat bolt upright and Yvette's eyes widened in disbelief. "What?" the female agent exclaimed. "That's impossible!
"I don't believe it," Jules said, echoing his sister's sentiments. "chat many people can't simply disappear." "Nobody said it was 'simple'," Helena spoke up from behind her father. "In fact, we suspect it's awfully complex-a full-fledged conspiracy.
"There's no other explanation," the Head agreed. "It's so unexpected that no one ever looked for it before. But a simple check of spaceliner reservations tells a good deal of the story. Over the last two decades a certain number of tourists have come to Vesa and a certain number have left. The first number is quite larger than the second." "Maybe they stayed on Vesa," Yvette suggested.
"Unfortunately the answer is not that simple," said the master tactician, shaking his head.
"The population of that moon is well accounted for. We have records on births, deaths, immigrations and emigrations for that entire timespan, and they entirely explain the present population level.
"But why wasn't this noticed earlier?" Jules asked. "Didn't the spaceship companies think anything was odd when so many people canceled their return reservations?
"Apparently not. The customer is always right, and it's not polite to pry into his reasons for canceling. Perhaps he's decided to stay longer, perhaps he's decided to book passage with another company. Remember, this was happening gradually, and the effect was spread out over all sixty-two companies that run ships to Vesa. They just never compared notes among themselves. It wasn't until we compared all their records together that we noticed the discrepancy.
Yvette found herself shaking her head. "But how can such a huge number of people just disappear without an alarm being raised? Some of them must have had family and friends who would miss them. Why weren't the police notified?
"Ah , but they were. Our Central Computer Facility has the records of every police department on every planet, and we cross-checked their missing persons files. They're simply bulging with cases of people who went off to visit Vesa and never returned home.
"But if that's the case...." Jules began.
"I know; it looks like incompetence on someone's part not to have spotted the pattern long ago. But really, what reason was there to cross-check before? Look at it this way: there are at present one thousand, three hundred and forty-three planets in the Empire.
If we assume randomness, that equal numbers of people from each planet disappeared on Vesa, that leaves us with an average of two hundred people per planet. Now average that over twenty years, and you find that only ten people per planet per year are disappearing there. Not an extraordinary number at all. The ordinary planetary police force handles thousands of missing person calls in a year. I assume that, when they trace a missing person to Vesa, they put in a routine call to the police there for assistance. The Vesan police give them the same polite brush-off they gave Kantana.
The planetary police have neither the time nor the resources to follow up on these cases, so they mark them unsolved and stick them away. Ten unsolved cases per year is a drop in the bucket compared to the volume they're used to handling.
Yvette and Jules sat in stunned silence as they contemplated what the Head had told them. A quarter of a million people had gone to Vesa and vanished. Furthermore, they were disappearing at a rate of better than twelve thousand a year-or thirty-five a day! What could be happening to them all.
"You're implying," Jules said slowly, "that the Vesan police are in on whatever conspiracy is occurring there." The Head folded his hands on the table in front of him. "There's simply not enough information to say. It's extremely likely that they know something.
After all, no matter how many tourists they say they get-and I will concede it's an awfully large number-it's hard to imagine them not noticing something of this magnitude. But it's rather obvious that they're choosing to ignore it.
"And if they're doing that," Yvette mused aloud, "then they must be taking orders from someone. The most likely suspect is the person in charge. Let's see, Vesa is a moon, so it would have to be a marquis-correct?
"A marchioness, in this case," the Head nodded. "Marchioness Gindri Lohlatt, a spineless sort at best. Our personality profile shows her to be incapable of any sustained conspiracy like this; she's simply too weak-willed. She may be someone else's tool, but it's doubtful she's the brains.
"A duke, then," Yvette persisted. "The Duke of Chandakha, perhaps?
"The Duke of Chandakha is thirteen years old," the Head informed her. "His mother has served as Regent since he assumed the title two years ago. The former Duke was assassinated by a disgruntled peasant after a reign of thirty-four undistinguished years.
"In other words," Jules said, "since this activity on Vesa has continued unabated for twenty years, it's probably unconnected to the Dukes of Chandakha.
The Head nodded. "There's a basic lack of continuity in the two regimes, yet the records indicate that the disappearances didn't even slow down at the Duke's death.
"Then the answer is definitely on Vesa." Yvette's words were more a statement than a question.
"Yes. Since the resorts on Vesa account for well over ninety percent of Chandakha's wealth, the Dukes of Chandakha have always been subservient to the marquisate of Vesa. They need the tax revenues too badly for their own survival.
"At the risk of stating the obvious then," Yvette said, "I gather our assignment is to find out what's happening to all these missing persons and put a stop to the operation.
"Exactly." The Head set his jaw, and fire gleamed in his eyes. "'The thought that this vast a conspiracy could be going on right under our noses for so long without our even being aware of it is galling. At least with Banion we knew he existed, even if we couldn't track him down. But this-" he spread his hands "-this is like them painting over our eyes and daring us to do something. I don't like being blinded while somebody makes a fool of me." The Head stood up, determination written in every line of his face.
"That's why I want you, my two best agents, to handle the case. I want this menace smashed, and I want it done quickly!
Back in their own ship again and floating free in orbit around Mother Earth, the two d'Alemberts studied the reels their boss bad given them. Document after document reiterated what they had already been told that somehow, thousands of people were simply ceasing to exist.
The supersiblings had found from long experience that talking the case out aloud between them helped clarify their thoughts. "Let's look at a typical case," Jules was saying. "Say Ivan and Tatyana Gregorov go to Vesa. Their spaceship reservations are all paid for, round trip. They check into their hotel and spend a few days gambling and seeing some of the shows. Then, before their vacation is supposed to be over, they abruptly check out of their hotel, taking all their belongings with them. They cancel their return reservations, getting cash for the tickets. And that's it, they're never heard from again.
"Where are they all going?" Yvette mused. "Something must happen to them. They're not staying on Vesa, unless there's a secret underground city we don't know about. Maybe they're all being taken into slavery in the deep, dark pits of some treasure mine.
"Vesa's got all the treasure mines it needs right at its gambling tables," her brother pointed out. "More money changes hands here than on the Galactic Stock Exchange.
Your imagination is running a little overtime, sis.
"But if the people aren't staying on Vesa, then they must be leaving-and the outgoing logs of all the ships departing from there indicate no such thing.
"Which leaves us in an impossible situation. The people aren't staying and they aren't leaving. They're simply vanishing.
"They could be dead, I suppose.
"Yes, it's a lot easier to hide a dead body than a live one. But even so, where do you stash a quarter of a million corpses so that they won't be noticed?
"They must have some system to it. Vesa's an airless moon; maybe they bury them all in some crater on the surface where no one ever goes. Maybe they have a catapult that launches the bodies directly into their sun." "You're beginning to sound desperate.
"Sorry; having brain cells chasing themselves around in circles inside my skull tends to make me dizzy.
"We're talking about thirty-five bodies a day," Jules said. "Disposing of them in any way like that would be a major industry, and terribly wasteful of energy. There has to be a simpler, more efficient method of going about it. But I'm damned if I can think of what it could be.
"Let's put that problem aside for the moment, before our brains turn to pink jelly. The one thing we know about this operation is that it's systematized. Anything with that rapid a turnover of business has to be. And wherever there's a system, there's a way to crack it; Papa's told us that often enough. We begin looking for common links. Is there anything the victims have in common?
"Not a thing," Jules said shaking his head. "The victims are totally random. They come from all over the Galaxy. They're men, women, old, young, famous, obscure, all races, all religions. They have nothing whatsoever in common.
"One thing," Yvette said thoughtfully. "They all came to Vesa from somewhere else.
Jules floated in the middle of the cabin, staring at his sister in open-mouthed amazement.
"Evie, you have the, rare gift of spotting the obvious. Of course, they all had to be rich.
Only the super-affluent can afford to go someplace like Vesa. And that means....
"That money has something to do with it," Yvette said, completing her brother's thought.
"These people are being killed and robbed of whatever they brought with them, then disposed of somehow.
"Yes!" Jules exclaimed, but then his expression changed. "No, wait a minute. That doesn't make sense. Vesa has no need to rob and murder people. The casinos gross so much money that they don't know what to do with it all-not to mention all the hotels, bars, theaters and brothels that have their own rakeoff. What's the percentage in killing people for their money when they're determined to give it to you legally?
"How many casinos, hotels, bars, theaters and brothels are there on Vesa, mon frere? Two hundred? Three hundred? Four? Maybe even a thousand. What's the permanent resident population of Vesa? Fifty-some thousand, according to the most recent tape I saw. The legitimate operations probably earn a bundle for the minority of the people who own them--and the larger majority who work for them. That still leaves an awful lot of the people wanting a slice of that pie. And it's such a rich pie that none of the fatcats minds them taking a small share. After all, there are about seven hundred tourists arriving on Vesa every day; who will miss a small fraction?
"Tu as raison, as always. The percentage murdered is nowhere near high enough to adversely affect the take in the casinos, so they won't complain. The police are obviously getting paid off to remain stupid. The murderers get fat off their booty. Everybody wins, nobody loses except, of course, for the poor victims who wander into the trap.
Yvette smiled weakly. "I'm not feeling nearly so dizzy anymore. It's good to know that this whole mess can be thought out logically.
"But just knowing what they're doing is a long way from smashing it," Jules said. "We still need to know how and who.
"A two-fold problem," Yvette nodded. "It seems tailor-made for a two-pronged attack.
The 'how' appeals to me, I think. I could travel to Vesa in style, set myself up as a victim and see what I catch with my bait.
"That leaves me the 'who.' It has to be done by the ordinary people living on Vesa, that much seems obvious. I'll have to get a job there, join their ranks and see what I can learn. But what sort of job should it be?
"Well, what are your qualifications? You're strong, athletic, agile, not too quick-witted...
"I beg your pardon!
"... and obviously suited to manual labor," Yvette finished with a smile. "Not very well educated, but eager to make a lot of money without having to work hard at it. Just the sort of man who would turn into a thief and a murderer.
"With sisters like you," Jules muttered good-naturedly under his breath, "who needs enemies?
Chapter 3
Locker Room Brawl
Spaceports on airless worlds all look pretty much the same. Such worlds are invariably pitted with craters from meteoroid impacts, and one of these craters is widened out and deepened to accommodate the landing of ships. Long airtight boarding tubes, similar to the one in the Anna Liebling's hangar, allow the passengers to disembark down a sloping ramp to the interior of the spaceport without having to go through the inconvenience of donning cumbersome spacesuits.
The loading and unloading of cargo, however, is a much different matter, since freight will rarely walk down a ramp of its own accord. The procedure here is to have all cargo packed in airtight modular sections, usually stored in the lower portion of the ship. Upon landing, a large section of the ship's hull slides open, exposing the cargo to the vacuum of the planet's surface. Special cargo tractors emerge from the walls of the crater-enormous flatbed carriers equipped with their own cranes, winches and other apparatus. When the tractors reach the ship they disgorge dozens of spacesuited figures who begin transferring the cargo modules from the hold to the carriers, which then drive back to their hangars and unload the freight into airlock chambers. From this point, distribution of the materials can proceed normally. The entire operation is reversed, of course, for loading cargo onto an outbound spaceship.
The men who work the spacedocks are a breed apart. Strong, tough and hardworking, they nevertheless are quick and agile. They have to be-working in a spacesuit is awkward at best, hazardous at worst. They are usually a close-knit group, out of a sense for survival; working in a vacuum makes you very dependent on your comrades.
Even the most trivial accidents can be fatal in an airless environment.
When Jules d'Alembert-working now under the name Georges duChamps-arrived on Vesa, one of the first places he applied for a job was the Vesa Spaceport. His references-all faked, of course-were impeccable, and impressed the personnel manager.
Two days later, Georges duChamps received a call at the cheap hotel room where he was staying, telling him to report for work at 1730 the next day.
There were the usual preliminary forms to be filled out, and Jules was measured for a spacesuit. Fortunately, another DesPlainian had worked here several years before, and there was already a suit in stock that would accommodate the slight but important peculiarities of the DesPlainian body form. Once those tedious necessities were taken care of, the personnel secretary led Jules down a corridor to the office of his new boss.
The gang foreman was a hulking bear of a man named Laz Fizcono. He stood over two meters tall and massed a hundred and ten kilos, with a body that had never shirked a day of work in its life. His leonine mane of red hair topped a round, full face with bushy red eyebrows and a mangy beard. His eyes glittered with life as he looked Jules over appraisingly.
"Well, what have we here?" his voice boomed out as the personnel secretary brought Jules into his office. "A dwarf?" He extended a meaty hand in the direction of his new helper.
Jules calmly stood his ground as the bigger man approached. He correctly read the insult as a good-natured challenge to determine his personality. As foreman, Fizcono wanted to find out quickly just what sort of man this new fellow was, whether he had a quick temper, whether he would blow under pressure. A good boss knew the capabilities of all the people under him.
So instead of reacting to the epithet, Jules just smiled. "DesPlaines is a planet of big, blustery mountains," he said evenly. "We mine them anyhow. It'll take more than a giant to make me feel small.
He took the foreman's proffered hand firmly in his own. Fizcono squeezed it with all the massive strength his bearlike paw could muster. Jules accepted it without a wince and, when the foreman had finished with his best shot, Jules began squeezing back. Fizcono's eyebrows lifted in surprise as the smaller man's strength was more than a match for his own. Jules just continued to stare up at the man a full thirty centimeters above him and smiled nonchalantly.
Then Fizcono did something unexpected-he laughed, a giant bellow that shook the walls of the tiny office. "By Fross, I like you, little man," he said. "You don't give in a millimeter, do you? Yes, he'll do nicely," he added to the personnel secretary, who left Jules' forms on the desk, smiled and returned to her own office.
Jules found himself liking Fizcono as well. The big man had an unforced affability that would make him a good and loyal companion. He would be a stern boss, but there was not a malicious bone in his body.
"Come on," said the foreman, leading Jules out of the office. "It's almost time for the shift to begin, and you'll want to meet the rest of your mates.
They moved down a maze of corridors, which Fizcono assured Jules he'd learn in a day or two, and eventually arrived at the suit-up room. There were ten men there already, and within the next few minutes twelve more arrived. Without exception the men were taller than Jules, and he took some good-natured ribbing from all of them when Fizcono introduced him as "my trained midget." But Fizcono's respect for him was also apparent, and the men took their cue from that. If the boss respected him, he must be good.
In general the men seemed to be from planets all over the Galaxy-a fact which was not too surprising, since Vesa was such a cosmopolitan center. It was a magnet drawing people from all over. But Jules very quickly noticed that one group of seven men kept very much to themselves. Their complexions were swarthy, their eyes darker and more brooding. There was a suspicion lurking in them against their coworkers, perhaps a smoldering resentment. The emotion was hard for Jules to read, but it was obvious that something was there.
