The compleat collected s.., p.431
The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 431
"Is there a chance," said the inspector in a quiet and much too controlled voice, "that the sergeant could have survived?"
Malcolm did not reply because the TV camera was tracking in close-up over the debris close to the centre of the explosion. It was like a low-level flight over an alien landscape composed of enormous, semi-solid gobbets of foam, pieces of twisted and red-flecked metal and great, pallid lengths of intestinal material as well as other bits of organic wreckage which were not readily identifiable. There had been five already dead bodies in the police vehicle so that they were not necessarily seeing the remains of Sergeant Telford. As reassuringly as he could, Malcolm pointed out this possibility to the inspector.
Reynolds turned away from the screen, his face pale and his lips pressed tightly together. But he was not sick, just angry—angrier than Malcolm had ever seen a man become in all his life. Beside the inspector, Ann was angry, too.
"Were you responsible," she said furiously. "For bringing a vehicle with explosives aboard into a hospital?"
"Easy, Ann ..." began Malcolm.
"When we left the vehicle," said the inspector coldly, "there were no explosives on board. The armoury held nothing but anti-riot weapons."
"You're sure?"
"Quite sure."
Ann nodded, but she was still angry as she went on, "He was a nice man, and I'm glad he or you had no part in that explosion. But what kind of person could set off a bomb in a hospital? Outside there is a sort of sick logic to some of the terrorism. But in here we never take sides. We only try to put people back together again after the nutcases have blown them apart. The ones who did this must be utterly without human feeling!"
"That's right," said Reynolds quietly.
Ann was silent for a moment, then she said, "Are you suggesting that the explosion is part of your conspiracy?"
"I find it hard to believe, and harder to understand," said Ann, still in an angry, aggressive tone. "Especially the extraterrestrial aspect. I might be able to understand a bunch of criminal lunatics, driven by boredom and halucinogenic drugs into believing that they are being ordered to carry out these bombings and murders by some non-human super-being. But you wanted to know if these cadavers were human, and they were, human. As human as you are, Inspector."
Reynolds returned his attention to the TV screen before she had finished talking. He said, "Can we be sure that Telford was killed, that he is not lying somewhere with information on the bombing that I need to—"
"Are you interested in his physical condition," Ann broke in, "or his information?"
"Stop it, Ann!" said Malcolm sharply. He started to apologise to the inspector, trying to explain that as a sister on the ward she was cool, clinical and outwardly unaffected by the illness and injuries all around her, but that when she was off duty she could become very angry and emotional about unnecessary death and suffering, and her anger was usually directed at the person nearest to her at the time. But then he saw that Reynolds had not taken offence, and he realised that the other was experienced in dealing with people under stress and knew that there were situations in which the things said were not necessarily the things which were meant.
"If Sergeant Telford was wearing his ID tag," said Malcolm, reassuringly, "it will be found and his name added to the casualty list. This may take a little time, especially if he is seriously injured when we would be more interested in giving him assistance than worrying about the identity of the patient. The list will be shown on the screen as soon as the information becomes available."
Reynolds nodded and continued watching the TV.
"I'm sorry, Inspector," said Ann suddenly. "None of this is your fault, of course. The maddening thing about it is that it isn't anybody's fault when you get right down to it. Or maybe it is everybody's fault, if you want to blame population pressure and wasted natural resources and such. But you want to blame an allegedly extra-terrestrial conspiracy. Apparently you base this theory on gadgets which are a carry-over from better technological times and the often inhuman behaviour of the conspirators ..."
"I'm beginning to wonder," Reynolds broke in, "if I was right in telling you anything at all about the conspiracy. Neither you nor your husband are deeply involved as yet, and it might be safer if you both kept out of it. I may be considered old-fashioned, but I still believe that a policeman's job includes protecting the innocent."
Ann looked steadily at him for a moment. When she spoke it was in the friendly, no-nonsense, tone she usually reserved for patients or junior doctors who needed straightening out. She said, "I'm glad you're an old-fashioned policeman, Inspector. But isn't it possible that you are also old-fashioned in your feelings about the human race, and about the essential decency of the majority of people? Feeling as you do, you might not want to believe that all the frightfulness of present-day society is the responsibility of these same human beings, so you are looking for outsiders, evil spirits, foreign devils or even extra-terrestrial scapegoats to blame for the trouble. But the truth is that it is being caused by people like ourselves. Physically like ourselves, I hasten to add. The only thing strange about those three cadavers was their lack of ID tags.
"I'm sorry to prove you wrong, Inspector," she went on, "but you already knew the driver, Nelson, and we will know the identities of the others, and you will be able to check back on their similarly terrestrial backgrounds, very shortly."
"How?" said the inspector.
Ann frowned slightly because it was obvious that her attempt to talk some sense into the inspector was not having any success. She said, "ID tags are useful so far as contacting a patient's next-of-kin is concerned. But we usually need information on blood group, allergies, previous illnesses and operations, in short, the complete physiological picture. Usually we need this information very quickly, so the hospital has been extended the facility of automatic access to Central Records."
"I didn't know that," said the inspector, looking thoughtful. "Then you have complete physiological data on every citizen, Low-Middle and above?"
Before she could reply the scene on the TV screen dissolved to be replaced by a list of names and basic ID data. The first casualty lists were coming up.
The display showed eight names of people whose remains had been retrieved from the site of the explosion. Three of them were hospital personnel and the remaining five were the people who had already died in the RTA that morning, a young married couple called Braithwaite, the police officer Nelson, a professor of sociology called Crawford, and Jennings, the city's chief administrator, no less!
"Why," said Malcolm, "should your Inspector Nelson want to kill off a famous sociologist and the First Citizen."
Reynolds did not reply because a new list had flashed on to the screen. Headed "Seriously Injured", it was a much longer list and the names were tagged with the ward numbers to which the casualties had been sent and coded symbols relating to their physical condition and prognoses. All were hospital staff with one exception whose name was Police Sergeant J. S. Telford.
"He wasn't killed!" the inspector burst out, in a tone of excitement and relief. "Can I talk to him?"
Malcolm looked at the coded symbols against the sergeant's name and said caustically, "Surely you mean can he talk to you. I doubt it but I'll ask."
He cleared the screen and tapped for two-way vision to the intensive care unit. A few seconds later the features of Chiak appeared. He said, "ICU monitor room."
"A patient enquiry, Doctor," said Malcolm. "Telford, J. S., a police sergeant. Friend of mine. Can you tell me if—"
"I was expecting you to call, Doctor," Chiak broke in. "He had a terminal tape addressed to you and your wife. You should have it shortly."
"Thank you. He'll survive?"
"Judge for yourself."
Chiak's face was replaced by one of the monitor screen pictures on to which had been projected the patient's pulse, blood pressure, cardiac activity and the details of his injuries and the positions of the pieces of metal still within his body. Telford's breathing had been taken over by a ventilator which was pushing air into his lungs through an endotracheal tube, and more tubing curled upwards and into IV saline, medication and blood transfusion bottles and down from the more serious wounds into water-sealed receptacles. The draining wounds were covered by loose dressings and the green towels which made the bleeding look less distressing to visitors and next-of-kin. Removal of all four limbs was indicated to tidy up the traumatic amputation performed by flying metal from the exploding vehicle. Pieces of metal had broken the dorsal vertebrae in two places, there was kidney damage and the eyes had gone, as had part of the inferior maxilla, otherwise cranial damage was superficial.
The nurse by Telford's bed had the too-composed look of someone who has seen it all before but has never quite got used to it.
The picture flicked off and was replaced by the face of Chiak again, who said, "Is he married, Doctor? Any close relatives?"
Malcolm looked quickly at the inspector, who shook his head twice, then said, "No to both."
"Doesn't surprise me since he wanted you to have his last tape." said Chiak. "However, we will probably be able to keep him alive if ... Are you really a friend of his?"
Chiak's eyes stared straight out of the screen at him for the few interminable seconds it took for Malcolm to reply.
"Yes, a very good friend."
The other doctor sighed, nodded, and broke the connection.
Impulsively, Ann put her hand on Malcolm's shoulder and said, "He was a nice, friendly policeman."
"And he still is a good policeman," Reynolds said harshly. "Knowing that we can't completely trust some of the people at headquarters, he sent that tape to you knowing that I would get it as quickly as possible ..." The inspector hesitated, then in a quieter tone he went on, "You hardly knew the sergeant and yet you said he was a good friend, you used your influence on his behalf to ... Anyway, I am deeply grateful."
Ann turned away without speaking and began to clear away the coffee things, and Malcolm was saved from having to make a reply by the arrival of an orderly with the Telford tape.
According to Reynolds, the sergeant's parents had been killed in a food riot several years earlier and he was too much of a career man to marry—and much too fine a policeman to say anything which did not have a bearing on the case currently under investigation. But there was a strange and uncharacteristic whining note in the sergeant's taped voice, a petty, shrewish quality which made Malcolm feel embarrassed just listening to it.
"This tape is for Doctor and Sister Malcolm," Telford had said. "They live in box Green-4151, City Hospital Complex ..."
"Why is he talking like that?" said Ann.
Reynolds stopped the tape momentarily to say, "To protect both of you, I'd say. Nobody, no matter how morbidly curious they are, would want to listen to the last words of a voice like that."
"... I'm in bad trouble, friends," the voice went on, gratingly, "a big black mark, letting the men go like that. My chief turned up suddenly in plain clothes and blew his top about the crew-members being off-duty. Said I could forget promotion for the next five years, and so could they. Said the cadavers on board should have been notified long since, and I was not considering the feelings of their next-of-kin who had a right to know what had happened to them. He said I was to stay put while he went to check on the stiffs and while he rounded-up the crew-members. I don't think he'll do anything to them, and with the inspector off duty today it was all my fault. He is fair, but strict, and has these high ethical standards that give me a pain.
"I know you don't know him," the whining voice went on, "but maybe if you looked him up you could use your influence, tell him I was sick, disorientated, or something. He might believe a couple of medics. I don't want to get a memo with those initials on it telling me I've ... Still, maybe it's hopeless. The silly old fool dyes his hair and there's no telling how a person like that will react."
Telford had stopped talking at that point and switched off the recorder, but before the inspector could speak the sergeant's voice returned. This time the whining, ingratiating tone was subtly different, as if there was real rather than pretended anxiety in the voice.
"The silly fool left his briefcase in the vehicle loo," the voice went on. "I better get out quick and try to find him, there might be something important in it and he might go easier on me if I ..." They heard the muffled sounds of movement and the vehicle's door being opened before the recorder was switched off again.
The sergeant, Malcolm thought, was doing a very thorough job of character assassination on himself. When his voice came again it was still that of a spiteful, small-minded man, which Telford was not.
"I can't see him around, dammit," it said, "and I've left the door of the vehicle open. There are hospital people going past all the time, and if one of them went in and stole that briefcase while I was away there would be serious trouble. I'd better go back and try to—"
There was a discordant squawk as a loud noise overloaded the microphone. The voice did not come back, and for several minutes they listened to the rustling of virgin tape until the inspector switched it off and spoke.
"Very well," he said quietly. "On the surface the things Sergeant Telford said were unimportant, petty. But remember that he had to get the information to me quickly, which meant going through you two. The sergeant has a very high opinion of both of you and the form of the message was designed to protect you from any suspicion of involvement in this. He even tried to protect me, knowing that our crew can be trusted to keep quiet about my unofficial investigations. These people are violent, as you know, and utterly ruthless.
"What he was really telling us," Reynolds went on, "is that someone high in City Security, not his chief, obviously, because that is me, turned up in plain clothes. The things this man told the sergeant about staying with the vehicles are true. I should think, but a high ranking officer like that would not go chasing after crew-members. When the man left Telford must have noticed that he was no longer carrying his briefcase and suspected that there was a bomb in it. When he discovered where the briefcase had been hidden he was pretty sure there was a bomb in it, and he got out fast. It was instinctive.
"But then he realised that there were a lot of hospital personnel dangerously close to the bomb," the inspector continued, "and he wanted to give a warning. The bit about him being afraid the briefcase would be stolen was sheer camouflage, of course. But he couldn't give a warning without letting the members of the conspiracy know that we knew a lot about them, including the fact that one of them was the top man in City Security. So he had to choose whether he would protect us or the innocent bystanders, he must have tried to do both and was on the way back to try to de-fuse the bomb when it blew up."
"The man who planted the bomb, Inspector," said Malcolm, "do you know him?"
"Oh yes," Reynolds replied. "There was the mention of his strictness and high ethical standards coupled with the fact that he dyed his hair. He was the sergeant's chief, and my chief, too. But the dyed hair clinches the identification beyond doubt. I can remember the talk there was about it a couple of years back. A protester got close enough to throw acid. He was not badly burned but the stuff the medics put on his neck and head took the colour out of his hair. Everybody talked about it, but not to his face. They didn't dare. But why did the sergeant mention his initials? They are E. N. H. but what possible significance—"
"Inspector," said Ann suddenly, "are you going to tell us the name of this man?"
Reynolds was silent for a moment, then he nodded and said, "Why not? He is the City Security Commissioner, the Honourable Edward Norton Hargreaves ... Oh."
"I can't believe that Hargreaves would ..." Ann protested. Then she, too, stopped.
"His middle name is Norton," said Malcolm, voicing the thoughts of both of them. "A coincidence, Inspector?"
Before Reynolds could answer, Ann went on, "But he is such an admirable and really good man! He has never been connected with anything of a dishonest or immoral nature, even though he has never married. Apparently he just isn't interested in women, although the way I hear it the opposite does not hold true. Unless he's one of—"
"He isn't," said the inspector.
"I was going to say," Ann persisted, "unless he is one of your terrestrial conspirators who were convinced that they belonged to a superhuman elite. A superior being of that kind might not be interested in ordinary women, he might regard them as members of a sub-species, as female apes, perhaps."
"Of course," said Malcolm. "The overdose."
"And ... But not the professor, surely?" Ann said in a voice which was trying hard to be disbelieving.
"You've lost me," said Reynolds irritably. "Please explain yourselves."
We would not have lost Sergeant Telford, Malcolm thought, nor would we have had to point out the connection between a fantastically beautiful and desirable female who had overdosed because an otherwise good and kindly man would not react to her as a woman, and the very good and kindly Professor of Medicine she had attacked thinking that he was the first man. The sergeant had been there seeing and hearing, and absorbing the atmosphere, the non-material evidence. The inspector had not.
Malcolm took a few moments to marshal his thoughts, then he began describing the circumstances, incidents and conversations he considered relevant on the night Sergeant Telford had been assigned to guard the multiple gunshot wound, Hesketh. He went on to list the common denominators, the suspiciously large number of coincidences, and the way they could be made to fit together.
"First, let's consider the common factors," said Malcolm. "Inspector Nelson, one of his passengers, Chief Administrator Jennings and now Chief Security Commissioner Hargreaves, all have dyed hair. The first two had undergone plastic surgery, but we do not know as yet whether this was true of Hargreaves. Another factor these people have in common is their utter ruthlessness and fanatical commitment to their organisation. Nelson killed himself because he thought his passengers were a threat to his work. Hargreaves did not care how many IBs died as a result of the bomb he planted. The team which practically wiped out the people in Hesketh's living block, the same. But it seems that their ruthlessness and lack of feeling for ordinary human beings is not total.
