The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (49 page)

“Most interesting.”

“If word of this gets out,” said Gregg miserably, “you can guess the results. I suppose, we'd still have a few friends left in your Parliament—”

“In the House of Actives, yesss…a few. Not in the House of Philosophers, which is of course the upper chamber.”

“It could mean a twenty-year hiatus in Earth-Mars
traffic—maybe a permanent breaking off of relations. Damn it, Syaloch, you've
got
to help me find those stones!”

“Hm-m-m. I pray your pardon. This requires thought.” The Martian picked up his crooked instrument and plucked a few tentative chords. Gregg sighed.

The colorless sunset was past, night had fallen with the unnerving Martian swiftness, and the glowsnakes were emitting blue radiance when Syaloch put down the demifiddle.

“I fear I shall have to visit Phobos in person,” he said. “There are too many unknowns for analysis, and it is never well to theorize before all the data have been gathered.” A bony hand clapped Gregg's shoulder. “Come, come, old chap. I am really most grateful to you. Life was becoming infernally dull. Now, as my famous Terrestrial predecessor would say, the game's afoot…and a very big game indeed!”

A Martian in an Earthlike atmosphere is not much hampered, needing only an hour in a compression chamber and a filter on his beak to eliminate excess oxygen and moisture. Syaloch walked freely about the port clad in filter, pipe, and
tirstokr
cap, grumbling to himself at the heat and humidity.

He donned a spacesuit and went out to inspect the
Jane Brackney
. The vessel had been shunted aside to make room for later arrivals, and stood by a raw crag at the edge of the field, glimmering in the hard spatial sunlight. Gregg and Yamagata were with him.

“I say, you
have
been thorough,” remarked the detective. “The outer skin is quite stripped off.”

The spheroid resembled an egg which had tangled with a waffle iron: an intersecting grid of girders and braces above a thin aluminum hide. The jets, hatches, and radio mast were the only breaks in the checkerboard pattern, whose depth was about a foot and whose squares were a yard across at the “equator.”

Yamagata laughed in a strained fashion. “No. The cops fluoroscoped every inch of her, but that's the way these cargo ships always look. They never land on Earth, you know, or any place where there's air, so streamlining would be unnecessary. And since nobody is aboard in transit, we don't have to worry about insulation or air-tightness. Perishables are stowed in sealed compartments.”

“I see. Now where were the crown jewels kept?”

“They were supposed to be in a cupboard near the gyros,” said Gregg. “They were in a locked box, about six inches high, six inches wide, and a foot long.” He shook his head, finding it hard to believe that so small a box could contain so much potential death.

“Ah…but
were
they placed there?”

“I radioed Earth and got a full account,” said Gregg. “The ship was loaded as usual at the satellite station, then shoved a quarter mile away till it was time for her to leave—to get her out of the way, you understand. She was still in the same free-fall orbit, attached by a light cable—perfectly standard practice. At the last minute, without anyone being told beforehand, the crown jewels were brought up from Earth and stashed aboard.”

“By a special policeman?”

“No. Only licensed technicians are allowed to board a ship in orbit, unless there's a life-and-death emergency. One of the regular station crew—fellow named Carter—was told where to put them. He was watched by the cops as he pulled himself along the cable and in through the manhatch.” Gregg pointed to a small door near the radio mast. “He came out, closed it, and returned on the cable. The police immediately searched him and his spacesuit, just in case, and he positively did not have the jewels. There was no reason to suspect him of anything—good steady worker—though I'll admit he's disappeared since then. The
Jane
blasted a few minutes later and her jets were watched till they cut off and she went into free fall. And that's the last anyone saw of her till she got here—without the jewels.”

“And right on orbit,” added Yamagata. “If by some freak she had been boarded, it would have thrown her off enough for us to notice as she came in. Transference of momentum between her and the other ship.”

“I see.” Behind his faceplate, Syaloch's beak cut a sharp black curve across heaven. “Now then, Gregg, were the jewels actually in the box when it was delivered?”

“At Earth Station, you mean? Oh, yes. There are four UN Chief Inspectors involved, and HQ says they're absolutely above suspicion. When I sent back word of the theft, they insisted on having their own quarters and so on searched, and went under scop voluntarily.”

“And your own constables on Phobos?”

“Same thing,” said the policeman grimly. “I've slapped on an embargo—nobody but me has left this settlement since the loss was discovered. I've had every room and tunnel and warehouse searched.” He tried to scratch his head, a frustrating attempt when one is in a spacesuit. “I can't maintain those restrictions much longer. Ships are coming in and the consignees want their freight.”

“
Hnachla
. That puts us under a time limit, then.” Syaloch nodded to himself. “Do you know, this is a fascinating variation of the old locked room problem. A robot ship in transit is a locked room in the most classic sense.” He drifted off.

Gregg stared bleakly across the savage horizon, naked rock tumbling away under his feet, and then back over the field. Odd how tricky your vision became in airlessness, even when you had bright lights. That fellow crossing the field there, under the full glare of sun and floodlamps, was merely a stipple of shadow and luminance…what the devil was he doing, tying a shoe of all things? No, he was walking quite normally—

“I'd like to put everyone on Phobos under scop,” said Gregg with a violent note, “but the law won't allow it unless the suspect volunteers—and only my own men have volunteered.”

“Quite rightly, my dear fellow,” said Syaloch. “One should at least have the privilege of privacy in his own skull. And it would make the investigation unbearably crude.”

“I don't give a fertilizing damn how crude it is,” snapped Gregg. “I just want that box with the Martian crown jewels safe inside.”

“Tut-tut! Impatience has been the ruin of many a promising young police officer, as I seem to recall my spiritual ancestor of Earth pointing out to a Scotland Yard man who—hm—may even have been a physical ancestor of yours, Gregg. It seems we must try another approach. Are there any people on Phobos who might have known the jewels were aboard this ship?”

“Yes. Two men only. I've pretty well established that they never broke security and told anyone else till the secret was out.”

“And who are they?”

“Technicians, Hollyday and Steinmann. They were working at Earth Station when the
Jane
was loaded. They quit soon after—not at the same time—and came here by liner and got jobs. You can bet that
their
quarters have been searched!”

“Perhaps,” murmured Syaloch, “it would be worthwhile to interview the gentlemen in question.”

Steinmann, a thin redhead, wore truculence like a mantle; Hollyday merely looked worried. It was no evidence of guilt—everyone had been rubbed raw of late. They sat in the police office, with Gregg behind the desk and Syaloch leaning against the wall, smoking and regarding them with unreadable yellow eyes.

“Damn it, I've told this over and over till I'm sick of it!” Steinmann knotted his fists and gave the Martian a bloodshot stare. “I never touched the things and I don't know who did. Hasn't any man a right to change jobs?”

“Please,” said the detective mildly. “The better you help the sooner we can finish this work. I take it you were acquainted with the man who actually put the box aboard the ship?”

“Sure. Everybody knew John Carter. Everybody
knows everybody else on a satellite station.” The Earthman stuck out his jaw. “That's why none of us'll take scop. We won't blab out all our thoughts to guys we see fifty times a day. We'd go nuts!”

“I never made such a request,” said Syaloch.

“Carter was quite a good friend of mine,” volunteered Hollyday.

“Uh-huh,” grunted Gregg. “And he quit too, about the same time you fellows did, and went Earthside and hasn't been seen since. HQ told me you and he were thick. What'd you talk about?”

“The usual.” Hollyday shrugged. “Wine, women, and song. I haven't heard from him since I left Earth.”

“Who says Carter stole the box?” demanded Steinmann. “He just got tired of living in space and quit his job. He couldn't have stolen the jewels—he was searched.”

“Could he have hidden it somewhere for a friend to get at this end?” inquired Syaloch.

“Hidden it? Where? Those ships don't have secret compartments.” Steinmann spoke wearily. “And he was only aboard the
Jane
a few minutes, just long enough to put the box where he was supposed to.” His eyes smoldered at Gregg. “Let's face it: the only people anywhere along the line who ever had a chance to lift it were our own dear cops.”

The Inspector reddened and half rose from his seat. “Look here, you—”

“We've got
your
word that you're innocent,” growled Steinmann. “Why should it be any better than mine?”

Syaloch waved both men back. “If you please. Brawls are unphilosophic.” His beak opened and clattered, the Martian equivalent of a smile. “Has either of you, perhaps, a theory? I am open to all ideas.”

There was a stillness. Then Hollyday mumbled: “Yes. I have one.”

Syaloch hooded his eyes and puffed quietly, waiting.

Hollyday's grin was shaky. “Only if I'm right, you'll never see those jewels again.”

Gregg sputtered.

“I've been around the Solar System a lot,” said Hollyday. “It gets lonesome out in space. You never know how big and lonesome it is till you've been there, all by yourself. And I've done just that—I'm an amateur uranium prospector, not a lucky one so far. I can't believe we know everything about the universe, or that there's only vacuum between the planets.”

“Are you talking about the cobblies?” snorted Gregg.

“Go ahead and call it superstition. But if you're in space long enough…well, somehow, you
know
. There are beings out there—gas beings, radiation beings, whatever you want to imagine, there's something living in space.”

“And what use would a box of jewels be to a cobbly?”

Hollyday spread his hands. “How can I tell? Maybe we bother them, scooting through their own dark kingdom with our little rockets. Stealing the crown jewels would be a good way to disrupt the Mars trade, wouldn't it?”

Only Syaloch's pipe broke the inward-pressing silence. But its burbling seemed quite irreverent.

“Well—” Gregg fumbled helplessly with a meteoric paperweight. “Well, Mr. Syaloch, do you want to ask any more questions?”

“Only one.” The third lids rolled back, and coldness looked out at Steinmann. “If you please, my good man, what is your hobby?”

“Huh? Chess. I play chess. What's it to you?” Steinmann lowered his head and glared sullenly.

“Nothing else?”

“What else is there?”

Syaloch glanced at the Inspector, who nodded confirmation.

“I see. Thank you. Perhaps we can have a game sometime. I have some small skill of my own. That is all for now, gentlemen.”

They left, moving like things in the haze of a dream through the low gravity.

“Well?” Gregg's eyes pleaded with Syaloch. “What's next?”

“Very little. I think…yesss, while I am here I should like to watch the technicians at work. In my profession, one needs a broad knowledge of all occupations.”

Gregg sighed.

Ramanowitz showed the guest around. The
Kim Brackney
was in and being unloaded. They threaded through a hive of spacesuited men.

“The cops are going to have to raise that embargo soon,” said Ramanowitz. “Either that or admit why they've clamped it on. Our warehouses are busting.”

“It would be politic to do so,” nodded Syaloch. “Ah, tell me…is this equipment standard for all stations?”

“Oh, you mean what the boys are wearing and carrying around? Sure. Same issue everywhere.”

“May I inspect it more closely?”

“Hm?”
Lord, deliver me from visiting firemen!
thought Ramanowitz. He waved a mechanic over to him. “Mr. Syaloch would like you to explain your outfit,” he said with ponderous sarcasm.

“Sure. Regular spacesuit here, reinforced at the seams.” The gauntleted hands moved about, pointing. “Heating coils powered from this capacitance battery. Ten-hour air supply in the tanks. These buckles, you snap your tools into them, so they won't drift around in free fall. This little can at my belt holds paint that I spray out through this nozzle.”

“Why must spaceships be painted?” asked Syaloch. “There is nothing to corrode the metal.”

“Well, sir, we just call it paint. It's really gunk, to seal any leaks in the hull till we can install a new plate, or to mark any other kind of damage. Meteor punctures and so on.” The mechanic pressed a trigger and a thin, almost invisible stream jetted out, solidifying as it hit the ground.

“But it cannot readily be seen, can it?” objected the Martian. “I, at least, find it difficult to see clearly in airlessness.”

“That's right. Light doesn't diffuse, so…well, anyhow, the stuff is radioactive—not enough to be dangerous, just enough so that the repair crew can spot the place with a Geiger counter.”