Flatlander - Larry Niven [36]
“And you’ll let me know.”
“Right.”
Swan was checking it with the radio on his scooter while I beeped my clicker for a taxi. The taxi settled at the edge of the walkway. I helped Taffy into it. Her movements were slow and jerky. She wasn’t in shock, just depression.
Swan called from his scooter. “Hamilton!”
I stopped halfway into the taxi. “Yah?”
“He’s a local,” Swan boomed. His voice carried like an orator’s. “Mortimer Lincoln, ninety-fourth floor. Been living here since—” He checked again with his radio. “April 2123. I’d guess that’s about six months after they passed the Freezer Law.”
“Thanks.” I typed an address on the cab’s destination board. The cab hummed and rose.
I watched High Cliffs recede, a pyramid as big as a mountain, glowing with light. The city guarded by Inspector Swan was all in one building. It would make his job easier, I thought. Society would be a bit more organized.
Taffy spoke for the first time in a good while. “Nobody’s ever shot at me before.”
“It’s all over now. I think he was shooting at me, anyway.”
“I suppose.” Suddenly she was shaking. I took her in my arms and held her. She talked into my shirt collar. “I didn’t know what was happening. That green light; I thought it was pretty. I didn’t know what happened until you knocked me down, and then that green line flashed at you and I heard the sidewalk go ping, and I didn’t know what to do! I—”
“You did fine.”
“I wanted to help! I didn’t know; maybe you were dead, and there wasn’t anything I could do. If you hadn’t had a gun— Do you always carry a gun?”
“Always.”
“I never knew.” Without moving, she seemed to pull away from me a little.
At one time the Amalgamation of Regional Militia had been a federation of civil defense bodies in a number of nations. Later it had become the police force of the United Nations itself. They had kept the name. Probably they liked the acronym.
When I got to the office the next morning, Jackson Bera had already run the dead man to Earth. “No question about it,” he told me. “His rejection spectrum checks perfectly. Anthony Tiller, known organlegger, suspected member of the Anubis gang. First came on the scene around 2120; he probably had another name and face before that. Disappeared April or May 2123.”
“That fits. No, dammit, it doesn’t. He must have been out of his mind. There he was, home free, rich and safe. Why would he blow it all to kill a man who never harmed a hair of his head?”
“You don’t really expect an organlegger to behave like a well-adjusted member of society.”
I answered Bera’s grin. “I guess not … Hey. You said Anubis, didn’t you? The Anubis gang, not the Loren gang.”
“That’s what it says on the hard copy. Shall I query for probability?”
“Please.” Bera programs a computer better than I do. I talked while he tapped at the keyboard in my desk. “Whoever the bleep he was, Anubis controlled the illicit medical facilities over a big section of the Midwest. Loren had a part of Eurasia, bigger area, bigger population. The difference is that I killed Loren myself by squeezing the life out of his heart with my imaginary hand, which is a very personal thing, as you will realize, Jackson. Whereas I never touched Anubis or any of his gang, or even interfered with his profits, to the best of my knowledge.”
“I did,” Bera said. “Maybe he thought I was you.” Which is hilarious, because Bera is dark brown and a foot taller than me if you include the hair that puffs out around his head like a black powder explosion. “You missed something. Anubis was an intriguing character. He changed faces and ears and fingerprints whenever he got the urge. We’re pretty sure he was male, but even that isn’t worth a big bet. He’s changed his height at least once. Full leg transplant.”
“Loren couldn’t do that. Loren was a pretty sick boy. He probably went into organlegging because he needed the transplant supply.”
“Not Anubis. Anubis must