Flatlander - Larry Niven [66]
* * *
Bernath Peterfi wasn’t answering his phone.
We got Pauline Urthiel via her pocket phone. A brusque contralto voice, no picture. We’d like to talk to her in connection with a murder investigation; would she be at home this afternoon? No. She was lecturing that afternoon but would be home around six.
Ecks answered dripping wet and not smiling. So sorry to get you out of a shower, Mr. Ecks. We’d like to talk to you in connection with a murder investigation.
“Sure, come on over. Who’s dead?”
Valpredo told him.
“Sinclair? Ray Sinclair? You’re sure?”
We were.
“Oh, lord. Listen, he was working on something important. An interstellar drive, if it works out. If there’s any possibility of salvaging the hardware—”
I reassured him and hung up. If Sinclair’s patent attorney thought it was a star drive … maybe it was.
“Doesn’t sound like he’s trying to steal it,” Valpredo said.
“No. And even if he’d got the thing, he couldn’t have claimed it was his. If he’s the killer, that’s not what he was after.”
We were moving at high speed, police-car speed. The car was on automatic, of course, but it could need manual override at any instant. Valpredo concentrated on the passing scenery and spoke without looking at me.
“You know, you and the detective-inspector aren’t looking for the same thing.”
“I know. I’m looking for a hypothetical killer. Julio’s looking for a hypothetical visitor. It could be tough to prove there wasn’t one, but if Porter and the girl were telling the truth, maybe Julio can prove the visitor didn’t do it.”
“Which would leave the girl,” he said.
“Whose side are you on?”
“Nobody’s. All I’ve got is interesting questions.” He looked at me sideways. “But you’re pretty sure the girl didn’t do it.”
“Yah.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because I don’t think she’s got the brains. It wasn’t a simple killing.”
“She’s Sinclair’s niece. She can’t be a complete idiot.”
“Heredity doesn’t work that way. Maybe I’m kidding myself. Maybe it’s her arm. She’s lost an arm; she’s got enough to worry about.” And I borrowed the car phone to dig into records in the ARM computer.
PAULINE URTHIEL. Born Paul Urthiel. Ph.D. in plasma physics, University of California at Irvine. Sex change and legal name change, 2111. Six years ago she’d been in competition for a Nobel prize for research into the charge suppression effect in the Slaver disintegrator. Height: 5′ 9″. Weight: 135. Married Lawrence Muhammad Ecks, 2117. Had kept her (loosely speaking) maiden name. Separate residences.
BERNATH PETERFI. Ph.D. in subatomics and related fields, MIT. Diabetic. Height: 5′ 8″. Weight: 145. Application for exemption to the Fertility Laws denied, 2119. Married 2118, divorced 2122. Lived alone.
LAWRENCE MUHAMMAD ECKS. Master’s degree in physics. Member of the bar. Height: 6′ 1″ Weight: 190. Artificial left arm. Vice president, CET (Committee to End Transplants).
Valpredo said: “Funny how the human arm keeps cropping up in this case.”
“Yah.” Including one human ARM who didn’t really belong there. “Ecks has a master’s. Maybe he could have talked people into thinking the generator was his. Or maybe he thought he could.”
“He didn’t try to snow us”
“Suppose he blew it last night? He wouldn’t necessarily want the generator lost to humanity, now, would he?”
“How did he get out?”
I didn’t answer.
* * *
Ecks lived in a tapering tower almost a mile high. At one time Lindstetter’s Needle must have been the biggest thing ever built, before they started with the arcologies. We landed on a pad a third of the way up, then took a drop shaft ten floors down.
He was dressed when he answered the door in blazing yellow pants and a net shirt. His skin was very dark, and his hair was a puffy black dandelion with threads of gray in it. On the phone screen I hadn’t been able to tell which arm was which, and I couldn’t now. He invited us in, sat down, and waited for the questions.