“Meaning what?” Schilling said, turning toward him and surveying him.
“Hell, what do you think I mean?” Marks said.
On the vidscreen the firm, elongated features of the Los Angeles attorney Bert Barth had formed and Barth was already in the process of advising the group. “They’ll come as
a team,” he was explaining to Bill Calumine. “One vug, one Terran; that’s customary in capital crimes. I’ll get up there as soon as I can but it’ll take me at least half an hour. Be prepared for them both to be excellent telepaths; that’s customary, too. But remember: evidence obtained through telepathic scanning is not legal in a Terran court of law; that’s been solidly established.”
Calumine said, “It sounds to me like a violation of the provision in the U. S. Constitution against a citizen being forced to testify against himself.”
“That, too,” Barth said, nodding. Now the whole group was silent, listening to the conversation between Calumine and their attorney. “The police telepaths can scan you and determine if you’re guilty or innocent, but other evidence has to be produced for it to stand up in court. They will use their telepathic faculties to the hilt however; you can be sure of that.”
The Rushmore Effect of the apartment now chimed and then announced, “Two persons are outside wishing to enter.”
“Police?” Stuart Marks asked.
“One Titanian,” the Rushmore Effect said, “and one Terran. Are you police?” It was addressing the visitors. “They are police,” it informed the group. “Shall I admit them?”
“Have them come on up,” Bill Calumine said, after an exchange of glances with his attorney.
Barth continued, “What your people must be prepared for is this. By law, the authorities can disband your group until this crime is solved. In principle, it’s supposed to act as a determent to future crimes committed by Game-playing groups. Actually, it works out more as a simple punitive gesture, punishing everyone involved.”
Dismally, Freya said, “Disband the group—oh no!”
“Sure,” Jack Blau said grimly. “Didn’t you know that? It’s the first thing I thought of when I heard about Luck-man’s death; I knew they’d disband us.” He glared around the room, as if seeking for the person responsible for the crime.
“Well, maybe they won’t,” Walt Remington said.
There was a knock at the apartment door itself. The police.
“I’ll stay on the vidphone,” Bert Barth offered, “instead of trying to make it up there. I can probably advise you better this way.” From the vidscreen he looked toward the door.
Freya opened the door. There stood a lean, tall young Terran and, beside him, a vug. The Terran said, “I’m Wade Hawthorne.” He produced a black-backed leather wallet, which contained their identification; the vug merely rested in its customary fashion, overtaxed by the ascent to this floor. Stitched to it was the name-thread E. B. Black.
“Come in,” Bill Calumine said, striding toward the door. “I’m the group’s spinner, Bill Calumine’s my name.” He held the door wide, and the two officers entered the apartment, the vug E. B. Black coming first.
“We wish first to talk to Mrs. Carol Holt Garden,” the vug thought-propagated to the group. “Since the corpse was found in her car.”
“I’m Carol Garden.” She rose to her feet, stood steady and calm as the team of police turned to face her.
“Do we have your permission to scan you telepathically?” Wade Hawthorne asked her.
She glanced at the vidscreen.
“Tell them yes,” Bert Barth said. To the two police he said, “I’m Barth, their legal counselor, in Los Angeles. I’ve advised my clients, this group, Pretty Blue Fox, to cooperate with you fully. They will all be open for telepathic scanning, but they understand—and I know you do, too— that any evidence you obtain in this fashion can’t be entered in a court of law.”
“That’s correct,” Hawthorne said, and walked over to Carol.
The vug slid slowly after him, and there was silence.
“It appears to be as Mrs. Garden related on the phone,” the vug E. B. Black said, presently. “She discovered the corpse in mid-flight and at once notified us.” To its companion the vug continued, “I find no indication that Mrs. Garden had any prior knowledge of the corpse’s presence in her car. She does hot appear to have had anything to do with Luckman prior to that discovery. Do you agree?”
“I agree,” Hawthorne said slowly. “But—” He glanced
around the room. “There is something in connection with her husband, Mr. Peter Garden. I’d like to examine you next, Mr. Garden.”
Pete, his throat dry, rose to his feet. “Can I talk with our attorney a moment in private?” he said to the policeman Hawthorne.
“No,” Hawthorne said in a pleasant, even voice. “He’s already advised you on this matter; I see no reason to permit you to—”
“I’m aware of what his advice is,” Pete said. “I’m interested in learning the consequences if I were to refuse.” He walked across the room to the vidphone. “Well?” he said to Barth.
“You’ll become a prime suspect,” Barth said. “But it’s your right; you can refuse. I’d advise you not to, because if you do they’ll never stop hounding you. They’ll scan you sooner or later anyhow.”
Pete said, “I have an aversion to having my mind read.” Once they discovered his amnesia, he realized, they would be certain he had killed Luckman. And perhaps he had. The obvious was confronting him brutally.
“What’s your decision?” Hawthorne asked him.
“You’ve probably begun to scan me already,” Pete said. Barth of course was right; if he refused they would scan him anyhow, if not now, then some other time. “Go ahead,” he said, and felt sick and weary. He walked over to the two of them and stood with his hands in his pockets.
Time passed. No one spoke.
“I’ve picked up the matter which Mrs. Garden was thinking about,” the vug thought-radiated to its companion. “Have you?”
“Yes,” Hawthorne said, nodding. To Pete he said, “You have no actual memory of today, do you? You’ve reconstructed it from remarks made by your auto-auto or at least by alleged remarks.”
“You can question the Rushmore of my car,” Pete said.
“It informed you,” Hawthorne said slowly, “that you paid a visit to Berkeley, today. But you don’t actually know if it was to see Luckman, and if so, whether you did see him or
not. I can’t imagine why this block in your mind exists; was it self-imposed? And if so, how?”
“I can’t tell you the answer to that,” Pete said. “As you can certainly read for yourself.”
Hawthorne said drily, “Anyone intending to commit a capital crime would of course know that telepaths would be brought in; he would have to deal with that, and nothing could possibly benefit him more than a segment of amnesia entering to block out that period of his activities.” To E. B. Black he said, “I would presume we should take Mr. Garden into custody.”
The vug answered, “Perhaps. But we must examine the others, as a matter of course.” To the group it declared, “You are ordered to disband as a Game-playing organization; from this moment on it is illegal for any of you to come together for the purpose of playing Bluff. This ruling will hold until the murderer of Jerome Luckman has been found.”
They turned, instinctively, to the vidscreen.
Barth said, “It’s legal. As I warned you.” He seemed resigned.
“Speaking for the group,” Bill Calumine said to the two police, “I protest this.”
Hawthorne shrugged. He did not seem particularly worried by Calumine’s protest.
“I have picked up something unusual,” the vug said to its companion. “Please scan the rest of the group as a whole and see if you agree.”
Glancing at him, Hawthorne nodded; he walked slowly about the room, from person to person, and then back to the vug. “Yes,” he said. “Mr. Garden is not the only person here unable to recall what he did today. In all, six persons in this group show similar lapses of memory. Mrs.’ Remington, Mr. Gaines, Mr. Angst, Mrs. Angst, Mrs. Calumine, and Mrs. Garden. None of them have intact memories.”
Astonished, Pete Garden looked around the room, and saw by the expressions on the faces of the other five that it was true. They were in the same situation that he was. And probably, like himself, each of them had believed his situation unique. So none of them had discussed it.
“I can see,” Hawthorne said, “that we’re going to have
difficulty establishing the identity of the murderer of Mr. Luckman, in view of this. However, I’m sure it can be done; it merely will take longer.” He glared at the group with displeasure.
In the kitchen of the con-apt, Janice Remington and Freya Gaines fixed coffee. The others remained in the living room with the team of detectives.
“How was Luckman killed?” Pete asked Hawthorne.