“Good time for a fresh start. Sorry you had to see that mess of mine—might just chuck the lot, whenever you decide to let me back aboard.”
“That will be a while yet, I’m afraid.”
“More questions, Inspector?” When she nodded yes, he gestured to a chair and took another for himself. “Better make ourselves comfortable, then.”
Sparta sat down. For a moment she watched him without speaking. McNeil’s color was much better, and although he would be gaunt for some time to come, he appeared not to have lost his muscle tone. Even after days of near-starvation, his forearms were powerfully muscled.
“Well, Mr. McNeil, it’s fascinating what the latest diagnostic techniques can recover from even the most obscure pools of data. Take Star Queen’s mission recorder, for example.”
McNeil drew on his cigarette and watched her. His pleasant expression did not change.
“All the data from the automatic systems is complete, of course. And the microphones get every word spoken on the flight deck. What I listened to confirmed your account of the incident in every detail.”
McNeil raised an eyebrow. “You’ve hardly had time to screen a couple of weeks’ worth of real-time recordings, Inspector.”
“You’re right, of course. A thorough review will take months. I employed an algorithm that identifies areas of maximum interest. What I want to talk to you about now is the discussion that took place in the common area shortly before you and Grant made your last broadcast.”
“I’m not sure I recall . . .”
“That’s where these new diagnostic techniques are so helpful, you see.” She leaned forward, as if to share her enthusiasm. “Even though there are no microphones in the living areas, enough sound carries to be picked up by the main flight recorder. In the past we wouldn’t have been able to recover the exact words.”
She let that sink in. His expression still didn’t change, but his features almost imperceptibly stiffened. She knew he was wondering whether she was bluffing.
She would remove that hope. “You’d just eaten dinner together. Grant had served you coffee—it was hotter than usual. He left you there and started for the corridor.
‘What’s the hurry?’ you asked him. ‘I though we had something to discuss. . . .’ “
Now the last hint of relaxation left McNeil’s eyes. As he crushed his cigarette his fleshy cheeks jiggled.
“Well, Mr. McNeil,” Sparta said softly, “do you and I have something to discuss?”
For a moment McNeil seemed to look past her, into the blank white wall behind her head. Then his eyes refocused on her face. He nodded. “Aye, I’ll tell you everythin’,” he whispered. “I would make one request—not a condition, I know better than that—but simply a request, that once you’ve heard me out, if you agree with my reasonin’, you’ll keep what I’m about to say off the record.”
“I’ll bear that request in mind,” she said.
McNeil sighed deeply. “Then here’s the whole truth, Inspector. . . .”
Grant had already reached the central corridor when McNeil called softly after him, “What’s the hurry? I thought we had something to discuss.”
Grant grabbed a rail to halt his headlong flight. He turned slowly and stared unbelievingly at the engineer.
McNeil should be already dead—but he was sitting quite comfortably, looking at him with a most peculiar expression.
“Come over here,” McNeil said sharply—and in that moment it suddenly seemed that all authority had passed to him. Grant returned to the table without volition, hovering near his useless chair. Something had gone wrong, though what it was he could not imagine.
The silence in the common area seemed to last for ages.
Then McNeil said rather sadly, “I’d hoped better of you, Grant.”
At last Grant found his voice, though he could barely recognize it. “What do you mean?” he whispered.
“What do you think I mean?” replied McNeil, with what seemed no more than mild irritation. “This little attempt of yours to poison me, of course.”
Grant’s tottering world collapsed at last. Oddly, in his relief he no longer cared greatly that he’d been found out.
McNeil began to examine his beautifully kept fingernails with some attention. “As a matter of interest,” he asked, in the way that one might ask the time, “when did you decide to kill me?”
The sense of unreality was so overwhelming that Grant felt he was acting a part, that this had nothing to do with real life at all. “Only this morning,” he said, and believed it.
“Hmm,” remarked McNeil, obviously without much conviction. He rose to his feet and moved over to the medicine chest. Grant’s eyes followed him as he fumbled in the compartment and came back with the little poison bottle.
It still appeared to be full. Grant had been careful about that.
“I suppose I should get pretty mad about this whole business,” McNeil continued conversationally, holding the bottle between thumb and forefinger. “But somehow I’m not. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had many illusions about human nature. And, of course, I saw it coming a long time ago.”
Only the last phrase really reached Grant’s consciousness.
“You . . . saw it coming?”
“Heavens, yes! You’re too transparent to make a good criminal, I’m afraid. And now that your little plot’s failed it leaves us both in an embarrassing position, doesn’t it?”
To this masterly understatement there seemed no possible reply.
“By rights,” continued the engineer thoughtfully, “I should now work myself into a good temper, call Port Hesperus, denounce you to the authorities. But it would be a rather pointless thing to do, and I’ve never been much good at losing my temper anyway. Of course, you’ll say that’s because I’m too lazy—but I don’t think so.” He gave Grant a twisted smile. “Oh, I know what you think about me—you’ve got me neatly classified in that orderly mind of yours, haven’t you? I’m soft and self-indulgent, I haven’t any moral courage—any morals at all, for that matter—and I don’t give a damn for anyone but myself.
Well, I’m not denying it. Maybe it’s ninety percent true.
But the odd ten percent is mighty important, Grant. At least to me.”
Grant felt in no condition to indulge in psychological analysis, and this seemed hardly the time for anything of the sort. He was still obsessed with the problem of his failure and the mystery of McNeil’s continued existence.
And McNeil, who knew this perfectly well, seemed in no hurry to satisfy his curiosity.
“Well, what do you intend to do now?” Grant asked, “I would like,” McNeil said calmly, “to carry on our discussion where it was interrupted by the coffee.”
“You don’t mean . . .”
“But I do. Just as if nothing had happened.”
“That doesn’t make sense! You’ve got something up your sleeve!” cried Grant.
McNeil sighed. “You know, Grant, you’re in no position to accuse me of plotting anything”—he released the little bottle to float above the surface of the table between them; he looked up sternly at Grant. “To repeat my earlier remarks, I am suggesting that we decide which one of us shall take poison. Only we don’t want any more unilateral decisions. Also”—and he drew another vial from his jacket pocket, similar in size to the first but bright blue in color; he allowed it to float beside the other—”it will be the real thing this time. The stuff in here,” he said, pointing to the clear bottle, “merely leaves a bad taste in the mouth.”
The light finally dawned in Grant’s mind. “You changed them.”
“Naturally. You may think you’re a good actor, Grant, but frankly, from the balcony, I thought the performance stank. I could tell you were plotting something, probably before you knew it yourself. In the last few days I’ve deloused the ship pretty thoroughly. Thinking of all the ways you might have done me in was quite amusing; it even helped pass the time. The poison was so obvious that it was almost the first thing I fixed.” He smiled wryly. “In fact I overdid the danger signal. I nearly gave myself away when I took that first sip—salt doesn’t go at all well with coffee.”
McNeil fixed unblinking eyes on the embittered Grant before going on. “Actually, I’d hoped for something more subtle. So far I’ve found fifteen infallible ways of mur- dering anyone aboard a spaceship.” He smiled again, grimly. “I don’t propose to describe them now.”
This was simply fantastic, Grant thought. He was being treated, not like a criminal, but like a rather stupid schoolboy who hadn’t done his homework properly. “Yet you are willing to start all over again?” he asked, unbelieving.
“And you’d take the poison yourself if you lost?”
McNeil was silent for a long time. Then he said, slowly, “I can see that you still don’t believe me. It doesn’t fit at all nicely into your tidy little picture, does it? But perhaps I can make you understand. It’s really simple.” He paused, then continued more briskly. “I’ve enjoyed life, Grant, without many scruples or regrets—but the better part of it’s over now and I don’t cling to what’s left as desperately as you might imagine. Yet while I am alive I’m rather particular about some things.” He allowed himself to drift farther from the table. “It may surprise you to know that I’ve got any ideals at all. But I’ve always tried to act like a civilized, rational being, even if I’ve not always succeeded. And when I’ve failed I’ve tried to redeem myself. You might say that’s what this is about.” He gestured at the tiny weightless bottles.