Waltz of the Bodysnatchers

“I think I can be of service to you,” the pale stranger said. “I want to commit suicide.”

Lorimer looked up from his drink in surprise. Even in the half-light of the bar, it was obvious that the dull-voiced man who had come to his table was ill, shabby and tired. His thin shoulders were bowed within his cloak, making him appear as slight as a woman, and his eyes smouldered with broody desperation in a white triangular face. What a wreck! Lorimer thought contemptuously. What a pitiful bloody mess!

“I said I want to commit suicide,” the stranger repeated, his voice louder but still lifeless.

“Don’t shout it all over the place.” Lorimer glanced around the cavern-like bar and was relieved to see there was nobody within hearing distance. “Sit down.”

“All right.” The man sagged into a chair and sat with his head lowered.

Looking at him, Lorimer began to feel a furtive pounding elation. “Do you want a drink?”

“If you’re buying I’ll have one; if you’re not, I won’t. It doesn’t really matter.”

“I’ll get you a beer.” Lorimer pressed the appropriate button on the order display, and a few seconds later a beaker of dark ale emerged from the table’s dispensing turret. The stranger seemed not to notice, and Lorimer pushed the cool ceramic over to him. He drank from it without relish, automatic as the machine which had served him.

“What’s your name?” Lorimer said.

“Does it matter?”

“To me, as a person, it doesn’t matter a damn—but it’s more convenient when everybody has a label. Besides, I’ll need to know all about you.”

“Raymond Settle.”

“Who sent you, Raymond?”

“I don’t know his name. A waiter down at Fidelio’s. The one with the rosewood hair.”

“Rosewood?”

“Brown and black streaks.”

“Oh.” Lorimer recognized the description of one of his most trusted contacts, and his sense of elation grew stronger. He stared at Settle, wondering how any man could let himself get into such a leached out state. Something about the way Settle spoke suggested he was intelligent and well-educated, but—Lorimer drew comfort from the thought—intellectuals were usually the ones who folded up when the going got a little tough. For all their so-called brains, they never seemed to learn that strength of body led to strength of mind.

“Tell me, Raymond,” he said, “what relatives have you got?”

“Relatives?” Settle stared down at his drink. “Just one. A baby girl.”

“Is that whom you want the money to go to?”

“Yes. My wife died last year, and the baby is in Our Lady of Mercy’s Hostel.” Settle’s lips stretched in what ought to have been a smile. “Apparently I’m considered unfit to bring her up by myself. The Office of the Primate would overlook my various character defects if I had money, but I’m not equipped to earn money. Not in the conventional manner, anyway.”

“I see. Do you want me to set up a trust fund for the kid?”

“That’s about the best thing I could leave her.”

Lorimer felt an uncharacteristic chill of unease which he tried to ignore. “Just our luck to be born on Oregonia, eh?”

“I don’t know much about luck.”

“I mean, life’s a lot simpler on planets like Avalon, Morgania, or even Earth.”

“Death’s a lot simpler, too.”

“Yeah, well …” Lorimer decided to keep the conversation businesslike. “I’ll have to get more details from you. I’m paying twenty thousand monits, and I have to be sure nothing goes wrong.”

“No need to apologise, Mr Lorimer. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” Settle spoke with the calm disinterest of one whose life had already ended.

Lorimer ordered another drink for himself, making a determined effort not to become contaminated by the other man’s despair. The important and positive thing to concentrate on was the fact that Settle—in dying—would open up rich new lives for two other human beings.

Next morning the double suns were close together above the eastern horizon, merging into an elongated patch of brilliance which imprinted peanut-shaped after-images on the retina. Lorimer floated up from the city through flamboyant forests of gold shading into tan. On the crest of the hill, surrounded by vistas of complicated shoreline and small islands, he steered his skimmer off the road and allowed it to sink to the ground in the gardens of the Willen house. He got out of the vehicle, stood for a moment, appreciating the luxury of his surroundings, then walked the short distance to the patio at the rear of the house.

Fay Willen was seated on a bench with her back to him, busy stretching canvas over a wooden frame. She was wearing a simple white dress which enhanced the lustrous blackness of her hair. Lorimer paused again, drinking in the vision of what was his already by natural law and which was soon to come into his legal possession. He made a sound with his feet and Fay whirled to face him, startled.

“Mike!” she said, getting to her feet. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I had to see you.”

Fay frowned a little. “Wasn’t that a little risky? You didn’t even call to check if Gerard was still away.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“But he’s bound to get suspicious if you …”

“Fay, I told you it doesn’t matter.” Lorimer was unable to suppress the triumph in his voice. “I found one.”

“You found what?” Fay was still displeased, unwilling to relax or warm to him.

“The thing you said I’d never find in a hundred years—a man who wants to commit suicide.”

“Oh!” The small hammer she had been holding clattered on the patio with a curious ringing sound. “Mike, I never thought …”

“It’s all right, sweetie.” Lorimer took Fay in his arms and was surprised to feel that she was trembling. He held her tightly, remembering all the times he had got his way in disagreements simply by making her aware of the pent-up strength in his body.

“You won’t even have to be there when it happens,” he murmured. “I’ll take care of everything.”

“But I never really expected to be mixed up in a murder.”

Lorimer experienced a flicker of impatience, but was careful not to reveal it. “Listen, sweetie, we’ve been over all this before. We won’t be murdering Gerard—we’ll just be dispossessing him.”

“No, I don’t like it.” Fay looked up at him with troubled eyes.

“Just dispossessing him, that’s all,” Lorimer coaxed. “It isn’t your fault that the Church and the Law somehow got rolled into one on this planet. On any other world you’d be able to get a divorce for the things Gerard has done or on account of what he doesn’t do—but here the system forces you to take other steps. They don’t even permit emigration. It’s the system’s fault, not yours.”

Fay disengaged herself from his arms and sat down again. Her oval face had lost its colour. “I know Gerard is old. I know he’s cold … but, no matter what you say, he’d still have to be killed.”

“It doesn’t even have to hurt him, for God’s sake—I’ll get a cloud gun for the job.” The meeting with Fay was not working out as Lorimer had planned it, and he could feel his self-control slipping. “I mean, how long would he be clinically dead? Just a couple of days in an open-and-shut case like the one we’re planning.”

“It isn’t right, Mike.”

“As far as Gerard would know, he would close his eyes and waken up in a different body.” Lorimer sought for ways to strengthen his argument. “A younger body, too. This guy I’ve got lined up doesn’t seem very old. We would even be doing Gerard a favour.”

Fay hesitated then slowly shook her head, with fixed eyes, as though following the sweep of a massive pendulum. “I’ve decided against it. If I agreed before, it was only because I thought it could never happen.”

“You’re making this difficult for me,” Lorimer said. “I can’t really believe you’ve changed your mind. I mean, if you had I’d almost be tempted to blackmail you into it—for your own good.”

Fay gave a short laugh. “You couldn’t blackmail me.”

“I could, Fay, believe me. The Primate doesn’t like anybody to engage in adultery, but I’m just a man—with a tendency to venal sin built into him—and I’m not married. I’d probably get a month’s suspended sentence. You, on the other hand, are a woman who has betrayed a faithful husband …”

“Gerard has to be faithful! He isn’t equipped for anything else.”

“The Primate won’t hold that against him. No, sweetie, all the money and fancy lawyers in the world wouldn’t save you from going up for a year. At least a year.” Lorimer was relieved to see that Fay looked suitably horrified. She had the advantages of being rich and beautiful, but when it came to emotional or intellectual in-fighting a certain passivity in her nature guaranteed him victory every time. He paused for a few seconds, long enough to let the threat of prison have maximum effect, then he straddled the bench beside Fay.

“You know, this is the craziest conversation I’ve ever heard,” he said soothingly. “Why are we talking about blackmail and prison when we could be talking about our future together? You hadn’t really changed your mind, had you?”

Fay stared at him in sad speculation. “No, Mike. Not really.”

“That’s great—because this character I found yesterday is too good to waste.” Lorimer squeezed Fay’s hand. “It turns out he’s an unsuccessful artist. I thought you could sell anything in the art line these days, but if there were any garrets on Oregonia this guy would be starving in one of them. That reminds me, can you let me have the pay-off money now?”

“Twenty thousand, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I think there’s more than that in the downstairs safe. I’ll get it for you now.” Fay turned to leave, then paused. “What’s his name?”

“Raymond Settle. Have you heard of him?”

Fay shook her head. “What sort of paintings does he do?”

“I don’t know.” Lorimer was slightly taken aback by the question. Who cares, anyway? The only thing that matters is that he’s determined to kill himself.”

On the way back down the gilded hill and into town Lorimer reviewed his plan. Its elements were simple. Gerard Willen was an industrious and moderately successful businessman, so nobody could really say he had married Fay for her money. He had seen her once, had fallen in love, and had courted her with a desperate ardour to which Fay—always liable to manipulation by anyone with strong motivations—had easily succumbed. The trouble with their marriage was that Gerard, as though having expended the dregs of his vitality on the chase, had almost immediately become paternal rather than passionate. He demanded no more of Fay than that she be seen on his arm at Church functions and formal dinners.

The biological pressures had built up within Fay for more than a year, and Lorimer—fencing coach at an exclusive gymnasium—counted himself lucky to have appeared on the scene at precisely the right time to act as a release mechanism.

In the beginning, for about a month, he had been content just to possess Fay’s body, then had come the conviction that he had earned all the things which went with it. He wanted the money, the splendid houses, the status, and—above all—the escape from the hopeless daily chore of trying to impart grace to plump matrons who used their foils like fly-swatters. But Gerard Willen stood squarely in the way.

On Earth, or one of fifty other planets, there would have been the twin possibilities of divorce or straightforward murder. On Oregonia, neither of these options was open. The dominance of the Mother Church meant that divorce was impossible, except in very extreme circumstances. It was certainly out of the question for a minor thing like sexual incompatibility. And murder due to the fact that Oregonian law prescribed Personality Recompense as a punishment—was much too risky.

It was dark when Lorimer parked his floater at the pre-arranged meeting point on the northern outskirts of the city. For an uneasy moment he thought Settle had failed to make it, then he noticed the thin figure emerging from the blackness of a clump of trees. Settle was moving slowly, weaving a little, and he had difficulty in getting into the vehicle.

“Have you been drinking?” Lorimer demanded, scanning the dimly seen triangular face.

“Drinking?” Settle shook his head. “No, my friend, I’m hungry. Just hungry.”

“I’d better get you something to eat.”

“That’s very kind of you, but …”

“I’m not being kind,” Lorimer interrupted, unable to conceal his disgust. “It would ruin the whole thing if you died on us. I mean, if your body died.”

“It won’t,” Settle told him. “It hangs on to life with a tenacity I find a little disconcerting—that’s my whole problem, after all.”

“Whatever you say.” Lorimer boosted the floater up off the ground and drove it forward. We can’t afford to be seen together, so keep your head down. I’m taking you up to the Willen house.”

“Are we going to do it tonight?” A rare note of animation had crept into Settle’s voice.

“No. Gerard Willen is still out of town, but you’ll have to see the layout of the place in advance, to make sure nothing goes wrong on the big night.”

“I see.” Settle sounded disappointed. He tightened his cloak around himself, huddled down in the passenger seat and remained quiet for the rest of the journey up to the house. Lorimer did not mind the silence—talking to the other man made him feel cold and, in a way he failed to understand, threatened. He made his way up the hill, choosing roads he knew would be deserted, and parked in the lee of the big house. The night air felt crisp as he stepped out of the floater, and the starlight lay like an unseasonal frost on the lawns and hedges. They went through to the patio at the back, where yellow radiance from the windows of the house provided enough illumination for them to see clearly. Lorimer took the cloud gun from his pocket and handed it to Settle, who gripped it with a thin reluctant hand.

“I thought you said it wasn’t tonight,” Settle whispered.

“Just get used to the feel of the gun—we can’t afford for you to miss.” Lorimer urged his companion forward. “The plan is that you’re supposed to be sneaking into the house to steal something—the fact you’re a down-and-out will make the story sound even better. You go in through this french window, which is never locked, and you start looking around for valuables.” Lorimer turned the handle of the window frame and pushed it open. Warm air billowed around them as they went inside the long unlit room.

“What you don’t know is that right next to this room is Gerard Willen’s study where he has a habit of working late at night, when he should be in bed with his wife. You move around in here for a while, then you knock something over. This would do.” Lorimer pointed at a tall vase on a shelf.

“Willen hears the noise, and comes in through that door over there. You panic and smoke him a couple of times with your gun. Do it as many times as you want—just make sure he dies.”

“I’ve never killed anybody,” Settle said doubtfully.

Lorimer sighed. “You’re not killing him—you’re killing yourself. Remember?”

“I guess so.”

“Don’t forget it. When Willen goes down, you stand looking at him—stupefied—until Fay Willen appears in the doorway. You let her get a good look at you, then you throw the gun down and make a run for it, back out the way you came in. The police pick you up in less than an hour. Fay identifies you. You confess. And that’s it!”

“I didn’t realize it would be so complicated.”

“It’s simple, I tell you.” The hopeless monotone of Settle’s voice had angered Lorimer to the point where he felt like throwing a punch. “Nothing could be easier.”

“I don’t know …”

Lorimer gripped Settle’s shoulder and was appalled at how frail it felt beneath the cloak. “Listen, Raymond, you want your kid to get the money, don’t you? Well, this is the only way you can fix it.”

“What will happen to me … afterwards? Will it hurt?”

“The experts say it’s absolutely painless.” Lorimer poured warm encouragement into his voice, clinching his victory. “There’ll be a very brief trial, possibly on the same day, and you’ll be found guilty. All they’ll do then is put a kind of helmet over your head and another one on Willen’s head. They’ll plug you both in to the cerebral coupler, throw a switch, and it will all be over.”

“I’ll be gone for ever?”

“That’s right, Raymond. The transfer process takes about a millionth of a second—so there isn’t time to feel pain. You couldn’t get a better way out.” Lorimer spoke convincingly, but in his heart there were doubts. Advanced neuro-electronics had made it possible to punish a killer—and, to a large extent, recompense the victim—by transferring the mind of the dead person into the body of the murderer. It was a neat, logical system; but, if it was as humane as its proponents claimed, why was it not practised universally? Why was Personality Compensation banned on a number of progressive worlds?

Lorimer decided not to distract himself with needless speculation. All he had to remember was that displacement of identity was one of the very few grounds upon which the Oregonian Mother Church would grant a divorce. Gerard Willen would live on in Settle’s body—but, because it was a different body to the one which had mouthed the holy vows and shared Fay’s matrimonial bed, the marriage would automatically be annulled. Lorimer thought it ironic that the Church, which regarded a marriage as an eternal union of souls, should be so anxious to dissolve the bond at the first hint of physical promiscuity. If it suits His Holiness, he thought, returning his attention to the matter at hand, it suits me. He went over the plan twice more with Settle, rehearsing him carefully for his part, ducking out of the way each time the inexperienced Settle allowed the gun to swing in his direction.

“Watch where you’re pointing that thing,” he snapped. “Try to remember it’s a lethal weapon.”

“But you wouldn’t be dead—you’d only be displaced,” Settle said. “They’d put your mind into my body.”

“I’d rather stay dead.” Lorimer stared at Settle in the dimness of the room, wondering if there had been a hint of amusement or malice in his last remark. “You’d better give the gun back to me before there’s an accident.”

Settle compliantly handed the weapon over, and Lorimer was in the act of dropping it into his pocket when the door to the room was thrown open. Lorimer spun, instinctively levelling the gun at the figure in the lighted doorway, then he saw the intruder was Fay. His forehead beaded with sweat as he realized he had almost been startled into pulling the trigger.

“Mike? Are you there?” Fay turned on the room lights and stood blinking in the sudden brilliance.

“You bloody little fool!” Lorimer snarled. “I told you to stay upstairs if you heard anybody in here tonight.”

“I wanted to see you.”

“You nearly got yourself smoked! You nearly …” Lorimer’s voice failed him as he thought of what might have happened.

“I’m in on this thing, too,” Fay said unconcernedly. “Besides, I wanted to meet Mr Settle.”

Lorimer shook his head. “It’s better that you don’t. The less previous association there is, the less chance of somebody being able to prove collusion.”

“There’s nobody in the house but the three of us.” Fay looked past him at Settle. “Hello, Mr Settle.”

“Mrs Willen.” Settle gave an absurdly dignified bow, his eyes fixed on Fay’s face.

Lorimer became aware that Fay was wearing a rather insubstantial black nightdress, and he felt a surprising pang of annoyance. “Go back upstairs,” he said. “Raymond and I were just about to leave. Isn’t that right, Raymond?”

“That is correct.” Settle smiled, but his face was paler and more desperate than ever. He swayed slightly and caught a chair-back for support.

Fay started forward. “Are you ill?”

“It’s nothing to be concerned about,” Settle replied. “I seem to have forgotten to eat anything for a couple of days. Careless of me, I know …”

“You must have something before you leave.”

“I offered him a meal, but he turned it down,” Lorimer put in. “He doesn’t like eating.”

Fay gave him a look of exasperation. “Bring Mr Settle through to the kitchen. He’s going to have some milk and hot steak sandwiches.” She strode ahead of them, switched on the sonic oven, and in little more than a minute had served Settle with a litre of cold milk and a platter of aromatic toasted sandwiches. Settle nodded his gratitude, untied his cloak and began to eat. Watching him devour the food under Fay’s approving gaze, Lorimer got a feeling that in some obscure way he had been cheated. He developed an inner conviction that if Fay had not been present Settle would have continued refusing to eat, which seemed to indicate he was now playing for sympathy …

When the realization came to him that he was beginning to consider Settle as a rival for Fay’s affections, Lorimer gave a low chuckle. If there was one thing he knew for certain about Fay it was that—after Gerard Willen—she had no room in her life for yet another tired, thin and sickly man. He moved over beside Fay and put his arm around her shoulders, holding her securely within the aura of his own physical strength. He watched Settle with a kind of proprietary amusement.

“Look at him eat,” he whispered. “I told you he was a starving artist.”

Fay nodded. “I wonder why he wants to die.”

“Some people let themselves get that way.” Lorimer decided against mentioning the existence of Settle’s daughter in case it made Fay go soft. “If you ask me, it’s the best thing for him.”

A few minutes later Settle raised his eyes from the empty platter. “I would like to thank you for the …” His words faded away and he sat staring at something on the opposite side of the large room. Lorimer looked in the same direction, but could see nothing there except for one of Fay’s meaningless, paintings, incomplete and still on the easel, which she must have dragged in from the patio and forgotten to put away.

Settle looked at her and said, “Is this your work?”

“Yes, but I’m sure it won’t mean anything to you.”

“It looks to me as though you were painting light itself. With no containment. With no reference whatsoever to restrictive masses.”

Lorimer began to laugh, then he felt Fay make an involuntary movement. “That’s right,” she said quickly, “but how did you know? Have you tried the same thing?”

Settle gave a sad, hopeless smile. “I wouldn’t have the courage.”

“But surely …”

“Let’s break this up,” Lorimer said impatiently. “Raymond has been here too long already, and if somebody sees him the whole plan is wiped out.”

“How could anybody see him?” Fay said.

“An unexpected visitor could drop in.”

“At this time of night?”

“Or somebody could call you on the seephone.”

“That’s hardly likely, Mike. I can’t think why anybody in the …” Fay had been speaking with a firmness which Lorimer found slightly disconcerting, but she allowed the sentence to tail off uncertainly as the kitchen filled with a gentle chiming. It was the call signal from the seephone in the corner.

“I’d better see who it is.” Fay spoke in a low voice as she moved towards the screen.

“Wait till we get out of here,” Lorimer said urgently, feeling his nerves vibrate in time with the insistent signal.

“It’s all right—I’m accepting the call on sound only.” Fay touched a button on the communications console, and the image of Gerard Willen appeared on the screen. He was a frail-looking man in his fifties, with a long serious face and pursed mouth, and dressed in sombre business clothes.

“Hello, Gerard,” Fay said. “I wasn’t expecting a call from you.”

“Fay?” Willen’s eyes narrowed as he peered at his own screen. “Why can’t I see you, Fay?”

“I’m getting ready to go to bed, and I’m not properly dressed.”

Willen nodded his approval. “You are wise to be careful—I’ve heard of Godless individuals who intercept domestic calls in the hope they will be able to practise voyeurism.”

Fay gave an audible sigh. “The Devil is always learning new tricks. Why did you call me, Gerard?”

“I have good news. I have completed my business in Holy Cross City and will be flying out tomorrow morning. That means I shall be with you before noon.”

“I’m so glad.” Fay shot Lorimer a significant glance. “You’ve been away too long.”

“I am looking forward to being back,” Willen said in his precise, neutral tones have a difficult report to write and will be able to concentrate much better in the peace of my own study.”

That’s what you think, Lorimer chanted to himself, feeling an upsurge of confidence and joy. He listened intently to the rest of the conversation, despising Willen and at the same time feeling grateful to him for not displaying a single sign of warmth, for not uttering even one word which could give Fay cause to imagine the relationship might be redeemed. Settle, too, was sitting upright at the table, watching Fay and the image of her husband with an attentiveness which contrasted with his former apathy. His deep-set eyes looked feverish and, again, Lorimer found himself wishing that Fay was wearing a less revealing garment. As soon as the call had ended, and the screen had gone blank, he went to Fay and caught both her hands in his.

“This is it, sweetheart,” he said. “Everything’s falling into place for us.”

“Ah … I’m afraid not.” Settle put in unexpectedly.

Lorimer turned on him. “What are you talking about?”

Settle’s face was haggard, but when he spoke his voice was strangely resolute. “I’ve been thinking the whole thing over while I was watching Mr Willen on the screen, and I’ve realized I can’t go through with it. In spite of all the things you say about merely displacing his personality, I could never make myself shoot another human being. I’m afraid there’s no way you can talk me into it.”

Several times, as he waited in the near-darkness beyond the patio, Lorimer took out the cloud gun and checked it over. It was one of the most perfect killing machines ever devised, but so much was depending on it that he was unable to resist examining its settings again and again. Settle stood impassively beside him, unmoving, his black-cloaked figure like something carved in obsidian. Above their heads, a tiny greenish moon threaded its way among thickets of stars.

The hours had passed slowly, and it was close to midnight when the light from a window in the upper part of the house abruptly faded. Lorimer’s heart began to beat faster and his gloved palms grew moist.

“Fay’s gone to bed,” he whispered. “We’ll be able to move in soon.”

“Ready when you are.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” As the final minutes dragged by, Lorimer felt relieved that his period of dependence on the unstable and unpredictable Settle would soon be over. Settle’s announcement, on the previous night, that he would be unable to shoot Willen had seemed like the end of everything. Lorimer had experienced a few unpleasant moments until it had been established that Settle was still prepared to fulfil most of his bargain. He was prepared to accept the blame for the shooting, and to yield his life for it, as long as somebody else actually pulled the trigger. Lorimer was far from happy with the modified plan, because it involved his being at the scene of the crime instead of establishing an alibi elsewhere, but he had learned that it was difficult to coerce a determined suicide. There was simply no leverage. Given time he might have been able to work something out, but an instinct was telling him it would be a bad thing to give Fay and the artist the chance to develop an association. It was better to press ahead, regardless of minor imperfections in the scheme.

“Come on—we’ve waited long enough,” Lorimer said. He moved on to the patio, walking as quietly as possible to avoid disturbing Willen prematurely. It was vital that the shooting should take place under cover of the darkness within the house so that Willen would not recognize his attacker and—after being restored to life in Settle’s body—give evidence to the police. With Settle close behind him, Lorimer avoided the pool of mellow light issuing from the window of Willen’s study. He reached the french windows of the adjoining room, went inside and drew Settle in after him by the arm.

“You stand right here by the window,” Lorimer said. “If Gerard sees anything when he opens the door, we want it to be you.”

He took a large ceramic vase from the shelf then crouched down behind a chair, holding the vase in his left hand and the cloud gun in his right. It occurred to Lorimer that he should wait a few minutes to let his eyes grow accustomed to the near-blackness, but now that the time had come he was tense and impatient. He lobbed the vase into the air and it shattered against the opposite wall.

The suddenness of the sound was almost explosive. There was a moment of ringing silence, then a muffled exclamation filtered through from the next room.

Lorimer aimed the gun at the door and tightened his finger on the trigger. There were footsteps outside in the corridor. The door was flung open, and Lorimer—in the same instant—squeezed the trigger. Once, twice, three times.

Three clouds of immediate-acting toxin hissed through the clothing and skin of the vague figure silhouetted in the doorway, each a guarantee of instantaneous death, and a split-second later the room lights came on. Lorimer cowered back under the shock of the unexpected brilliance, his eyes staring.

Gerard Willen stood motionless in the doorway, hand on the light switch, gazing at Lorimer with a look of pure astonishment on his long face.

Lorimer leaped to his feet, terrified, instinctively levelling the gun. Gerard Willen lurched towards him, but there was no accompanying movement of his feet. He toppled forward, his face smashed into the corner of a low table with a pulpy sound, and he slumped sideways on to the floor. He had died so quickly that his body had been taken by surprise.

“Oh, Christ,” Lorimer quavered, “that was awful!”

He found himself staring down at the gun in his hand, awed by its powers, then his sense of purpose and urgency returned. Every citizen of Oregonia had to wear a biometer implanted under the skin of his left shoulder, and Willen’s—reacting to the cessation of bodily functions—would be broadcasting an alarm signal. The fact that there had been no medical symptoms prior to the death would be regarded by the computer at Biometer Central as a circumstance worthy of investigation. Lorimer calculated that it would be less than five minutes until an ambulance and a police vessel floated down on to the lawns of the Willen house. He turned to Settle, who was staring fixedly at the body on the floor, and handed him the gun. Settle accepted the weapon with trembling hands.

“Don’t let it throw you,” Lorimer said.

“I can’t help it—look at his face.”

“It isn’t worrying him. Concentrate on what you have to do next. As soon as Fay comes in that door and screams, you throw down the gun and get the hell out of here. Go out the front way and down Ocean Drive. The street lights are good out there, so somebody’s bound to see you. With any luck the police could spot you from the air. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“When that happens, all your troubles will be over.”

Settle nodded. “I know it.”

“Listen, Raymond …” Something about the way the other man had spoken, about the way he was so ready to accept death, aroused Lorimer’s compassion. He touched Settle awkwardly on the shoulder. “… I’m sorry about the way things worked out for you.”

“Don’t worry about me, Mike.” Settle managed a brief, wistful smile.

Lorimer nodded and, aware that he had wasted enough time, turned and ran towards his skimmer. As he left the patio and sped across the grass, a woman’s scream echoed behind him, and he knew the plan was being completed right on schedule. He located the skimmer, jumped in and slammed the canopy down. The vehicle lifted responsively and, without turning on his lights, Lorimer accelerated away from the house. He drove inland on full boost, flitting among the trees like a night-flying bird, invisible in the darkness, until he reached a secondary road several kilometres from the coast.

The road was free of traffic, as Lorimer had expected. He reduced power and brought the skimmer down to the regulation traffic height of one metre, then turned on his lights and flew towards the city at a moderate and unremarkable speed. As the distance markers slipped by in soothing progression, the tension which had been causing the gnawing sensation in his stomach began to abate.

There had been a certain amount of risk, but it had been worth taking. All he had to do now was remain discreetly in the background until Settle was convicted and Gerard Willen’s identity was transferred into his body. Divorce under those circumstances was always rushed through by the office of the Primate in a matter of days, and then Lorimer would be able to step forward and claim his prize. Or, rather, his multiplicity of prizes. There was Fay herself, the three houses, the money, the status …

By the time Lorimer reached the apartment building where he lived he was almost drunk with happiness. He drove his skimmer up the ramp, grounded it with a flourish, and rode up to his apartment in the elevator tube. In the privacy of his own rooms, he stood for a moment savouring the sheer pleasure of being alive, then poured himself a tall drink. He was raising it to his lips when the door chimes sounded. Lorimer carried his drink to the door, sipping it as he walked. He opened the door, saw two grim-faced men standing on the threshold, and a stab of anxiety pierced his euphoria.

“Michael T. Lorimer?” one of the men said.

Lorimer nodded cautiously. “What of it?”

“Police. You’re under arrest. We’re taking you to Police Central.”

“That’s what you think,” Lorimer said, with automatic defiance, and began to back away.

The man who had spoken to him glanced at his companion and said, “Don’t take any chances with him.”

“Right.” The companion raised his hand, and Lorimer glimpsed the flared snout of a bolas gun. Without hesitation, the policeman fired the weapon and a weighted ribbon of metal wrapped itself around Lorimer’s shins, solidifying into an unbreakable bond in less than a second. Another shot hit him in the chest, pinning his arms to his sides. Deprived of all power of movement, he overbalanced and would have gone down had the two men not caught him. They dragged him to the elevator tube, and took him down to a large skimmer and lifted him inside. One of them slipped into the driving seat, and Lorimer fought to control his panic as the vehicle surged towards the exit ramp.

“You’re making one hell of a mistake,” he said, forcing his voice to sound both angry and confident. “What am I supposed to have done?”

Neither of the men answered and Lorimer guessed they had no intention of speaking to him, no matter what he said. He watched the route the vehicle was taking, until he was certain they really were heading for Police Central, then he turned his attention to the problem of what he ought to do next. Something had gone wrong—that much was only too obvious—but what? The only thing he could think of was that Settle had been picked up very quickly and, at the last minute, had funked making a confession. The obvious thing for him to do then would be to accuse Lorimer of the killing.

Lorimer forced himself to think calmly about the situation, and felt a growing conviction that he had hit on the truth. Settle’s weakness and instability had been an adverse factor all along, and it would be in character for him to back away from the final decisive step which would lead to his death. It was just what one would expect from an ineffectual suicidal type, but—Lorimer felt an upsurge of optimism—Settle was backing a loser. His fingerprints, not Lorimer’s, were on the murder weapon, and he had entered the house in a manner which was an indictment in itself. Those two circumstances were damning enough, but the blackest mark against him was that Fay would not corroborate his story. It was the word of a shabby down-and-out against the combined testimonies of a rich and respected woman and a citizen who had never been in any previous trouble.

In a few minutes of ghosting through quiet streets the skimmer reached Police Central and came to rest in the entrance bay. One of the men snipped the coil away from Lorimer’s legs, making it possible for him to get out of the vehicle with reasonable dignity, but they left his arms strapped to his sides. Inside the brightly lit building a number of people glanced curiously at Lorimer and, while he was being bundled into an elevator tube, he began rehearsing his lines. An air of injured innocence would, he decided, be more effective than loud indignation. Perhaps, a tone of mild reproach and a hint of reluctance to consider suing for wrongful arrest …

When he was led into an office to face three officials in the blue collarettes of Inspectors, Lorimer was fully composed and almost looking forward to the contest of wits.

“Perhaps one of you gentlemen will explain what’s going on here,” he said, meeting their eyes unflinchingly. “I’m not accustomed to this sort of thing.”

“Michael Thomas Lorimer.” The senior Inspector of the three spoke in a careful voice while glancing at a compcard in his hand. “I am charging you with the murder of Gerard Avon Willen.”

“Gerard Willen? Dead?” Lorimer looked shocked. “I can’t believe it.”

“Have you anything to say in reply to the charge?”

“Who would want to …?” Lorimer paused for a moment as though he had just comprehended the Inspector’s opening statement. “Wait a minute—you can’t charge me with murder. I didn’t know anything about it. I haven’t been near the Willen place for weeks.”

“We have a witness.”

Lorimer gave a comfortable laugh. “I’d like to know who he is.”

“The principal witness is not a man. Mrs Willen has testified that she saw you shoot her husband and run from the house.”

The floor seemed to heave beneath Lorimer’s feet. “I don’t believe you,” he said.

One of the other Inspectors shrugged and held up a recorder. On its small screen there appeared an image of Fay, her cheeks glistening with tears, and Lorimer heard her say the words which condemned him. I’ve been had, he thought strickenly, as a dark flood of understanding welled in his mind. The bitch has decided to drop ME! Awareness of his peril jolted Lorimer’s brain into desperate activity.

“This is a big shock for me,” he said urgently, “but I think I can explain why Mrs Willen told you a lie like that.”

“Proceed.” There was a flicker of interest in the senior Inspector’s eyes.

“You see, I got to know Mrs Willen when I was teaching her to fence. We got to talking quite a bit and she invited me up to her house a few times. I thought she was just being normally friendly—so you can imagine the way I felt when I realized she wanted me to have an affair with her.”

“How did you feel, Mr Lorimer?”

“Disgusted, of course.” Lorimer said with maximum candour. “She’s an attractive woman and I’m only human, but I draw the line at adultery. When I turned her offer down she seemed to go insane for a few minutes—I’ve never seen anybody so angry. She said things I don’t like to repeat.”

“Under the circumstances, I think you should put your scruples aside.”

Lorimer hesitated. “Well, she said she would get out of her marriage to Gerard Willen somehow, no matter what it took. And she said she’d make me sorry for the way I’d treated her. I never thought anything like this would come out of it …” Lorimer gave a shaky laugh. “… but now I’m beginning to understand that old saying about a woman scorned.”

“You tell an interesting story, Mr Lorimer.” The senior Inspector examined his fingernails for a moment. “Have you ever met a man called Raymond Settle?”

“I don’t think so.”

“That’s odd. He was at the Willen house tonight, and he too says he saw you shoot Mr Willen.”

“What? But why should I kill Gerard?”

“There’s a sum of twenty thousand monits in cash missing from the wall safe in the room where Willen was killed. Money we recovered from your apartment tonight. Settle says he was in the study with Willen when they heard a sound in the next room. Settle says that Willen went to investigate and …”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lorimer shouted. “Who is this man Settle, anyway? He must be in on it with Fay—they must have cooked this up between them. That’s it, Inspector! He must be Fay Willen’s latest boy friend. He must have sneaked into the house …” Lorimer stopped speaking as he saw that the Inspector was shaking his head.

“It won’t do, Mr Lorimer.” The Inspector’s voice was almost kind. “Raymond Settle was a trusted business associate of Mr Willen, and a friend of the family for many years. He had every right to visit Gerard Willen this evening.”

Lorimer opened his mouth to argue, then closed it without uttering a sound. Wordless—and helpless—he was just beginning to appreciate the full extent of what had been done to him.

Exactly a year later, three people attended a discreet celebration in the many-mirrored dining room of the large house overlooking the sea.

Gerard Willen, clothed in the flesh which had once belonged to a young and ambitious fencing coach, poured three glasses of imported champagne. As he did so, he took pleasure in the easy strength and steadiness of the hand in which he held the dewed bottle. It was an enjoyment which never seemed to fade.

“You know,” he remarked, “this is a superb body I have … inherited. It was a pity that friend Lorimer didn’t have the mental equipment to match.”

Raymond Settle shook his head. He was as gaunt as ever, but when freshly groomed and expensively clad his tall frame appeared wiry rather than frail. His left arm was around Fay’s waist, and she had nestled contentedly against his side.

“It was lucky for us that Lorimer wasn’t too bright,” he said. “I thought I was going to laugh and give the game away when I was feeding him that mush about a baby daughter in an orphanage.”

Fay smiled up at him. “You were very good, Raymond. Very convincing.”

“Perhaps—though sometimes I feel a bit guilty about it. We played him like a fish.”

“Forget it. The man was a murderer.” Willen handed round the beaded glasses and raised his own. “Here’s to me.!”

“Why not to all of us?” Fay said.

Willen smiled. “Because I got the most out of it. You escaped from a marriage you were tired of, but I wanted the divorce, too—and into the bargain I got a new physique which lets me work twenty hours a day if I feel like it.”

“You always did work too much,” Fay told him.

Willen looked thoughtful. “I suppose the old me must have been rather boring.”

“Not rather boring. Very boring.”

“I think I deserve that. Mind you …” Willen glanced appreciatively at Fay. “… the new me could be very different. Now that I’ve got the hormone production of a young stallion, I’ve realized there are more enjoyable pursuits than work.”

“How interesting!” Fay detached herself from Settle, laughing and moved closer to Willen with an exaggerated sway of her hips. “Perhaps you’ll come round and see me some time—when Raymond’s not here, of course.”

“Cut that out, you two.” Settle protested with a good-natured grin. “You’re beginning to worry me.”

“Don’t be silly, darling.” Fay smiled at him over the rim of her champagne glass. “Here’s to the sanctity of marriage.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Settle drained his glass, and then—when he noticed that Fay and Willen were gazing at him with amused expectancy—began to wonder if his drink had tasted exactly the way champagne should.