Murder Under Glass

Murder Under Glass

by Bob Liddil

I hate being dragged out of bed during sleep-time. So you can imagine how thrilled I was when the com-buzzer went off at the Kilgarian equivalent of three AM. Fumbling around in the dark for the blasted obnoxious thing making all the noise, I made a mental note to send whoever was on the other end to the snow dome for six months of igloo patrol.

Finally I found the com. "This better be more important than your life," I growled.

"Inspector," began a female human voice on the other end, "I hate to have to wake you up..."

"Well I’m up now, so get on with it." My mouth tasted like the air inside of a pressure suit and my head was beginning to hurt. I was feeling positively evil.

"There’s been an incident, sir," she sounded a little unsure whether she should continue.

"And?" I prompted. There had to be more. Nobody from the night shift would call me unless one of the damn domes exploded or something.

"There’s been a death, Inspector. One of the dome guides, a human by the name of Cobb Christian."

Now that was news. It meant that within a few days, the place would be crawling with regulators, news beings and insurance investigators. It also meant that I’d be in my least favorite position, the spotlight. I decided right then and there that I’d better get the jump on the rush. Somebeing dying in a dome was bad for business. And we’d had a pretty good safety record up until now.

I said, "OK, relax, I’ll be ready in ten minutes. Send a transport around for me."

"It’s already on it’s way, sir."

I cut the com link and activated the coffee maker.

When I signed up with Pinkerton’s, ten years ago, to run security on Kilgari, I hadn’t known much about the place. If I had, I would’ve probably stayed in the Navy. Not that this backwater little rock doesn’t jump once in a while. Just the opposite. Every time a yacht full of rich tourists docks, the first thing they do is throw a party. Alcohol is the second largest industry next to expeditions on Kilgari, and City Dome do definitely know how to rock and roll. Off-world weapons are banned, you couldn't get one aboard a shuttle if you tried. Only licensed safari outfitters have them, and they're bonded for five million platinum apiece. So the worst damage any being can do to anybody else is to scuff them a little. Even the wogs -- Kilgarian slang for "Wealthy Offworld Gentlebeings" -- can’t do much harm beyond the abilities of what ever might be attached to their appendages. The owners of this planetoid, in order to keep their resort status, have to seriously keep the peace. That means no crime and, in particular, no unnatural death.

I had just enough time to grab a cup of coffee, and throw on a jump suit and a rank vest before the transport arrived. The ride downtown was quiet. City Dome, at night, has it’s own kind of darkness, a red and green and blue aura from the building lights that reflects off the high glass. I used to be spooky about the domes. You know the old Earth science fiction, where the glass cracks and the outside vacuum sucks away the air. I used to read stuff like that as a kid. But in real life, it would take a direct meteor strike to hole a dome, and what little atmosphere Kilgari has burns up any small debris that might come along. The long range scanners on the docking platforms above us would give plenty of warning about anything larger than a basketball.

About five minutes into the ride, I noticed we weren’t going toward the Pinkerton building. Rather, we were headed toward the inter-dome tube station. As we pulled up to the front door, I could see a Pinkerton corporal waiting for me.

"Inspector Kruger," She spotted me and greeted me pleasantly. "I’m Corporal Ross, from the records pool. I’m your field secretary on this case." This was the same voice I’d heard on the com-link just minutes before. If I'd known she looked like this, I'd have tried to be a little less grumpy. As I exited the transport, she handed me a file folder. Somebody must’ve warned her that I don’t like or trust the electronic notebooks that are Pinkerton standard issue.

I said, "Where am I going?"

"Dome 16." She was wearing just a hint of perfume. That distracted me for a second. Then I said, "So, what happened with this guy, anyway?"

"Dome patrol got a distress call at 2300 hours yesterday from one of Christian’s trekkers, saying that there’d been an accident. According to the preliminary report, he was trampled by a Kujata. We don’t have any other details. The four trekkers are under house detention at the 16 Hotel and they’re waiting to be cleared by you."

"Dome patrol won’t clear them?" I was genuinely surprised. I would have thought that they would want to get those guests off-world as quickly as possible. This was beginning to arouse my curiosity.

"Apparently, they buried Mr. Christian. Dome patrol says they don’t have the authority to dig him up. They called us."

I shook my head in amazement. This case was less than an hour old and was already beginning to sound like a made-for-broadcast tri-video. I followed Ross through the main terminal area to the VIP bay, where a private tube car had been rigged and was standing by. Very elegant.. The VIP cars had dimmers on the lights. Dome 16 was at least a five hour trip. I could get some shut-eye.

"Do me a favor," I said, "take a couple of metros over to Christian’s quarters and see what turns up. I’ve got a feeling that this one’s not going to be cut and dry. Call me if something turns up."

"I’m on it," she said with a quick smile. How can anybody be cheerful on night shift?

As I stepped aboard the tube car, a female computer voice requested, "Destination, please."

I answered, "Dome 16." then found myself a comfortable seat. I had a little reading to do before killing the lights.

The first three pages of the file reprinted the deceased’s standard resident-alien dossier. You don’t have to be anything except wealthy to come to Kilgari as a tourist. But to live here you have to know the Pope, be a member of the Ruling Family, or be really, really good at whatever speciality you’re being hired for. Take me, for example, I’d been a Navy intelligence officer and I met the Pope once. Two out of three’s not bad.

Now Christian -- the man had been a Fleet Marine. He’d fought in the Tobago VI campaign, winning a distinguished service medal with six gold stars He was wounded twice during the retaking of Sympac Science station during the rebellion on Sympia III and had been held hostage for six years by the Islamic Jihad, during the "War to Destroy All Infidels in the Seven Sectors of Mohammed" campaign. He mustered out honorably from galactic service and spent three years as an independent mercenary, a for-hire bodyguard to several different wealthy clients, finally coming to Kilgari with recommendations from the president of Digitron-Teledyne, who also happens to be the tenth most wealthy man in the federated galaxy. That was page one.

This guy was something else. Page two listed more than a hundred weapons and type A through GGG explosives that he’d been trained to handle. He was also commando qualified in desert, jungle, tundra, mountain and underground tracking and he spoke seven languages besides galactic, independently of the universal translator.

Page three listed hobbies, special interests and next of kin. Each section remained blank except for the words, none, none and none.

Pages four through seven outlined his credit. Not much out of the ordinary, a couple of thousand in the bank, company condo, the usual. So it seemed, at first glance, that Cobb Christian was married to his work. Nothing unusual about that. Takes a certain kind of being to tramp around the domes and put up with the idle rich for a living.

The last page outlined his corporate and domestic discipline record. Eleven complaints from City Dome Metro cops for drunk and disorderly, three off world complaints through company channels alleging maltreatment of guests on safari. I found the latter interesting. All three complaints were handled at the executive level and no fines were levied on the guide. That’s outside procedure, meaning that he had probably had a couple of friends in high administration.

At this point, I had a pretty fair picture of the deceased. Competent, rowdy, a little prone to alcohol abuse, cocky, well connected and less than fond of wogs. He also was a crack shot and extremely self sufficient. Not the sort to get himself stomped to death by a dome creature, particularly one he worked around frequently.

At about that time, fatigue caught up with me. Laying the folder aside, I dimmed the light, closed my eyes and tried to catch some z’s.

* * *

I woke up to the smell of coffee, hot and black, just the way I like it. On the message screen blinked a note from Ross, saying "Good morning, sir, and good luck." She was taking this secretary thing seriously.

The next fifteen minutes consisted of an arrival, a short ride to the dome patrol gate station and a call to the dome 16 accommodation house to arrange a meeting with the trekkers. As sunrise began to lighten the dome, I sat behind a one-way glass window, sipping on my third cup of coffee, watching as they all filed into the interview room. One, in particular, a kyzillian, seemed particularly agitated and it didn’t mind letting the escort know it.

"Have you notified my embassy yet?" The universal translator spoke in a flat robotic monotone, but the kyzillian was very animated and its appendages were waving around in a manner that indicated displeasure. "What about my * legal representative * being who deals with authorities*? Where is (it)?"

I figured I’d better get on with this before we suffered another casualty. As soon as it saw my rank vest, the kyzillian launched into another tirade. I’m not known to be particularly patient. I told it, "Sit down and shut up!" and to my surprise, it did so immediately.

What a crew. A kyzillian, two lupinians and a wapatai. The kyzillian resembled a heavily scaled snake, the lupes looked like oversized gophers and the wapatai was, for lack of a better term, a short unantlered moose. At least they were all bipedal, but damn! What was this odd lot doing in dome 16?

Stupid question, actually, when you think about it. The domes of Kilgari have only one purpose; recreation catering to the obscenely wealthy. Under each of the 21 domes lies an individually terraformed eco-system where different scenerios are played out for anyone who can afford the 600,000 platinum credits base cost. The higher the dome number, the more difficult and expensive the scenerio, ranging from dome 2, orchid and tropical rain forest hiking, to 21, the snow dome, where the expedition and guides are equipped with a spear, a fishing line and ten days dry rations, for a 21 day blizzard trek. Dome 16 expeditions specialized in live animal kills, safari hunting for trophies. The interior is a veldt, modeled after Africa, Earth, except with a homogeneous mixture of creatures and supporting vegetation from planets all over the galaxy, predators and prey in a balanced environ. These four wogs were trophy hunters.

I said to the kyzillian, "OK, explain it to me. What happened? How did the guide die?" It protested fully ten minutes at being the first to be interviewed, before it finally settled down to answer my questions. The field translator was an older model that cobbled the context a little but I got the gist of it.

"We *had been* three days traveling on safari and *ending sleep period/beginning new wake period*. Our guide led us into a *depression in the ground*, saying to us that we were going to 'bag a big one' today. We set up a *technical term loosely meaning cross-fire zone* with my self on the point of the triangle and the guide in the center. The beast came out of nowhere. It charged past my position. I fired one round at it but missed. *Regret/sadness concerning loss*. Our guide was frozen with fear. He made no attempt to move and was trampled by the creature. We would have all been killed if we had not immediately taken cover where the beast could not get to us."

The others from the party were quick to confirm the kyzillian’s claim. The details of my interview coincided with the individual statements the dome patrol had gotten from them when they first came off the inside. It was this very agreement between the four on minute details that made me wonder if what I was hearing wasn’t a planned, rehearsed story.

I researched the kujata, the "beast", as the kyzillian called it on the Dome Patrol master terminal . I found it listed in standard inventory reference as a non-sentient, and from its picture, ugly beyond belief, looking like a huge, blubbery cross between a terran whale with legs and an armored Grantinain rhino-beast. Formidable, true, but only by virtue of size. It would be easily capable of accidently squashing somebeing if they would get underfoot, but overtly attacking an experienced guide? Its confidential profile suggested otherwise. Not even an import, it carried a code "CC" according to the inventory schedule for dome 16. "CC" stands for Composite Clone. It was a genetically engineered tourist boogeyman, a sucker hunt for first timers. Things just didn’t add up. Though hideous looking and big as an armored personnel carrier, it should have been harmless as a puppy.

Although I had the authority to release them to Dome City, I ordered the wogs held. I wanted them handy for more questioning when I got back from the field. They all protested -- none more loudly than the kyzillian. That one was really starting to get on my nerves. Still, nothing to do now, but go out onto the dome and retrieve the deceased.

* * *

The veldt inside dome 16 is like no other environ on Kilgari. The temperature fluctuates between 30 standard degrees at night and one hundred fifteen during light hours. Only a breath of breeze stirred the grass as our Jeep made its way along the dusty road that led into the interior.

It took most of the morning to complete the slow ride out to the site where Christian had been buried. Two dome patrolmen had been posted to keep the scavengers away, and judging from the number of dead hyenas scattered around the site, I guessed the duty hadn’t been boring.

I watched as they uncovered the body. It was a mess. What hadn’t been stomped into jelly in the attack, had started to decompose. The heat and humidity, the bugs and the worms had already started doing their job, which was to reduce Cobb Christian to trace elements.

I said, "Bag him." Then I turned and walked away while they were doing it. I’ve seen a few casualties in my time, laser burns, blast victims. Nowhere in my travels, though, had I ever seen anyone so completely demolished as Cobb Christian. He’d been stomped so many times, from the look of the corpse, that I had to believe that what ever did it was pissed beyond belief.

"Uh, watch it, Inspector." The voice startled me, because I’d been lost in thought.

"Watch what?" I was slightly irritated to be interrupted.

One of the young patrolmen who’d been on guard duty when we arrived, had left his post to come over to me. He had a look of concern on his face. He said, "You don’t spend much time out here do you?" His tone was casual, rather than impertinent.

"Not really," I answered. "Why"

The kid said, "Because you’re standing right next to one of the deadliest clumps of vegetation on the veldt."

I must’ve jumped a yard and I let out a yelp of surprise that brought the other guard running. Then I let out a laugh. The thing I had bolted away from was a rose bush.

I said, "OK, kid, you got me." Apparently I was getting the rookie’s treatment.

"You think I’m kidding, don’t you?" the kid said. "Look, Inspector, dome patrol puts each new recruit through the same indoctrination courses that the guides get. The flowers on that bush are a delicacy for one of the specimens, a veg-eater called a fastiacalon. But the thorns secrete a poison that zaps anything that gets too close. See that pod, underneath? Watch this."

He went over to his jeep and returned a moment later with a packet of meat. Anticipating my question, he laughed and said, "Cats. We’ve got thirty different kinds of cats out here. They’re fast and they're always hungry. Sometimes it’s easier just to toss them a snack." I nodded in understanding. Educational, this dome.

He reached out with his walking stick and pushed the end of it against one of the branches. Instantly, the other branches began to move as well, as if they had been stirred by a breeze. He nudged the tip of the cane into the center of one of the bright orange rose blossoms and then, jerked it quickly back out again. The kid’s movement came just a hair faster than a the sudden closing of a dozen or so of the limbs on where the stick had been. He had already removed the meat from its wrapping. He just tossed it on the ground, three feet or so from the outer branches. He said, "Stand back a couple of more yards, Inspector, and watch this."

The branches parted and two flaps on the inner pod fell away, revealing a pastel orange interior wall, coated with layers of white spines. Nothing happened for a second or two, then, with more speed than I would have bet on, a red tendril suddenly snaked out and speared the meat on the ground. Within no more than a minute, the meat had been dragged back into the interior of the plant, the limbs had reset to their original configuration and it had once more taken on the appearance of an innocent rose bush.

I said, "Shit!" out of sheer respect for the plant and for the kid who knew what it was. I made a mental note to go back to dome inventory again and find out why something this dangerous would be placed in the proximity of the guests. I had a feeling that the insurance boys did not know about this.

"Hmmm,"The kid said, "got a pair of tweezers?" A thorn from one of those animated limbs had lodged in the body of his walking stick. I got a pair of evidence grips from my evidence kit. Stainless steel; some things Pinkerton makes are worth having. Very carefully, I dropped the thorn into a glass tube and sealed it with an aluminum cork.

By now, they had Christian scooped, bagged, zipped and loaded. I motioned to the kid who’d just saved my hide, to switch with the driver who’d brought me out to the site. "You’re with me now," I said. "We’ve got things to talk about."

* * *

By the time we reached the hotel, I'd acquired a complete education concerning the wildlife in dome 16, both animal and vegetable. The youngster doing the briefing had requested to work on the veldt to fulfil a pre-entrance requirement for his PhD in bio-engineering at Mars University. Then, instead of going into practice, he had returned to Kilgari and dome patrol. The kid wanted to be a guide. One thing in particular that he said, stuck in my mind, long after he'd gone off to resume his duties. He'd said, "You know, it's funny. I'm 3 years on the veldt and I've never seen a kujata."

I hadn't taken more than ten steps into the hotel lobby when the desk clerk flagged me to tell me I had a comm-call. She indicated one of the private booths near the lift. Actually, I was grateful to be able to sit down on something softer than a jeep seat. I plugged in my KT&T card and said, "Go ahead," as the screen blinked on. It was Ross.

"Good," she said, "I'm glad I caught you. It seems our deceased had a couple of variables in his life."

I said,"Go on."

"Well," Ross continued, "among his personal effects, we found a tab book for the race tracks on Kyzillia. It seems that Mr. Christian was a gambler and a heavy loser. Also, we found three fully charged beam pistols, all set to kill."

"Heavy breech of company policy," I commented. "Is that it?"

"No, there's one more thing. We also found a commercial carrier ticket dated for today, on White Star Lines. His destination was Earth Colony 1800 in the Tri-Gama sector. It looks like he had planned to quit his job and head out to the rim. The ticket was one way."

I said, "Thanks Ross, excellent work. Follow up on the gambling angle for me will you?"

"You got it."

I cut the com.

Gambling is not illegal on Kilgari, although there is only one casino in Dome City. The race tracks on Kyzillia are another matter. Those snake pits (no pun intended) are home to the last bastions of organized crime in this part of the galaxy. If Christian owed money to one of the mobs, then the odds that his death was no accident just rose dramatically. It occurred to me that having a kyzillian in the dead guide's last tourist party, then finding he had a gambling problem, was a mighty long coincidence. The loose ends were all starting to fall together.

It had been a long day. I'd ordered an autopsy on Christian's remains, but that wouldn't be available until morning. I'd also ordered a toxic analysis of the thorn I'd brought off the veldt. That bush had been spooky. I'd been very surprised that anything that deadly would be placed in the proximity of tourists. I added to my list of things to do, to find out whose bright idea that thorn bush was. Then I pulled my call card out of the vid-com and retired for the evening. Best to chew big questions on a fresh day.

* * *

The com-buzzer went off at exactly 3:30 AM. I swore a blue streak as I fumbled around, trying to find it, then, when I finally did, I shouted into it, "Dammit! Doesn't any body ever sleep on this planet?"

The silence on the other end lasted five seconds or so, then a male human voice said, "Sorry to have to wake you, Inspector..."

I interrupted, somewhat more calmly, much more quielty, and with as much dignity as I possibly could muster. I said, "Someone better have died."

Another silence, followed by, "Actually, Inspector, that's why I'm calling. Someone has died."

Fifteen minutes later, gripping my first coffee of the day, I strolled into the Watch Captain's office at Dome Patrol headquarters. I cut right to the chase. "Who's dead and how?"

"The wapatai." he said simply, "and as to how? I've got somebody working on that now."

Now I don't know much about xenobiology, mostly just general information. But one thing I would've bet a month's pay on. That moose didn't die of natural causes. I said, "Autopsy?"

"Already ordered one."

"Good, put a guard on each of the other suspects and don't leave any of them alone. And roust that kyzillian, Run a mob-connection cross-check on it and bring that and it to the interview room." I gave him an interplanetary Pinkerton access code for his terminal, that I thought might be useful.

This had become a public relations nightmare. One need not be a drive scientist to figure out that two deaths out of one safari party spelled more than coincidence. I grabbed another cup of coffee and headed for the interview room. Half an hour later, an escort brought in the snake.

"I protest!" It was now even more agitated than the last time I'd seen it. "My *representative to government* shall hear of this and you will be *performing janitorial duties on a rim colony* by this time period tomorrow."

"I'm scared to death." I said sarcastically, but apparently the translater didn't pick up the inflection, because the snake shot back, "You should be."

I changed the subject. "Let's discuss the kyzillian gambling syndicates."

It instantly made a sound of disgust, the kyzillian equivilent of spitting on the ground. "Those *not translatable obscenity* disreputable *beings who consume the young of their own species* are beneath contempt." The translator was getting better, in my opinion.

Forget agitation or being upset. The snake was now glaring at me as though it might be about to take my head off or something. To see it's reaction you would have thought I had insulted its entire planetary population. "I am the son of one of the leading galactic traders in our system," it continued, "and the brother of General *no equivilent pronounciation* of the Kyzillian system navy. I hold the rank of *minister in charge of a continental mass* in our government. I have related to you, the details of the guide's death, as you requested and now, *untranslatable obscenity / reference to a deity*, I am ready to leave this miserable planetoid so that I may undertake my new mission in life which is the complete dismantling of the Kilgari Corporation and the closing of this resort."

None of this added up. If the snake was telling the truth, the facts it had just related would make it a sincerely unlikely crime family hit-being. Still, I had a dead guide on my hands, as well as a deceased non-human and except for the kyzillian gambling angle, not much more than a gut hunch or two to go on.

Too much coincidence here. It felt like foul play.

* * *

I sent the kyzillian back to its quarters without further comment and initialized a class 24 security search on it and its family. If there is one thing Pinkertion connections are good for, it is the Coordinated Galactic Criminal Data Base headquartered on Data Alpha 3. With agency contacts in law enforcement stretched across ninety per cent of the sectors in the galaxy, it would be a cinch to verify the snake's claim to royal connections.

The xenopathologist called at eight. Now that's a civilized hour. By then, I'd received the report I'd requested from Ross, and also the biological background research I'd requested from the young PhD patrolman, concerning the kujata and other seemingly strange lifeforms not entirely consistant with the "safari" motif of the dome 16 veldt.

Ross' report closed an angle and opened another. An amount transferred from First Kilgari Savings, 18,000 platinum credits, satisfied the amount owed to the kyzillians. That currency move had been performed on the day before Christian's trek went out on the veldt. The record confirmed that the transaction and the ticket buy had originated from the headquarters building of TKC (The Kilgari Corporation) in downtown Dome City. This was odd. 18,000 is a month's pay for a senior guide and there was no corresponding credit union code attached to the work. The funds had come from a company account. That meant that Christian's corporate guardian angel had bailed him out of his gambling trouble. Now it would be pretty easy to identify him and find out the reason for the special treatment. I put Ross on that trail, with instructions to bring whoever it was out to 16 to be interviewed by me.

The patrolman's report held some curious revelations as well. The kujata, it seemed, was not the manufactured animal that my general access data base had led me to believe. There seemed to be no records on the cloning laboratory monitoring systems to indicate in which laboratory the creature was grown. Another oddity noted: both brochures and other printed materials listed the kujata, as being one of the most dangerous and elusive animal in the dome 16 inventory. Yet no video record existed of it, and descriptions of it varied dramatically. Also, although considered a prime target, kill records seemed to indicate that no one had ever bagged one. Except, (according to published reports), 16's top guide, Cobb Christian. The whole thing with this creature vaguely reminded me of a legendary creature from old Earth, a snipe. This often ferocious, rarely observed beast was used to teach young scout candidates lessons in tracking and capturing dangerous quarry. If I remember correctly, much tracking, but very little capturing was the rule with that particular terran monster.

At ten, a dome patrol courier brought me a printout of the pathologist's preliminary report on Christian. It read like a textbook version of a man being run over by a twenty-ton land vehicle. Every bone in the guide's body had been broken. Vital organs had burst under high preasure. Spinal seperation, fractured skull. Probable cause of death: subject appears to have been crushed by trampling. Cobb Christian's snipe had run amok on his body. At the bottom of the printout was a hastily scribbled note that said, blood-analysis cross-reference with object provided pending.

Now seemed like a good time to reinterview the gophers. Since the kyzillian connection seemed to be evaporating and the moose had been eliminated the hard way, the lupinians were all I had left. When they arrived, I offered them a seat, using the friendliest body language I could muster.

"Gentlemen," I said, casually, the translator offering my words as a series of variable frequency clicks and whistles, "tell me about the guide, Mr. Christian."

They looked at each other, then back at me and neither said anything. Then, they both shrugged at the same time in a gesture of "I don't know."

"Very well," I said, "Let me tell you." From the information I'd gathered so far, I had a fair profile of the guide. "He was arrogent," I began, "he showed little respect for your species in particular or any of the non-humans in your party." I noted subtle changes in the lupes' facial expressions as the translator caught up with what I was saying. I ran with it. "He consumed alcohol in quantity and his behavior became more erratic as the expedition progressed. He became more verbally, maybe even physically abusive. I'll bet you were glad when the beast showed up and stomped him into the veldt. Am I right?"

I admit it. It was a long shot. It was an old trick I learned in Navy intelligence, used for interviewing prisoners. A human would have never fallen for it. but the gophers... they took the bait.

One said, "It is true. The human guide was a *unpleasant beast that wallows in garbage* and had said on more than one occasion that he would like to feed us to the lions. We are civilized beings, but there were times before the human's demise when I or my sibling would have cheerfully destroyed him. It is always sad when a sentient expires, but the guide was different. He deserved what happened."

A minute later, I was called to the com. It was the pathologist.

"I did the extra tests you asked for, Inspector."

"And what did you find?"

"Virostrychnine, in a very potent form on the thorn and in blood samples taken from the deceased."

Bingo! "Anything else?" I asked.

"The cause of death was not the virostrychnine. That's only a neuro-paralyzer. In the absence of other events, it would've worn off in an hour or so and left him with a bad headache, not much more. The official cause of death, as far as I'm concerned, is still massive internal injuries brought about by being trampled. The guide was simply stomped to death."

"Lastly," he said, and his tone became more confidential, "about the second victim..." I could tell he was trying hard not to laugh.

Less than 30 minutes later, I was notified that Corporal Ross and a Mr Oppenheimer were waiting for me in a conference suite at the hotel. Oppenheimer was a junior vice-president, in the overseer's office. So this was Christian's guardian angel. Time to bring all the players together in one place.

* * *

I gave the watch captain a list of who and what I wanted, grabbed a cup of coffee and transport to the hotel. They were waiting for me when I arrived. I introduced myself to Oppenheimer, but did not offer any more than a handshake and some chit-chat. Ross had told him that he was being brought in to supervise the closing of the investigation. No need to say any more than that just yet. As we took our seats at the conference table, the rest of the group began to arrive. The kyzillian, being unusually low-keyed, arrived only ten steps ahead of the lupes. Each arrived in his turn, the two young patrolmen who had been guarding Christian's body and their captain, the pathologist. Soon, everybody was present. The last one in moved to close the doors, but I motioned him to hold off, with a forefinger in the air, indicating one more coming. Sure enough, the wapatai, miraculously back from the dead, rolled up in a wheel chair, flanked by two medical technicians. Reactions were immediate and vocal, with the kyzillian offering more and angrier comments.

"Now, everyone is here," I said. "This meeting is being recorded, does anyone object." No one did , so I said, "All right, let's get on with this. For the record the following are present. When I identify you, will you please indicate with a hand or appendage?" Then I did an old fashioned roll-call.

When I said, "Welcome back to the living," to the wapatai, the moose responded with a loud snort. "Sometimes playing dead works, sometimes it doesn't." it said, roughly translated.

"Our wapatai friend has an unusual ability to slow his heart rate, lower his body temperature and simulate death when he's in trouble." I commented, "Most places would just call in the wapatai ambassador and haul his 'dead' carcass away. Our doctor electro-shocked his heart and damn near killed him trying to save his life."

The humans all got a good laugh out of it, but the off-worlders didn't see the humor, or maybe just didn't know what a good joke was when it came by. Then, I began in earnest.

"What happened to Cobb Christian?" My dramatic tone was not lost on the new translation box I'd asked Ross to bring with her from Dome City. This translator model was much better at human inflection than the old one. I gazed around the room, allowing my eyes to rest on each one of its occupants individually. The gophers were calm, the snake figeted nervously, the wapatai coughed and tried to smooth a patch of ruffled fur. Oppenheimer was the picture of poise, but right at his scalp line, little beads of sweat were beginning to form.

"Cobb Christian was a bigot," I continued, "He mistreated the guests in his safari parties on several reported occasions, without incurring any discliplinary action from the company, thanks to you, Mr Oppenheimer."

Oppenheimer turned an immediate shade of red and protested, but I ignored him and pressed on.

"He was heavily involved with gambling, on the kyzillian race tracks, an activity that you claim to know nothing about..." I gave the snake a penetrating stare and it responded with negative body language but nothing verbal. "Those debts were paid off by... ah, surprise! Mr Oppenheimer."

The executive was growing angrier by the minute and I was loving every second of it.

"So our four intrepid hunters go onto the veldt with a man who hates non-humans so badly that he is about to resign and take a one-way trip to the furthest human colony on the rim, just to get away from them once and for all, and does the guide get a little rough? Oh, yeah. And does he partake of a little alcohol? Again, yes, indeed. Now, each member of the safari party tells the same story, exactly. Identically, as though rehearsed, and that got me to thinking. It isn't reasonable for four non-humans of three different species to come up with identical viewpoints of an event that they witnessed from four different angles, unless very well rehearsed, or, better still, programmed in some way."

I looked over at the young dome patroleman who'd rescued me from the roses. "Mr. Evans, you're an expert in xenobiology. How could these four have been tricked into believing that they saw Cobb Christian stomped to death by the kujata?"

"Ah... telepathic image projection," he fumbled just a little. "It would require an esper rating of at least 17 on the Bridges scale to plant such a detailed recollection in four minds at the same time."

"True," I said, "and well extrapolated. So, if we accept, for the moment, that the trekkers' versions of the guide's death are false, then, how did he die?"

The pathologist offered, "He was alive at the point he was being trampled..."

I shot back, "Exactly! He was paralyzed. Not by fear, as our kyzillian friend suggested in his interview, but from a dose of virostrychnine introduced to his body by a thorn from a very exotic rose bush, a bush which, incidentally, Mr Evans was kind enough to keep me from being entangled in, just a little while ago."

"So, how did Cobb Christian die?" I paused for effect. "He was killed by Dome Patrolman Evans."

* * *

My audience erupted into a babble of grunts, squeaks, squawks, snorts and error messages from suddenly overloaded translator boxes. Soon, though, they all trailed back into silence. Now, all eyes were on Evans.

Evans' face never changed expression. "Where did that come from?" he demanded.

"From the way things didn't seem to add up, from the beginning. Murphy's first law of detective work. Eliminate the obvious, the probable, the possible, and what do you have left? The impossible. Corporate records, checked from kilgarian terminals, backed up everything you told me, the PhD, the internship, the whole story."

"But it just didn't feel right, so I ran a Pinkerton background check on you, patrolman. Before you came to Kilgari, you simply did not exist, and then, bingo! Here you are. Next, your appearance on Kilgari as an intern, matches perfectly the last in a series of acquisition trips to the Unexplored Sectors made by Christian and seven other guides. Shortly after that, the first sales brochure advertising Kujata hunts began to appear. What you said out on the veldt clinched it for me. How could a PhD in xenobiology not have ever seen the most sought after and dangerous beast under the domes? You killed the guide, all right. My only questions are how and why?" If my bluff worked, I'd have those answers soon enough.

Evans body began to flow and melt, as it changed from human form into that roughly reminescent of a Grantian rhino-beast, while still retaining the human face. Meta-morph! Shape-changer! One of the rarest and frequently the most dangerous life-forms in the galaxy! Now that I did not anticipate. In a flurry of motion, everyone in the room dived for some kind of cover. The only two left standing were this incredible creature and me (not because I'm particularly brave, but because I was pretty sure I knew who I was facing).

Rhino/Evans said nothing for the first moment or so, then, quietly, almost resigned, said, "How did you know?"

"Very simple," I replied, "you handed me the clues, one right after the other. I think you wanted me to know why Christian was killed, not just what killed him.

He was killed because he kidnapped your mate, isn't that correct? Oh, and could you change back to Evans. You're scaring these others to death."

Indeed, the wapitai had already reverted back to its simulated death mode before the creature completed its change to rhino. Now, it had stopped breathing and looked stiff as a board.

Evans said, "Close. Not my mate. My daughter. The females of my species develop much later than does the male. The ability to alter one's outer form, along with fundemental sentience, comes to them only in the second tri-century of their lifespan, thereby making them very vulnerable to those who would come and just take one away."

I nodded in understanding.

"Christian came twice to our world, each time taking a female of our species while that one was in her dormant or nonflux state, unable to defend against him and his group. When they came back the second time, they showed an interest in the rose bushes, a vegetation that commonly grows on our world. I disguised myself as one of these and accompanied my daughter on her journey. Once here, it was a simple task to blend in to the facility and discover what it would take to return her to our world, once she matured."

"So," I interjected, "By placing an aura of suggestion around the humans in your proximity, you were able to influence local computer records concerning the human disguise of Evans."

"Exactly. Computer operators are the most suggestable humans I've known."

I certainly agreed with that. I've dated a few.

"I knew it would take time to complete my rescue. Because she was so valuable, all the guides had orders not to kill the kujata, only to track her and provide low power beam weapons for the guests to fire at her with. But Christian had killed the first one and wanted to go on record as the only one to have done so."

The great human hunter. I made a mental note to run psycho-screens on the rest of the dome 16 guides.

"On his last safari, he brought a projectile weapon. My daughter had already begun her metamorphasis and Christian knew her patterns better than any other guide. He would have found her and killed her."

I said, "What happened then?"

Evans, who had now changed back to Evans, answered, "As a fastiacalon, which is imune to the nerve toxin, I had retrieved a thorn from one of the rose bushes. I placed it and a small slinging device in the custody of the wapitai. He was the most esper sensitive and could be controled completely without his knowledge.

One of the lupines, from a position under a table said, "You were in camp... just before it happened."

"That's true," Evans agreed, "I had joined the party the night before, in this form, hoping to influence Cobb to hunt another trophy animal the following day. But talk of killing a kujata dominated the conversation. He was obsessed with taking her horn as a trophy, something he'd been denied on his previous kill."

Why didn't you use your esper ability to influence the guide?" That was Ross. Good question.

Evans laughed sadly. "Humans can be very single-minded. I tried to place a suggestion of other game in his subconscious, but unsuccessfully. The non-sapients, they were easy, but Christian couldn't be persuaded and he was becoming aware of the attempt. So,at first light, I slipped away from the group and became the kujata. I gave the order to the Wapatai to sling the thorn. With the guide paralyzed, he would be humiliated. By the time anyone figured out what was going on, it would be too late. Cobb Christian's last hunt would end in failure. But She appeared out of nowhere, enraged by the sight of him. He'd wounded her so many times. She just wanted him to stop hurting her. The paralyzer only lasts a few minutes and I could sense Christian gaining control of his body even more rapidly than would be normal. He would have killed us both. So I did what I had to do, then purged and reformed the group's memories."

I said, "Why didn't you just put in a complaint with the authorities?"

Evans cast a sideways glance at Oppenheimer, partially hidden by a table. "I knew who was in charge of acquisitions. I also knew how important the kujata hunt was to the tourist trade on the veldt. TKC's first consideration would have been the credits."

Evans knew the human species well.

"I'll trust you to see her safely home?"

"Of course." Evans replied, "It has been arranged for some time now. Her transformation is complete, only her education remains."

"Then goodbye and good luck." I shook his hand, walked him to the door of the conference room, then closed the door behind him. Sometimes, being in charge is absolutely great!"

"You... you just let it go? " That was Oppenheimer.

"That's right Mr. Oppenheimer." I answered. "No need to detain it. Not that I could anyway. From where I sit, the guide's death was self-defense. Besides, I have another criminal case to worry about now."

Ross said to him, "You, sir, are under arrest for violations of the Sentient Beings Protection Act." and motioned for two patrolmen to flank him as escorts.

"You'll never make the charges stick, Kruger. That animal was caught on open range on a surveyed planet. You'll never prove criminal intent..."

"Get him out of here. take him to Dome City metro headquarters, I'll be along to file the charges in a little while." Then, I added, "Dome 16 is closed to the public until I notify you it isn't. Captain, see to it please."

He did, too.

* * *

I sent the four wog trophy hunters home empty handed. Not even a refund. I logged the wapitai non compos mentis for his role in Christian's death. It turned out that the kyzillian really did have some mob connections. Needless to say, it did not cause trouble after I showed it the print-out.

I filed my report with the Chairman of the Board of The Kilgari Corporation, ten days later. My reccomendation that the dome 16 veldt tour be modified into a camera safari-trek was met with only modest enthusiasm....until I reminded him that the public relations nightmare surrounding the death of the guide had been effectively neutralized by announcing the creation of the Cobb Christian Memorial Video Trek for charity to be held once a year about this time. The positive publicity would be worth millions. That he liked, so I got my way.

I got a raise for keeping the media in the dark, The murder of Cobb Christian is listed on public record as an accidental trampling by an animal subsequently removed from the veldt. Pinkerton security files tell the real story, but nobody has access to them. They confidentially lists the death as self defense, by being/beings unknown, cross referenced to the video record of that last interview with Evans.

Oppenheimer was allowed to resign and quietly return to Earth. No undue fuss was made, because there is no statute of limitations on prosecuting his particular offense, especially after I laid out the details of his criminal intent. He lied about Evans' World, as it is now listed, being a surveyed planet. I arranged for him a job though. He's a Pinkerton security guard at the greater Cincinnati Metro Convention Center.

Ross is now assigned to my office full time. Good secretaries are very hard to find and you never just let one slip away. Not if you know what's good for you. One other perk I got out of the Christian affair. Standing orders now exist, in writing, never to wake me up... not even if one of the damn domes do explode.

Now how much more could someone ask for then that?