Poul Anderson

“ Kintyre walked into a one-room apartment with a curtained-off cooking area. A wall bed was opened out, unmade. There were a few chairs, a table with a half-empty gallon of red ink on it, a television set, a tobacco haze, much dust and many old newspapers on the floor.
Gene Michaelis occupied a decaying armchair. He was a young, black-haired version of his father, and would have been rather handsome if he smiled. He wore flannel pajamas which had not been washed for some time. His legs stuck rigidly out before him, ending in shoes whose heels rested on the floor. ”

“ Shadows lay huge in the corners.
Guido didn't look up. "I'll see you later," he mumbled. "I swear it. But not here. For Chrissake, we can all be killed here."
"Then why did you come tonight?" asked Yamamura.
"God! I was afraid not to."
"Did you see anyone dangerous in the audience?"
"I can't tell." His forehead glistened under the tangled hair. "There's a baby spot on me when I sing. I can't see past the first couple tables."
Corinna said: "Mr. Yamamura is a private detective. I understand he's even better at judo than Dr. Kintyre, which you should know is saying quite a lot." ”

“ Kintyre looked up, startled, into Trygve Yamamura's flat face. "Oh," he said stupidly. "Sit down. Miss Lombardi, this is—" He explained in detail.
"I'm glad to know you," she said. Her eyes added: Maybe. It will depend on what comes next. Guido's guitar twanged and capered. His voice overrode the room, as full of satyr laughter as if it had never known anything else. "With his whack-fol-de-diddle-di-day—"
"Were we that conspicuous coming in?" whispered Kintyre.
"Lay off the stage hiss," Yamamura told him. "A low speaking voice draws less attention. ”

“ Gene was the only person who ever hated Bruce, and just being hated nearly destroyed him. He couldn't have made any other enemies—knowingly—he wasn't able to!"
That's not quite true, thought Kintyre briefly. Jabez Owens.
Margery's voice had risen raggedly, and her nails bit his palm. He stood up, pulling her after him by the wrist, and said: "Come on. We're getting out of here."
"What?" She blinked at him, as if waking from sleep.
"You're tired and scared and lonesome and hungry, and none of it is good. ”

“ Do you want to go the rest of your life being afraid?"
"You can't settle with them," whispered Guido. "I mean, it's not just Larkin with his switchblades. O'Hearn carries a gun, and he's a three-time loser already, do you understand what that means? I've seen his gun!"
"Is there anyone else?" asked Kintyre.
"I don't know. You expect me to tell you if I do? I'll get myself killed!"
Corinna waved Kintyre and Yamamura back. She sat down beside Guido and took his free hand. "Bruce got himself killed too," she said in her gentlest tone. ”

“ Kintyre strode up to him and laid a hand about his wrist. He did not squeeze unduly hard, but Owens opened his mouth to scream, face going paper colored. Kintyre dropped the wrist as if it had turned incandescent. The reaction was unnatural enough, to his mind, to jar him physically.
"That'll do!" rumbled Clayton. He stood up. His grizzled ruddy hair made Kintyre think of a lion's mane, a fighting cock's comb; this man had slugged his own way up from nothingness.
"That'll do," he repeated. "If we can't settle it between ourselves like gentlemen, we'd better call the police." ”

“ He groped toward the teaching of the dojo, the judo school. Judo is only in part a sport; it is also a philosophy, the Gentle Way, with many aspects, and the first thing to learn is to relax utterly. The passive man is prepared for anything, for he can himself become anything.
But it was an unreal attempt. Kintyre's interest in judo was a superficial growth of a few years; his roots lay in the West. He understood with sudden bleakness why Bruce's death had so clamped on him: once again someone he cared for was gone, and the horror he had borne for two decades stirred toward awakening. ”

“ But the Eastbay was enough of a market in itself to justify Clayton in frequently staying at the Fairhill for days on end.
Though his latest checking in had been on Thursday, the suite bore little trace of him. His San Francisco rooms were just as impersonal; Kintyre doubted that the New York penthouse or the luxurious flat in Rome had been given more of a soul. There were four pictures, which apparently went wherever Clayton did: a thin blonde woman, with a washed-out kind of prettiness, who had been his first wife; and two young men and a girl, the children she had given him. ”

“ Overstuffed and ghastly, the living room belonged to a million immigrants of the last generation, who had built from empty pockets up to the middle class. But families like this would eat beans oftener than necessary for twenty years, so they could save enough to put one child through college. Bruce had been the one.
"I just came to express my sympathy," said Kintyre. He felt himself under the cool green appraisal of Corinna's eyes, but could not think of words less banal. "Can I do anything to help? Anything at all?"
"You are very kind," said old Lombardi. ”

“ Silenio stood up, sentrylike, the gun in his hand.
Corinna sat facing Clayton. Her arms were free; a rope lashed her ankles. The long hair was heavy with dampness. She didn't seem to have been injured yet, except for that one short episode—
"It could only have been Kintyre," Clayton was saying. "And alone. Otherwise this beach would be solid with police."
"He may have the whole force on its way here," grumbled Silenio.
"That's possible. I think we had better get going. But remember, it's a single man. If you can nail him, we're safe."
Clayton stooped and began to untie Corinna. ”

“ But there were many cases on record of men being hit once, twice, being filled with lead, and still coming on. But Guido wasn't worth anybody's time. But Guido was brother to Bruce and Corinna, therefore worth a great deal of time. But a possible forty years?
But a deeper shadow filled the open end of the brick gut. It ran forward in total silence, light touched its glassy uplifted club and its flowing hair.
As the bottle came down on Jimmy's head, Kintyre started to move. Yamamura beat him to it, arriving a second after Jimmy lurched forward from the impact on his skull. ”

“ Yamamura worked powerful fingers along Kintyre's shoulders and the base of his neck. "Go on," he said.
"Margery's death—brought back Morna's, I suppose—I failed them both. I didn't need O'Hearn's story to determine who instigated all this. I could have told you yesterday afternoon, if I'd used my head—Ouch!"
"That," said Yamamura, "was to halt an incipient tailspin. I felt it coming. You are not to blame for one damn item except being human and therefore limited, fallible, and unable to do everything simultaneously on roller skates. ”

“ She closed her eyes, and he did not watch her moving lips; that conversation didn't concern him.
"My son he was murdered," said Lombardi in an uncomprehending voice. "Why did they murder him?"
"I don't know," insisted Kintyre. "The police will find out."
Corinna left her chair and came around to stand before the men. It was a long stride, made longer by wrath. She put her hands on her hips and said coldly:
"Dr. Kintyre, you're not naïve. You must know murder is one of the safest crimes there is to commit. ”

“ It isn't for nothing."
He stood up, not as tall as Owens, but broader and smoothly moving. "Let me therefore have that manuscript back," he finished.
His enemy kept a half smile; but as he neared, Kintyre saw how cheeks and forehead began to glisten. The pupils that stared at him widened until they were two wells of dark.
"What are you talking about?" said Owens shrilly.
"You know bloody damn well what I mean. You took the Book of Witches. Give it back and we'll say no more. Otherwise—"
Kintyre was almost upon the writer. Owens backed away, holding up his cigarette like a futile sword. ”

“ Silenio burst from cold clouds. He was a squat balding man with a round blue-cheeked face. There was an automatic in his hand. He looked a fractional second upon Kintyre and the body. Then he fired.
Kintyre was already running. He didn't hear the bullets, or even the ricochets, only the flat smack! smack! smack! as the gun went off behind him. He crouched low, zigzagging a little. A pistol is not a very accurate weapon. When he felt sand under his feet again, he looked back. Nothing but fog. He heard Clayton and Silenio calling to each other.
He glanced down at his wounded arm. ”

“ Guido's face was drawn taut; there was a tic over his right eye. "Every address we eliminate is something."
"How many houses in the Bay Area?" Kintyre flopped onto a chair. Through the doors he had locked in himself, the horror hooted.
"Well, for Chrissake, man," said Guido, "I don't mean to search the bishop's! We can think of some possible places, can't we?"
"I don't know."
"Ah, spit. We're doing nobody any good. Let's go for a ride. It might clear our brains some." ”

“ Faithful; steady; loving. I guess that's it. Loving—not himself, like most of these perpetual undergraduates; not—whatever you love, Bob, there must be something but I've never found out what unless it's that sailboat of yours. Bruce was loving of me. Loving all the world, but including me."
"You could call him tender," agreed Kintyre. "And yet he was a man. We took some rough hikes and pack trips, during the years we knew each other; and lately, after I got him interested in judo, he was doing very well. ”

“ Kintyre's hand swung backward in an arc, shoving Corinna behind him. He said aloud—very loudly, "What the devil do you want?"
"Quiet, there," said the man called Jimmy. "This thing has a silencer on it." He waved the gun. "I want to see Lombardi."
"It isn't nothing, Jimmy," chattered Guido. "Before God, Jimmy, they're just friends of mine!"
"Yeh. You can tell us all about it. The rest of you stand back against the door. Come on, Guido. I got a car waiting."
Yamamura eased his burden to the ground. Guido huddled on hands and knees, retching. "He'll never make it," said the detective. ”

“ Guido took a long drag on his cigarette, snuffed it in a horrible souvenir ashtray, and left without a word. They heard his footfalls go down the stairs.
"I am so sorry, Mister Professor," faltered Lombardi.
"Niente affatto, signor." Kintyre stood up. "All of you are worn out." He essayed a smile at Corinna. "You were echoing some of my own principles. We pessimists ought to stick together." ”

“ I've explained to you that the Michaelises are out. Who's left?"
"I've heard of a writer. Owens, is that his name?"
"I don't know. I plain don't. And yet I'm nagged by a feeling that I already have the answer—and I can't name it! Things have been happening too fast." Kintyre scowled. "And until we can identify the one who hired the killers—the real murderer; the others are only a deodand—he's free to murder someone else." ”

“ Why was Bruce killed? Because of something he knew. It could only be that. He was tortured to get out of him the precise extent of his knowledge, and who else might share it. That other person is the next victim. But what was in Bruce's background? A knowledge of history—the Book of Witches—correspondence with—" His throat seemed to swell, it would not let the words out for a moment—"with an uncle in Italy, who told him something—"
"Something about the Mafia?" snorted Yamamura. "Come, now!"
"Bruce didn't realize the significance of what he knew," said Kintyre. Iron bands lay across his chest. ”

“ He even (he, my student) changed my opinions about some aspects of Machiavelli's thought—emphasized the idealism—he would, of course. I remember him quoting at me, '... the best fortress is to be found in the love of the people.' Isn't that exactly the sort of thing which would stick in Bruce's mind?"
"'The best fortress.'" She stared into her glass. "It didn't help him much, did it?"
Kintyre groped for another cigarette. He was smoking too much, he thought; he'd have a tongue like a fried shoe sole tomorrow. ”

“ Owens lifted his shoulders and let them fall again, gracefully. "How do I know I won't be hit by a car tomorrow? One estimates the situation and acts on probabilities."
Kintyre leaned forward. "The probabilities are all for the worst," he said. "Anyone who claims a roomful of people, all with grenades and all hating each other, will keep on acting rationally forever, is whistling past the graveyard of a dozen earlier civilizations. But I do believe scholarship—rigorous thinking—will be a survival factor. ”