Bimbos of the Death Sun (15 page)

Miles labored to produce an innocent smile.

There was a tap on the door, and Bill Fox appeared. “Excuse me, folks, but I thought you’d like to know that Monk Malone just announced to the whole auditorium that Dungannon is dead.”

Miles Perry gasped. “Was there a panic? Are people leaving?”

Bill shook his head. “They’re all in the hucksters’ room, cornering the market on signed copies of Dungannon’s work. That’s free enterprise, for you.”

Bill Fox lingered at the door. “One more thing,” he said. “That publisher guy who came to see Dungannon is real anxious to talk to the police. I promised I’d pass the word along.”

Lieutenant Ayhan shrugged. “Somebody wants to see me? It’ll make a nice change. Okay, I’ll talk to him. When you see the college professor, tell him I’d like to talk to him, okay?”

With a wave of his blue notebook, the lieutenant was gone. Miles Perry frowned. Murder was so complicated … and incriminating. Apart from which he had forgotten to ask Ayhan what he should say to reporters should any appear. He pulled out a rumpled Rubicon program and began to scribble notes.

Louis Warren was a little embarrassed to have a police detective catch him reading the
Star Trek Officers Manual
, but it had been a tedious wait
since Diefenbaker had wandered off to supervise the con activities. Thrusting the telltale volume under a sofa cushion, he sprang up to greet the officer, hand outstretched.

Lieutenant Ayhan responded with the cordial reserve one usually keeps for used car salesmen and unhousebroken puppies. “Do sit down, Mr. Warren. Would you show me some identification, please?”

The editor fished out his wallet and handed it over to the lieutenant, hoping that he was projecting an aura of candor and a total willingness to help the police.

“New York driver’s license. You’re a brave one. Health club. Very good. My wife keeps after me to join one of those. She’s says it’s either that, or come to aerobics with her.” Ayhan flipped another card, and looked up inquiringly at Warren. “Lieutenant Colonel in the Time Police?”

Warren reddened. “That’s just a joke. The publisher sends me to a lot of cons, and at one of them, these guys were making photo I.D. cards for different things. Vulcan Science Academy Student I.D.; U.N.C.L.E. Personnel Badge. I keep it around for a joke.”

“Too bad,” said Ayhan with a straight face. “I was hoping you could go back to your squad room and tell me how the case was solved. Oh, well. Let’s talk about Appin Dungannon.”

“He was murdered, wasn’t he?”

“Looks that way. Don’t tell the
Enquirer
’til the autopsy report comes through, though, okay? Now, what can you tell me about it?”

As he had rehearsed it during his long wait, Louis Warren explained his reason for coming to the con,
but with less emphasis on his dread of meeting the author. “The door was ajar when I went in, and the printer was going. He was dead in the chair. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t touch anything. At least, I don’t think I did. Maybe I did. Did I?”

“We’ll print you,” smiled Ayhan. “And I’ll get back to you on that question. So you had just arrived at the hotel at approximately 11:30
A.M.?”

“Yes. And I didn’t see … Yes, I did. Going down the hall toward the room, I passed two Imperial Stormtroopers, and when I came out I ran into Dracula.”

Lieutenant Ayhan sighed. “I love this case.”

The windows in the Patrick Henry Nook were shrouded in mourning, and the chandelier overhead was on “dim.” It seemed appropriate. At least two of the four people convened to cope with the death of Appin Dungannon were torn between grief and panic. After all, the con must go on, but what ought to be the proper atmosphere? Miles Perry spread out his grubby Rubicon program on the coffee table in front of Marion, Jay, and Walter Diefenbaker. “The police say it’s okay to continue the con—”

Jay Omega stood up. “The lieutenant seems very bright. I have no doubt he will solve the crime before the weekend is up. Now, if you have no further need of me, I’ve been meaning to stop by the computer room…”

Miles Perry looked stricken. “You’re leaving? —Oh, please don’t! The rest of the committee is all over the place trying to keep things under control, and I don’t want to make all the decisions by myself.”

“It would be very kind of you to stay,” said Diefenbaker. “If we wouldn’t be imposing on you too much.”

Jay looked at Marion and shrugged. “I don’t mind, if you really think we’d be of any use to you. I don’t know anything about cons, though.”

“He chaired the Engineering Health and Safety Conference last year, though,” Marion offered.

“Splendid!” cried Dief. “I know you’ll be ever so sensible and organized.”

Jay Omega sighed and sat down. “I’ll see what I can do. You say the police have given you permission to continue the conference?”

“What about the hotel people?” asked Marion.

“Yes. I spoke to them first,” said Miles. “They’re all for business as usual. The less disruption there is involved, the better they can weather the publicity. They don’t want the word ‘murder’ spread around too much, by the way.”

Diefenbaker nodded. “So we carry on, with certain modifications?”

“Right. I think the banquet ought to be in Appin Dungannon’s honor. We could get somebody to do a tribute to him.” He looked hopefully at Jay Omega.

“‘I come to bury Caesar, not praise him,’” murmured Marion.

Jay Omega divided his sour look between her and Miles Perry. “Look,” he said, “I’m very sorry that Dungannon is dead, but I didn’t know the man, and didn’t particularly like what I saw. And besides that, I never read any of his books.”

“You know who would be the logical person to eulogize him?” said Diefenbaker helpfully. “Harlan Ellison!”

Miles Perry looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “We can’t afford Harlan Ellison.”

“Oh,” said Dief, deflated. Then, he said, “What about Clifford Morgan? The greatest Dungannon fan of all? Who’s read everything three times? Who lives it, for god’s sake!”

Marion blinked. “Tratyn Runewind?”

Dief nodded. “He lives and breathes Dungannon. If he’s not too devastated by the series ending to do it, he’d be perfect!”

“But Appin Dungannon hated Clifford Morgan!” said Jay Omega. “He threw folding chairs at him!”

Marion nodded. “It doesn’t seem like a very respectful tribute. I’d be afraid he’d haunt us!”

Miles Perry had thought it over. “Well…” he said at last. “I think Dr. Omega would be a more distinguished speaker, but if he won’t do it, we’ll just have to do the best we can.” He sighed. “If you can get Morgan to do it, Walter, I have no objection.”

“I think Morgan will be sincere,” said Dief. “I’ll impress upon him that it’s a solemn occasion. Imitation is supposed to be the sincerest form of flattery, so Cliff should be the most genuine mourner there. —Well, that’s settled. What else needs to be changed?”

“Dungannon’s last appearance. On Sunday morning he had agreed to act as Dungeon Master for an exhibition game featuring Tratyn Runewind.”

“He was going to let somebody play Tratyn Runewind?” gasped Marion.

“No. Runewind will be a non-player character controlled by the DM. The participants just get to accompany him on an adventure.” Miles looked again at Jay Omega.

“I’m already signed up to play,” said Diefenbaker.

Miles Perry sighed. “I have to see that the art auction gets set up. I’ll have to be in and out.”

Marion turned to Jay Omega. “It isn’t very difficult,” she said coaxingly. “I can show you all the basic things. Look at it as a chance to play God.”

Jay Omega glowered at the three pleading faces before him. “Oh, all right. But don’t blame me if I make a mess of it.”

Louis Warren appeared at the door, looking as if he were in pursuit of the Holy Grail. He was followed by Lieutenant Ayhan, who looked considerably pained.

“Does anyone know anything about computers?” Louis asked feverishly.

With a straight face, Jay Omega raised his hand.

“He’s designed a few,” said Marion.

“Oh. I need someone to help me with a discus.”

“A disk!” said Miles, Dief, and Jay Omega in unison.

“Whatever. I’ve explained to the lieutenant that my company absolutely has to have that manuscript now …”

His voice was suddenly shrill.

“… or we will sue Dungannon’s estate for return of the advance.” Noticing Ayhan’s raised eyebrows, Louis added defensively, “We
do
have a deadline to meet.”

“Must be a pretty valuable manuscript,” mused Ayhan.

“The manuscript is worth very little without the contract,” said Louis wearily, as if explaining the concept of electricity to a child, “The ex-wife, the distant relatives, the mysterious fellow in a jeep in the desert who may have picked him up hitchhiking… Lieutenant, they have nothing, nothing to gain. Dungannon
left all of his money and rights to the Scottish Archaeological Society. Everybody knows that.”

“Now,” said Ayhan, “we’re getting somewhere.” He patiently logged another suspect on his notepad. “And who are they—or it?” he asked, not really expecting a comprehensible reply.

“Scottish history-diggers,” said Louis indifferently, “Big on excavation work. Dungannon was very keen on Celtic history. No doubt they’ll be pleased to receive this windfall a few years ahead of schedule—”

“Hmmm,” said Ayhan, in his best speculative manner.

“—Besides,” continued Louis, “Dungannon always said he liked dead people better than live ones.”

“He should be ecstatic now, then,” Lieutenant Ayhan remarked.

“So they’re going to let you take the manuscript?” asked Marion.

“No way,” said Ayhan.

“No,” the editor admitted. “Everything in that room is evidence in the case. In case of fingerprints, or whatever.”

“Policy,” said Ayhan calmly.

“But I’ve persuaded him to let me make a copy of the disk on which the book is written.”

“Correction,” said Ayhan. “Under my supervision, you can get a reputable person to make a copy of the disk, provided that you obtain the second disk from a source other than the room containing the deceased.”

“So all you want is for somebody to make a backup copy of a floppy disk?” said Jay Omega.

The editor nodded. “Can you do that?”

“I could do that,” said Marion.

Lieutenant Ayhan smiled at her. “It’s a handsome offer, ma’am, but we’ll let the professor do it, since he has the Ph.D. and all.”

Jay Omega smiled wickedly at Dr. Marion Farley. “Yes. Marion, better leave it to me, since I have the Ph.D.”

“Later,” said Marion between clenched teeth.

“What do you need to do this?” asked Ayhan.

Jay Omega turned to Diefenbaker. “Go to the high-tech room, and ask Joel Schumann to bring me a couple of blank discs and the
Diskcopy
program.” He turned to Lieutenant Ayhan. “Dungannon’s machine is PC-compatible, isn’t it?”

The detective shrugged. “For all I know, it could run on kryptonite.”

Dungannon’s body had been removed, but several uniformed officers were still in the room examining the deceased’s personal effects and taking photographs.

Jay Omega could see no sign of a struggle, and no traces of blood in the bland, modern cubicle. Dungannon’s suitcase lay open on the chair, and his computer and printer occupied most of the desk space. Omega was relieved to see that it was a Sanyo portable, about ninety per cent IBM compatible. He was afraid that Dungannon might have used some sort of mini-machine that took micro-diskettes; they’d have needed a scavenger hunt to round some of those up. He was glad the regular floppies from the high-tech room would work.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said Lieutenant Ayhan to his troops. “Have we solved the case yet?”

One of the officers shook his head. “Give us a few more minutes,” he grinned.

“I came back to do my good deed for the day,” the lieutenant announced. “These fellows want to make a copy of the disk that Mr. Dungannon’s book is on. And I said that under my careful supervision, they may do so. Have you dusted it for prints yet?”

Jay Omega winced at this suggestion.

The uniformed cop favored Ayhan with a pitying smile. “Lucky for them we didn’t, Lieutenant. Rafferty tried it on a larceny case a couple of months ago, and it wrecked the disk.”

“It wouldn’t do the computer any good, either,” Jay Omega observed. “Those little grains of powder would scratch both the disk and the reader head.”

Ayhan eased himself down on the edge of the bed. “Do any of you whiz kids have any bright ideas?”

“Sure,” said his grinning subordinate. “We’re going to do just what they want to do. Make a copy, and then dust the original.”