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diff --git a/29727.txt b/29727.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..730f1e8 --- /dev/null +++ b/29727.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1521 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Zero Data, by Charles Saphro + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Zero Data + +Author: Charles Saphro + +Release Date: August 19, 2009 [EBook #29727] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ZERO DATA *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +ZERO DATA + +By CHARLES SAPHRO + + + _All the intricate, electronic witchery of the 21st century could + not pin guilt on fabulous Lonnie Raichi, the irreproachable + philanthropist. But Jason, the cop, was sweating it out ... + searching for that fourth and final and all-knowing rule that would + knock Lonnie's "triple ethic" for a gala loop._ + + +Lonnie Raichi was small, heavily built, wet-eyed, dapper and successful. +His success he attributed entirely to his philosophy. + +Not knowing about Lonnie's philosophy, the whole twenty-odd years of +Lonnie's success was the abiding crux of Jason's disgust. And this, in +spite of the more and more men Jason came to control and the fitful +stream of new techniques and equipment Gov-Pol and Gov-Mil Labs put at +his disposal. + +Jason was a cop. In fact, by this Friday the thirteenth in the fall of +2009, squirming on what had come to be his pet Gov-Park bench right +across from the Tiara of Wold in the Fane, he was only one step short of +being the Head Cop of Government City. He was good. Gathering in a lot +of criminals was what had brought him up the steps. + +But he hadn't gathered in Lonnie. + +It wasn't for lack for trying. Way back, when Lonnie was known simply as +"Lonnie," Jason managed to get a little help from his associates and +superiors. Sometimes. + +But as Lonnie came to be known as Lon Raichi, then Mr. Raichi, and +finally as "THE Launcelot Raichi" (to Everyone Who Mattered), and as +Jason's promotions kept pace with his widening experience and +painstakingly acquired knowledge; peculiarly, there seemed to be fewer +and fewer persons around who could be made interested in "Lonnie." + +Inside Government and Gov-Pol-Anx as well as among the general +Two-Worlds public. + +So Jason got less and less help, or even passive cooperation, from his +superiors. As a matter of fact, the more men he could command, the fewer +he could use on anything that could be construed as concerning Lonnie. + +Equipment, though, was a little different matter. There was usually +enough so that one unit of a kind could be unobtrusively trained on Mr. +Raichi under the care of Jason's own desk sergeant. In 1999, for +example, Moglaut, that erratic and secretive genius in Physlab Nine, +came out with a quantum analyzer and probability reproducer. The machine +installed in Pol-Anx, reconstructed crimes and identified the probable +criminals by their modus operandi and the physical traces they couldn't +avoid leaving at the un-mercy of any of its portable data accumulators. + +On Jason's first attempt it almost came close to Lonnie. It did gather +in the hidden, dead, still twitching, completely uncommunicative +carcasses of the five men who actually relieved the vault of the +Citizen's Bank of Berlin of its clutch of millions. It even identified +the body of the rocopilot found floating in the Potomac a few days later +as being one of the group, and the killer. It did _not_ locate the +arsonized remnants of the plane, though, nor the currency; and only +achieved the casting of a slight, or subsidiary, third-hand aspersion in +the direction of THE Launcelot Raichi. + +But Lonnie came up with an irrefutable alibi, somehow, and the hassle +that followed made Jason's luck run out. And on Jason's stubborn, +secret, subsequent tries, all the analyzer could produce was a report of +zero data whenever Jason, reasonably or unreasonably, believed that +Lonnie was involved. + +Every time. + +Zero data when Schicklehitler's marshal's baton disappeared from the +British Museum. + +[Illustration: _Lonnie on his dream throne ... Jason at his instruments. +Was the struggle endless between these two?_] + +Zero data when Charlemagne's Crown lapsed unobtrusively from its shrine +in Vienna during the Year 2000 Celebration. + +Subsequently, Jason realized that the Berlin job in 1999 had marked +Lonnie's last essay after money. Other things seemed to occupy Lonnie's +mind after he'd sprouted publicly into the status of full-fledged, +hyper-respectable, inter-planetary business tycoon; complete with a +many-tentacled industrial organization in Moon Colony and a far-flung +prospecting unit headquartering at Mars Equatorial. + +Tycoonship was a status with which Everyone Who Mattered was always +pleased. + +Jason's next attempt on Lonnie had to wait until 2005 and was the result +of two unconnected circumstances. The first was Physlab Nine's secretive +genius, Moglaut, evolving another piece of equipment, a disarmer, which, +subsequent to its first use, saved countless cops' lives. The second was +the discovery in the Valley of Kings, of Amenhotep III's own personal +official Uraeus. Positively identified beyond the shadow of doubt. + +Jason, playing the hunch he'd built up about Lonnie, rushed a man, armed +with the brand new disarmer, instantly to the scene. + +The next morning, Amenhotep's Uraeus was gone and the corpse of Jason's +man was found--part of it. The right hand, arm, shoulder, and most of +the head were missing; burned away. And of the disarmer, only a fused +hunk of mixed metals and silver helix remained. + +And the analyzer reported zero data. + +Lab Nine's taciturn and exasperating Moglaut failed to derive an +explanation for either circumstance. + +"I won't shut up," Jason said, standing on the carpet in front of his +superior. "He did it. I don't know how, but he did." + +Another spasm of frustration shook him and he slammed his fist down on +the sacred desk. "I've known Lonnie all my life. I know he doesn't know +phfut about anything scientific, and yet he makes a horse's--" + +"Captain Jason, I insist that you stop referring to--" + +"Makes a--" Jason raised his voice, "horse's--" + +"CAPTAIN JASON!" + +Jason subsided. + +"Captain, Annex has been most forbearing all these years. We've +overlooked your incomprehensible phobia--this--this confoundedly +unfounded impossible bias against such an irreproachable philanthropist +as Launcelot Raichi--because of the sterling quality of your ... ah ... +other work. However--" + +On the desk, the Commissioner's fingers took up a measured tattoo. +"--should this fixed idea begin to encroach on--uh--uh--" + +"All right ... Sir." Sullenly, Jason submitted. "I understand." + +With a self-congratulatory smirk up at the ceiling that separated them +from Executive Level, the bland face of the Commissioner smoothed out. +"All right, Captain, as long as we understand each other ..." + +Sourly, Jason got himself back to his own office. Drumming his own +fingers on his own desk and glaring at his own desk sergeant, he purged +his soul. + +"--damned equipment would only work, I'd gather him in! They couldn't +stop me, then! But--" Jason choked. When he could speak again, "He's +never studied a lick in his life, I tell you! Yet he makes a he-cow's +behind out of the best man and the best scientific equipment Annex can +provide! How? How, I ask you! He doesn't know the first blasted thing +about any blasted thing in any blasted science!" + + * * * * * + +That was true. Conversely, Jason didn't know about Lonnie's philosophy. + +Nowadays, Lonnie called it a "philosophy." He told reporters it was +"based on a triple ethic." (Inside his skull, a small boy jumped up and +down in glee over the magnificent language he was able to use.) But he +always replied only with a superior smile when asked by reporters to put +the philosophy and the triple ethic into words. If pressed, he +paraphrased an Ancient Man: "You know my works. Judge by them." + +He was referring, of course, to his having branched out into patronizing +the Arts. He'd even erected Raichi Museum just across the velvety green +circle of Gov-Park from Government's own Fane of Artifacts. + +The reporters would go away and write more articles about his modesty +and the superlative treasures of Earth, Moon and Mars that were +gathered in the Raichi Galleries; protected, the papers always boasted, +by the same ultra-safety mechanisms that guarded the mile-long, +one-gallery-wide, glass-fronted Fane itself. Government affably made up +two of every anti-break-and-entry device nowadays. One for the Fane and +the other for Raichi Museum. + +Despite occasional grumbles in the letters-to-the-editor columns, the +papers never seemed to inquire into why so many priceless trans-worlds +artifacts got into Lonnie's private ownership instead of Government's +public Fane. And while some artists and architects (unendowed by Lonnie) +succeeded in publicly proclaiming Raichi Museum gaudy, such carpings +were but to be expected, particularly from modernists. + +Actually, Everyone Who Mattered felt Raichi Museum's granite walls were +much more dignified than the narrow, glass-faced arcade that was the +Fane, wide open to the most disrespectfully casual public inspection all +the time. Why, even late at night gawking loiterers pressed their noses +against the glass; black, clumsy images pinned to the blazing whiteness +hurled by radionic tubes against the back wall of snowy marble from +Mars' arctic quarries. Besides, that glass, proof though it was against +anything but an atomic explosion, still made every true art lover feel +disquietingly insecure. + +No, on the whole, the papers and reporters and true art lovers who felt +the Public's treasures should be more secure than visible, never +questioned Lonnie's doing good to so much Art. + +Thus, nowadays, nobody did anything but accept Lonnie. Except Jason. And +he, perforce, took out his disgust not on hounding the sacrosanct +Lonnie, but on that crackpot, mumchance, captive genius of Physlab Nine. +With the result that, late in 2007, Pol-Anx had an electronic +servo-tracer. + +Pending construction of sufficient hundreds of thousands more for full +Anx use, Jason swore Lab Nine to secrecy and installed the pilot model +in his own office. He had enough authority for that. + +It was a hellishly unbuildable and deceptively simple gadget, that +tracer. Simply tune it in on the encephalo-aura, the brain wave pattern +of any individual ... and monitor. It never let go until deliberately +switched off by the operator. It tracked; pinpointed the subject +accurately up to twenty thousand miles. It stopped humming and started +panting in proportionately ascending decibels when the subject became +tense, nervous, afraid. It also directed pocket-sized trackers of its +own Damoclean beam. It made it a cinch to gather in known criminals in +the very midst of their first subsequent flagrante delicto. + +Jason latched the servo-tracer on Lonnie and settled down to wait. + +At 10 p.m., local mean time, January 25, 2008, the tracer hiccupped and, +all by itself, _went to sleep_! + +Jason blinked. Jiggled the gadget. Swore. Either the gadget was haywire +or Lonnie was up to something, and, as usual, was making a-- + +Jason bawled for four reliable squad men he'd mentally selected before. +If he could find Lonnie--catch Lonnie in actual performance of an +act--then Commissioner or no Commissioner, Executive Level or no +Executive Level...! + +He roared from Pol-Anx with the men, past the flank of Government Fane, +across the Park and around the bulk of Raichi Museum to Lonnie's mansion +in its shadow. Leaped from the gyro-van, sweeping his men out into a fan +for the neighborhood. + +Nothing. Placid. Tree-shadowed, lawn-swept streets, ebony and silver in +the light the moon reflected from solar space. + +He'd missed. Too late. Lonnie was gone ... or was he? + +Jason didn't give himself time to think; his men time to get even a +momentary hesitation started. He shoved his thumb hard against the door +chimes and his shield under the butler's nose. + +Yes, Mr. Raichi was at home. Then, after an interval nicely calculated +to allow Jason to feel how acutely precarious his position stood, "Mr. +Raichi is accessible." + +Lonnie was bland. Blandly accepting Jason's urgent story of a known ... +er ... jewel thief traced to the neighborhood. Blandly amenable to +Jason's suggestion that his men be permitted to go over the mansion +(once he'd started this damfool caper, he had to go through with it). +Lonnie so bland that Jason felt a skitter of perspiration down his +backbone while his men hustled up the soaring circle of the stair. + + +II + +"Since I've been disturbed anyway," Lonnie offered, "I'll show you +around." + +"Thanks," Jason shook his head stiffly. "I'll just wait." + +"I think you should come." + +Shrugging, Jason followed, eyes stubbornly downcast. + +"... my library ... my den ... bar. Care for a drink? Well, suit +yourself." As the lights of the den dimmed and one wall swooshed +smoothly into the ceiling. "My theatre ... The usual tri-di stereo, of +course, but I've had a couple of the new tight beams installed to +channel Moon and Mars on the cube. Much better than the usual staged +bilge. Say, that reminds me, a couple hours ago Mars projector had a +scanner on one of the exploration parties caught out in a psychosonic +storm. Jove, did they wriggle! Even in atomsuits they were better than +Messalina Magdalen working on her last G-string. Here, I'll switch it +on. Maybe the rescue team's--" + +Building up inside the hundreds of thousands of layers of crystallized +plastic came a reddish, three-dimensional landscape, as if viewed from a +height. Orange dust swirled across a gaunt, clawed plain under a +transparent pink haze. A feeling as of sub-visual vibration, emanating +from the cube, tugged at Jason's eyelids. + +No life. + +"--Nope; they've cleaned up the carcasses already. Too bad. Tell you +what, though. Next time I catch it happening, I'll phone you and--" + +"Don't bother." + +"Suit yourself." Lonnie shifted and went on, lightly. "I'm not at all +satisfied with the color, are you? It's off a little, don't you +think?... Well?... Well!" + +Unwillingly, Jason moved his attention to the cube. Eyes widening, he +studied it. "No. You're wrong. That's good! The tech who poured that +stereo did a damned good job. It's--" + +"Not good enough for me! That's not exactly what I saw up at Vulcan +City. If those lazy--" + +"Look, you can't expect exactly the same reflectivity from crystallized +plastic that you get from molecules of atmosphere, no matter how +scientifically the pouring and layering is controlled. It's--they're two +different materials. Leaving aside the ion-index differential and +quality of incident light, you still can't--" + +"_I_ can ..." As the pause lengthened, Jason's gaze was finally drawn to +Lonnie's face. "You still haven't changed a bit, have you, Jasey? Still +all wrapped up in _how_ any collection of doodads work instead of just +for what it'll do. You know, I wouldn't be surprised if that hasn't +always been the difference between us. Where's it got you?" + +Jason strode for the door. + +"Wait a minute." Lonnie's voice came louder. "Better wait, copper. I'm +not through ... That's better." + +From behind Jason came the sound of rubbing palms. "We've come a long +way from Gimlet Street, haven't we, Jasey? You particularly. Captain. +Promotions. Pay raises ..." Then Lonnie was in front of him, staring up. +"You're quite a substantial citizen now. Yes? Well, look at that. Go on, +look at it." + +Against the side wall stood a gigantic triptych. More than life size, +the central panel canopied the statue of a Mongol potentate; the two +side wings, a pair of guards in bas-relief. All three wrought in +chryselephantine gold and ivory; the gold with flowing pallid +highlights. Damascened armor, encrusted with jewels, girdled the chest +of the Asiatic Prince; helmeted the sullen head carved from a single +immensity of ivory. + +Ruby eyes glared arrogantly under ebon brows. Against the statue's +folded shins, its pommel negligently gripped by one immovable, ivory +hand, leaned a short Turkish scimitar of watered steel. Beneath the +carved hassock upon which the statue sat, a dais of three steps fell +away to the floor. + +"That's Genghis Khan," Lonnie said. "I had him made. That isn't gold +he's made of; that's aureum--and it cost plenty to have the silver mixed +in. It makes it better. And I get the best! A hundred thousand, it cost +me. And thirty-six thousand more to brace the wall and floor. It's good. +It's the best that's made!" + +He came up on tiptoe, thrusting his chin as close as possible to Jason's +averted face. "Why don't you buy one for your place, Captain?" + + * * * * * + +Jason stared into the malevolent eyes of the statue. + +"Huh ... hu-hu ... hu-ha-ha-ha ..." At the dais, Lonnie put his foot on +the second step and patted Genghis Khan familiarly on one ivory knee. "I +like this old boy. He had the right idea. I have it. You haven't. You +never had. If you had, you'd'a listened to the proposition I made you +way back then. Remember when Aggie told you about it? Say, I wonder +what's become of her, anyway. Do you know? What? What'd you say?" + +Jason cleared his throat. Hard. + +"Well?" + +Jason swallowed. Blood pounded in his temples. + +"Jasey, you're stupid." + +Jason made his eyes close. Let them re-open slowly. + +"You were born stupid and you've stayed stupid." + +Still Jason held back an answer. + +"You're nothing but a stupid, go-where-you're-sent, do-what-you're-told +cop! What do you say to that! If you want to keep on being one, answer +me! Answer me!" + +Deliberately, Jason jerked his chin at the statue. "That's another +example of what I mean." + +"_What?!!_" screamed Lonnie. + +"Reflectivity. The silver in the gold. Two different metals and where +they're not well fused. That sword blade, too. Just the misalignment of +molecules in the surface of the steel makes it look wavy, and ripple +when the light changes or you move. Different even in two parts of the +same material. That's why you can't get the stereo cube to reproduce +color-feel exactly." Breathing heavily, Jason had to let his voice fade +out. + +"Gaaa ..." Lonnie convulsed. "Who cares!" Laugh sounds rolled out of his +throat. "You'll never change." + +He flicked his hand at Jason, brushing him away. + +But, as Jason, white-faced, herded his men out through the costly +grandeurs of the vestibule, Lonnie called from the inner hall: +"Copper ..." + +Jason turned, waited. + +"You amused me, so it's all right this time. You can keep your +penny-ante job. But don't try for me again. You cross my path again, +I'll smear you. And what's more, I'll use whatever you're trying, to +smear you with. Get that! Get it good! Now get out!" + +Back in Jason's office, the desk sergeant reported as Jason came in. +"Funny thing. That there tracer started to hum again soon after you was +out for a while. Quit again 'bout five minutes ago, though." + +Jason gritted his teeth, banished the sergeant, and spent five minutes +alone gripping the edge of his desk. Then he yanked Lab Nine's silent +genius down to his office. That didn't help for the tracer stayed +asleep. Not even a hiccup rewarded Moglaut's most active efforts on +Lonnie's wave length. On others, fine. Through the night and on into the +next day, Jason kept Moglaut at work. + +Late in the morning, Authority at Peiping televised publicly that the +Mace of Alexander was gone from its satin pillow in the proof-glass case +in the alarm-wired room off the machine-weapon-guarded main corridor of +the security-policed Temple of Mankind. + +The Mace, symbol of Alexander's power, was a pretty little baton barely +two feet long. Its staff was mastodon ivory, the paleontologists had +determined. One end sported a solid ball of gold hardly as big as a +fist; studded with rubies, but none set quite so close as to actually +touch. + +The other end, balancing the ball of gold, mounted the largest single +polished emerald crystal in the discovered universe. Neither the Moon or +Mars had produced anything in the emerald line equivalent to what had +come out of the mists of Earthly history. + + * * * * * + +Disregarding the bulletin, Jason kept Moglaut at the servo-tracer. In +the night's smallest hours it began placidly to hum on Lonnie's aura +again. + +"What happened?" Jason said. "What did you do?" + +Moglaut shrugged. + +"You must have done something. What was it?" + +Moglaut, not looking up from the purring machine, shook his head. + +"All right. You can go now." Jason watched the genius disappear +hurriedly through the door. From the door he watched the man scutter +down the long, long corridor out of sight. The first thing in the +morning, Jason promised himself, he'd have a session about Moglaut with +Lab Nine's chief. + +The first thing in the morning brought word that Lab Nine's erratic +genius had stumbled himself out of the seventeenth-floor window of his +suburban apartment to his death. Lab Nine's chief clucked sorrowfully. + +Jason shook his head and wondered. After exhaustive investigation (zero +data) he still wondered. That's all he was able to do, wonder. + +The second time Jason's servo-tracer on Lonnie hiccupped and dozed off +was at 12:01 a.m., August 7th, 2008, just one day after the Diamond +Throne arrived on Earth. The single, glittering diamond crystal, +misshapen like an armchair and larger than one, had been mined out of +the core of Tycho's crater. And it was also just two days before the +Moon Throne would have been installed in the unbreakable safety of +Raichi Museum! + +"Jason, you're insane," his superior told him when Jason, reinforced by +an astounding public furore, brought the matter up. "He owned it. He had +no reason to steal it from himself. Besides, one man alone couldn't +budge that enormous--" + +"It won't do any harm to look-see." + +"It can do a lot of harm!" The Commissioner glanced quickly at the +ceiling. "I'll have nothing to do with it. That's all." + +Officially, Jason's hands were tied. But secretly he maneuvered the +transfer of a five-layers-down undercover man from Madras to Government +City. And, coincidentally, in the ordinary routine of operation, Raichi +Museum took on a new janitor; a little brown man who grinned constantly +and was fanatical about dust. He was a good, reliable man and when he +reported that neither the Diamond Throne nor any of the other missing +glories were anywhere in the Museum, Jason had to believe him. + +As a matter of fact, it wouldn't have done Jason any good to have +installed the little brown man in Lonnie's mansion, either. The +lock--not the apparent one openly in the den door, but the real one--was +as unobtrusive and foolproof as twenty-first-century engineering could +make it. And Lonnie always made sure he was alone and unobserved in the +den before he locked it and sauntered across to bestow a peculiar, +multiple tweak to the nose of Genghis Khan. + +He enjoyed the gesture. On Christmas Eve he grinned broadly while the +triptych pivoted in the wall, let him off in the Kruppmartite-walled, +pulsing radiance of his very secret, very, very personal throne room, +and swung back into place. + +His grin changed to an expression of imperial dignity as he encased +himself in Catherine the Great's ermine Robe of State and grasped the +Mace of Alexander in his good left hand. But then the royal mien gave +way to a sullen scowl as he hesitated between Charlemagne's Crown and +Amenhotep's Uraeus. + +Actually, neither one was worthy of him. Both purely regional coronets +belonged over in the farthest dusty corner behind the curtain, along +with Schicklehitler's shabby baton and that crummy Peacock Throne. What +he really needed was a crown worthily symbolic of the position he'd make +it possible to publicly assume in the not-too-distant future. + +It was a damned imposition that he had to put up with. Well, he'd make +them do since they were the best to be had. Adjusting the Crown of +Charlemagne upon his brow, he stood on tiptoe to wriggle his way back +into the embrace of the titanic crystal that was the Diamond Throne. +There, he relaxed and gave himself over to the contemplation of the +glories of Lonnie. + +Who but he had developed such an efficient philosophy to such an +unfailingly incisive point? Certainly not Old Boswell who, back in the +early days had thought to be teaching him. + +"Rule One, my boy," he remembered the old patrician twittering, "there's +always someone to pull your chestnuts out of the fire for you--for a +price. Pay it. Then add a plus to the payment and the man's yours to use +again and again." + +But even in those days as a callow, trusting youth, he'd been smarter +than Boswell. Observing, from the safety of the sidelines, the way the +old fool had finally tripped up, he'd added a codicil of his own to +Rule One: "Make sure the payment's _final_!" + +(... witness the Berlin chestnut pullers. And the unobtrusive and +undiscovered spate of their predecessors whose usefulness had become +outweighed ...) + +Then Boswell had said, "Rule Two: You don't have to know the how of +anything. All you have to know is _the man who does_. He always has a +price. The currency is usually odd, but find it, pay it, then proceed +per Rule One." + +Even tonight, in his own Throne Room, Lonnie flushed heavily at the way +he'd accepted at face value what came next. "By the way," Old Boswell +had added smoothly, "no connection of course, my boy, but the topic +reminded me. Here are the keys to that daffodil-hued tri-phibian you +ogled at Sporter's exhibit. I must admit you have an eye for dashing +machinery even though I can't agree with your esthetics. No--no ... It's +yours. I feel that you've earned it and more by--" + +He'd rushed to the garage to gloat over the mono-cyclic, +gyro-stabilized, U-powered model with the seat that flattened into a +convenient bed at the touch of a button. The tri-phib, he recalled, in +which he'd coaxed Agnes into taking her first ride. + + +III + +The details of that recollection brought up his spirits again and, he +reminded himself, the lesson had sunk in; had developed into his most +useful ethic. After his narrow scrape with Jason's quantum analyzer in +the Berlin incident, it hadn't taken long for a good, one-man detective +agency to locate Physlab Nine's frenetic genius, Moglaut. It had taken +longer to discover Moglaut's currency but, after much shadowing, the +'tec had come through handsomely. Lonnie, automatically applying his +fully-developed Ethic One, always considered it a nice sentimental touch +that the one-man agency's final case was successful. + +Moglaut's price was a prim, brunette soprano who wore her eyes disguised +behind heavy tortoiseshell. The ill-cut garb she could afford added +greatly to her staid appearance, obscuring a certain full-bodied +litheness. She earned a throttled existence soloing at funerals and in +the worship halls of obscure, rigidly fanatic offshoot sects. + +Her consuming passion was to be an opera prima donna. + +Lonnie never tried to understand why Moglaut sat fascinated through +endless sin-busting sermons and lachrymose requiems. To hurry +afterwards, with the jerky motions, the glazed eyes of a zombie, to +subsequent rendezvous with the soprano at his suburban apartment. It was +entirely sufficient in Lonnie's philosophy that Moglaut did. + +The soprano's continuing suburban cooperation was insured by Lonnie's +judicious doling out of exactly the cash to keep a tenth-rate opera +company barely functioning in a lesser quarter of Government City. +Oddly, he found it pleased him and from that grew his wide patronizing +of the Arts. + +The immediate result of the situation he created and controlled so +deftly was Moglaut's production of a closed-plenum grid suit. + +None of Gov-Pol, Gov-Mil or Gov-Econ labs found out about it; much less +Pol-Anx or Government itself. Moglaut did all the work in the tiny +complete lab Lonnie set up in the suburbs. + +Lonnie didn't care what electronic witchery took place in the minute +spatial interstices between the finely-woven mesh of flexible tantalum. +Sufficient for him, the silvery white suit once donned and triple-zipped +through hood and glove-endings, he was immune to ordinary Earthly +phenomena; free to move about, do what he wished, untraceably. In it, +his words were not vulnerable to the sono-beam's eavesdropping. +Photo-electric and magneto-photonic watchdogs ignored him. Even the most +delicately sensitive thermo-couples continued their dreams of freezing +flame undisturbed. Jason's quantum analyzer couldn't pick up the +leavings of a glance--all that the suit permitted out into the physical +world. + +The suit had its limitations, of course. Lonnie could see out, but the +suit could also be seen. That required sometimes intricate advance +planning to offset. Also, occasionally, manipulating the field of the +grid to permit mechanical contact with the physical world was a trifle +cumbersome but never annoyingly so. All it took was a modicum of +step-by-step thought and some care not to leave a personal trace for the +quantum analyzer to pick up. No actual trouble. And, finally, Moglaut +had warned that the compact power unit pocketed on the left breast had a +half-life of only thirteen years. + +That left Lonnie placid. He took the suit for granted and used it for +what it let him do. + +When something more was needed, he was convinced his philosophy would +provide it. + +He didn't waste time trying to determine whether possession of the suit +or previous experiences leading to his insistence on its development +brought into focus the third ethic of his philosophy: "Rules One and Two +are valuable and have their use. But when the chips are really down, _do +it yourself_!" Instead, he toddled about personally acquiring the +trappings of omnipotent royalty with little thought for the means. + + * * * * * + +But while he was about that business, the very limitations of the grid +suit furnished an unending challenge to Moglaut's genius. And out of a +sideline experiment incited by that challenge came the disarmer which +Jason greeted with such fruitless glee. + +Fruitless because, of course, before turning the disarmer over to Lab +Nine and Pol-Anx, Moglaut devised a new, infinitely stronger, more +versatile power pack for Lonnie's suit. A power pack controlled by a +simple rheostat in the palm of the left-hand glove, but whose energy +derived from the electron-kinetic properties of pent and shielded +tritium. Not simple. In fact, solving the problem of penning and +shielding tritium in a portable package delayed the appearance of +Jason's disarmer two whole years. + +That power pack and the reciprocating properties of the fields of the +grid suit itself made a dilly of a combination. Before, the +closed-plenum mesh kept Lonnie from leaving traces. Now, anything once +embraced within the palpitating fields of the grid moved with and how +the suit moved; not in accord with the natural laws of the surrounding +continuum. That neat new attribute took care of the cubic yard or so of +Diamond Throne. + +And the ravenous tritium was malignant. Let any external power be +applied against the plenum and it would be smashed, hurled back full +force upon its source. + +Jason had an undiagnosed example of that when he got only part of his +man back from the Valley of Kings. + +It was the power-pack-grid-suit combo that made a sleeping Buddha of the +servo-tracer on the night of Jason's call at Lonnie's mansion; bollixed +up the elaborate guards of the Peiping Temple of Mankind; and, when +Jason so openly displayed suspicion of the genius, made child's play of +what the newspapers headlined as "Scientist's Amazing Suicide Love +Pact." + +Lonnie grinned, remembering the incident. Then other memories--things +he'd witnessed through a tight-beam scanner secreted in the suburban +apartment--crowded his mind; stirring him restlessly on the Diamond +Throne. Divesting himself of imperial appurtenances, he started for a +certain locked file in the den to check the specifications of available +per-diem empresses. + +Making sure the triptych was snugly in place behind him, he paused to +flip the switch on the stereo cube. Maybe Messalina Magdalen or one of +the lesser ecdysiasts was presenting the perfection of her techniques +over the private channel at the moment, an event he would appreciate. + +Instead, the private channel presented, as the cube glowed and cleared, +the same red, clawed landscape he'd shown to Jason months before. The +disembodied voice of the commentator on Mars--not the lyrical public +announcer, but the industrial economist who served the private +channel--picked up in mid-word: "... early to have much data on the +science and material resources this dead civilization possessed, but I +recommend that every Corporation in Induscomm Cabal should place a +technical party at Mars Equatorial as soon as possible. We shall now key +in with the public spacecast. Note the texture and color range of the +adornments and artifacts. I venture that these items will prove popular +among you who can well afford such rare treasures. However, subtlety in +acquiring them is suggested. While common clamor for Public ownership is +under control, overt provocation is not recommended. Here is the +cut-over ..." + +The scene in the cube flashed and coalesced, dazzling Lonnie's eyes for +a moment. He was conscious of the landscape rushing "up"; of gigantic +walls and spires rising out of the obscurity of a quarried chasm to +tower briefly against the pink haze of the Martian sky, then expand to +give the impression of engulfing him before the scanner lens settled +under the center of a leaping, vaulted dome. + +To Lonnie, the many-acred enclosure meant nothing with its shimmering, +stone-lace pillars, its tapestries that flamed with color or traced +ghostlike, barely discernible outlines on the walls. Nor did any thought +enter his mind of the exactness of the reflected color in the stereo +cube. Hands clenched into aching fists, he stood leaning forward; +striving by sheer will-power to span the void of space and force the +scanner lens closer to the truncated pyramid of steps atop which, on a +block of plain black stone, a dessicated mummy sat erect, hands folded +in its reedy lap and on its head a blazing, coruscating radiance. + +A _Crown_! + + +IV + +Dazedly, Lonnie was conscious of the public announcer's rhapsodizing: +"... Gov-Anth's ethnologists and linguistics experts are making some +progress toward deciphering the inscription carved on the plaque. Wait! +Here's a note from Gawley Worin. You remember Gawley Worin, our famous +leg-man, folks, don't you? Well, here's a note. It ... Listen to this, +folks! Listen! This is the beginning of the first rough translation of +the inscription. Listen ... + +"'We, Wold, last of the Imperial Family of Wold who exercise our Power +from Wold, the Imperial City, throughout Wold, the Planet. We, last of +the line of Wold, who alone may wear the Tiara which is Our Power, and +our Symbol of Power, and the Symbol of Our Power throughout all the edos +of Raii's life-taking light, without fear, facing the fate--'" + +Hissing, Lonnie cut the stereo switch. He'd seen enough. Darting across +the den, he opened his communico. "Get me Sykes in our Mars unit," he +ordered the operator. "Make sure what I say is scrambled. While you're +waiting, get through to Denisen at Gov-Forn, then Raikes at Gov-Planet, +then Butchwaeu in Gov-Int. And keep this line closed--that means you, +too--while I'm talking." + +Lonnie--THE Launcelot Raichi--was going after what he wanted. + +Just under a mile away, Jason turned from the public stereo in the +rotunda of Pol-Anx. Tapping the cold bit of his pipe against his teeth +as he walked, he sought the ease of his chair. In the privacy of his +office he began to ponder. + +The months' developments gave him no surprise. Because it was the first +contact Humanity had had with a non-human race, the Mars discoveries +made an overwhelming impression on the man in the street. The result was +that for the first time in Post-Synthesis history all artifacts were +reserved for Earth Public!!! + +Everyone Who Mattered screamed, except Lonnie. He evinced a biding +calmness while attending the ceremonies marking the installation of the +Tiara of Wold in the exact center of Government's own Fane of Artifacts; +even smiling benignly on certain Gov-Ficials who seemed to perspire more +than the coolness of the evening warranted. + +Jason, loitering on the grass of Gov-Park, noted the smile and the +perspiration. The perspirers reminded him of small boys expecting a +whipping. + +Once the dedication ceremonies were over, Lonnie never returned to the +Fane to examine the Tiara. + +It was Jason the Tiara seemed to fascinate. He spent more and more time, +particularly evenings, crouching on the bench in Gov-Park across from +the Tiara, ignoring the constant stream of awed tourists silhouetted +against the blaze of light. He kept in constant touch with his desk +sergeant through his pocket communico, so Annex business didn't suffer. +And the summer was warm, to say the least, so that several Gov-Ficials +were almost regretful that the dignity of their positions forbade +following Jason's example. + +But then, too, no mere cop had their responsibilities. + +None of them was conscious of how habitually Jason frowned, scratched +his head, moved uneasily on the pleasant bench. Occasionally, he would +snap his fingers and the frown would relax. He'd switch on the +communico and speak briefly. Immediately thereafter, one or the other of +the hand-picked four in Jason's personal squad would raise his eyebrows +slightly--safely, since the pocket communico did not project video--and +take up a new position or new duties. Or, an equipment unit in Op-room +at Anx would be indifferently retuned by heedless techs. + +Then for a while Jason would vent smoke pleasantly from his malodorous +pipe until the frown would settle back between his eyebrows and he'd +begin to squirm on the bench again, glancing warily at Executive Level, +feeling helpless about the inadequacy of his resources. + +But Lonnie had gotten over feeling sad about _his_ resources months +earlier. + +The night he'd returned from the Tiara ceremonies he'd locked himself in +his den and let the on-view smile his face was wearing lapse. He tweaked +Genghis Khan's nose viciously and slammed himself down in the Diamond +Throne without donning a single imperial trapping, pounding his fist on +the cool mineral facet and staring morosely at the grid suit hanging in +its place on the wall. + +The grid suit wouldn't help him this time. The cover-alls that had +everything except the necessary invisibility to-- + +_Invisibility!_ + +Slowly, Lonnie began to grin. Very little later he had an obscure +biochemist hooked, and ended his instructions with: "... don't care if +it needs concentrated essence of chameleon juice. Invent it. And it +better work for there's going to be a total shortage of neo-hyperacth at +two-twenty-eight per cc for wifey!" + +The biochemist delivered. Lonnie didn't stop to question if it really +was essence of chameleon juice. He hurried with the beaker of viscous +fluid to his throne room, drenched every square centimeter of the grid +suit with it and watched breathlessly through the hours while it dried. + +In the glowing, shadowless illumination, the suit gradually disappeared. +First, the wall against which it hung shone mistily through it. Then +there was wall, slightly outlined by a greyish cast. And at last, only +an indescribable fuzziness that had to be sensed rather than seen. + + +V + +He took the fuzziness off its hanger and threw it up in the air toward +the center light. The light was undimmed. The fuzziness was air. It +sprawled down across the Throne and became diamond, except for the +sleeve that dangled; part air, part intricately patterned Persian +carpet. It wasn't a fuzziness, exactly, it was more of a faint tone of +difference in the color-texture feel. It was as though what was behind +the suit was miraculously translated to its facing surface and then +reflected to the eye within the nth of utter fidelity. + +Grinning, slowly Lonnie's lower lip crept out and up to squeeze its +mate. Then, because it was always better to be sure, he donned the suit +to try it against a variety of experimental backgrounds, indoors and +out. + +Over at Pol-Anx, the servo-tracer went to sleep; the desk sergeant +yanked the creaking joints of his bunioned feet down off Jason's desk; +on the bench in Gov-Park, Jason's communico squeaked briefly and Jason +and his four men rose to emergency alert. + +Two hours later, the Wold Tiara still coruscating in the Fane's blaze of +light, the servo-tracer picked up its placid humming. Jason's communico +squeaked again and Jason's men relaxed while Jason himself clutched his +head with both hands and whispered bitter things. + +At the same time, Lonnie, whistling cheerfully, drew his legs out of the +suit, shook it straight and hung it back on the wall. He was sure now. +As sure as he was that the little biochemist and his wife and quintet of +daughters would not want for neo-hyperacth or anything else any longer. +He giggled a little, thinking of Jason crouched on the bench, glaring +vacantly, utterly unconscious of Lonnie passing across the grass so +close beside him. + +At his own convenience, Lonnie selected his night; a full-moon night +because his now-invisible grid suit didn't require dark. He picked a +fairly early hour, too, because what matter if a few yawps gawked as the +Tiara vanished? And that one of those yawps would be Jason, stodgily on +his bench, gave Lonnie an extra fillip. Perhaps it was just for this +he'd let Jason plug along on a cold trail all these years. + +So that night, wearily from his bench in Gov-Park, Jason looked up at +Friday the 13th's full moon swimming amiably through its own reflected +night-brightness. His brain, tired of its everlasting shuttle between +worries, presented him with a disconnected memory-fact: "As cited by +Zollner," Jason found himself quoting a forgotten textbook, "the Moon's +reflectivity is point one seven four ... Nuts!" Angrily, he broke off, +thumbed the button of his communico, growled into the microphone on his +lapel, "Report." + +"Adams," came promptly back. "West Entry. Nothing." + +"McGillis. Patrolling rear wall. All clear in both directions as far as +I can see. An' I can see both ends of the Fane in all this moonlight, +Chief." + +"Holland. At Raichi House. Nothing." + +"Johnson. East Entry. More of the same." Then, "Say, Jase, how about it? +These double shifts are getting me." + +"What's the matter with you, now?" + +"My feet hurt, Jase. Neither one of us is as young as we used to be, +remember. How about knocking off?" + +"Hmphf ..." Johnson, Jason thought, was getting old. He'd been a good +man in his day but-- Hey, he was still a good man! It was Jason's own +stubbornness that was wearing Johnson down. Jason's useless +stubbornness. After all, without the backing of Anx or Gov, without +results from the equipment he had filched to use on Lonnie, what was the +use of everlastingly sticking around the Tiara like a fly buzzing +molasso-saccharine anyway? Jason opened his mouth to send them all home, +pressed the communico button and--shelved the relieving order +temporarily. Instead, he blasted into the microphone: "Sergeant! +SERGEANT!" + +From the communico, an intermittent drone became a gasping gulp; changed +into a violent yawn and only then turned into startled speech. "Yeah? +Huh?... Yeah, Chief!" + +"Sergeant, if I ever catch you asleep again, you won't ever get your +pension." + +"Chief, I wasn't asleep! Honest! I--" + +"All right. What's happening up there?" + +"Nothin' ... nothin' ... I wasn't asleep, Chief. I'd'a called you 'f +anything--" + + * * * * * + +Something bright, or was it dull, plucked at the edge of Jason's vision. +Inside the Fane, far down at one end. A thin, vertical bar of difference +in the blaze of light. Chin half turned, Jason stared. What?... + +"_Chief!_ That tracer's asleep--I mean--that there tracer's just GONE +t'sleep! I mean--Chief! It's--" + +"Shut up!" Jason hissed. "Holland! If you've let anyone slip past you +out of that house--" + +"Nobody did. You know me better than that, Chief." + +"Adams! McGillis! Johnson! What's happening?" + +"Nothing ..." + +"Not a thing ..." + +"_Johnson!_" Jason licked suddenly dry lips. "Dammit, Johnson, +report!... _Johnson!_" + +Silence. + +Grimly, Jason watched the vertical bar of different brightness edge back +to the Fane's East wall and disappear into the even dazzle of the +marble. He had a feeling it wasn't any use calling Johnson again. Ever. + +"Chief, what's up? What do we do?" + +"Huh? Oh ... You, Holland, get over to the East Entry as fast as your +legs'll stretch." + +"There in three minutes flat!" + +"You, too, McGillis." + +"On my way!" + +"Adams, you stick at that West Entry. If anything gets past you, I'll--" + +"Don't worry, Chief. I've got Johnson to even up for." + +Not watching how he ran, Jason hurled himself toward the East Entry; his +eyes following, in the opposite direction, a dullness moving in the +blaze inside the Fane. A smoothly moving, white on white, unfaced ghost +of whiteness within, a part of, the blazing radionic light. Just as he +rounded the East end of the Fane, he glimpsed the vertical bar of +whiteness again--the edge of the marble slab that was the entry door, +reflecting the blazing light at a different angle. Behind it, McGillis's +tightly grinning face. Under McGillis's face, the stab of blue-white +light reflected a glancing ray from the old-fashioned solid-missile +service pistol that Jason had insisted all four men arm themselves with +for this assignment. + +Over the sound of his own labored breathing as he plunged through the +East Entry, Jason heard panting behind him. Holland. Holland bettering +his promised three minutes--and with a forbidden disarmer in his hand. +Guiltily, Jason felt the weight of the disarmer he had himself secreted +under his armpit. + +Then there wasn't time for thinking or feeling, only for running down +the dazzling half-mile inside the Fane to the Tiara. Up ahead, the +different-white shape was motionless in front of it. Oddly, a dark, +vertical line appeared from the top to what would be the waist of the +shape. And for the instant it took the Tiara to vanish inside, Jason saw +clearly in the radiant light the profile of Lonnie's unmistakable face. +Saw Lonnie's eyes swivel in the direction of the thundering echoes of +their footfalls in the silence of the Fane. Saw Lonnie turn toward them, +the dark line disappearing from waist to top as if it had never been. + +Once more the different-whiteness moved. Toward them. Edging for the +back wall to skirt around them; one limb-shape fumbling in the palm of +the other. + +"No you don't!" McGillis, ahead of Jason, yelled, his howl drowned in +the smacking crack of his pistol. + +There seemed to be a waver in the different-whiteness. A small black dot +appeared against it; hung briefly, apparently unsupported, in the air; +then the undistorted bullet dropped inertly to the floor. + +"You _still_ won't!" McGillis hurled himself, shoulders low and legs +driving, at the shape. Two feet from it, he rebounded sharply, trod on +the rolling bullet, went down, his head splatting dully against the +marble floor. + +Holland grunted. Crouched to leap. Thrust his disarmer high, ready to +snap into line. + +"Hold it!" Jason commanded. Silently, eyelids barely separated to endure +the dazzle, he stared at the different-whiteness that confronted him. "I +made it this time, Lonnie," he called. "Caught up with you-- No!" His +arm flung out, startling him with the feel of his disarmer now oddly in +his hand. + +"Don't move!" + +The white-within-white's limb-shapes moved up, the hand-ends one over +the other. Through the minute spaces the overlapping fingers left, +glimpses of a thin dark line appeared. The hood was open a trifle at +mouth level, and from the opening Lonnie's voice emerged, sifting +through the protecting screen of gloves. "You can't see me! You +_can't_!" + +"No? Take one step sideways. Just _one_! Stop!" + +The different-whiteness had moved, and Holland had moved with it; +crouching now, alertly motionless, in his new position. Jason changed +the angle of his own facing. "Now do you think we can't see you?" + +"But ... but how!" + +"Your albedo is showing," Jason chuckled harshly. "You never would take +the trouble to learn the _how_ of anything, Lonnie. Sure, your damned +disguise is the same color as the marble. Maybe even exactly the same. +But the material is different, and the surface texture; it doesn't have +the same degree or quality of reflectivity to incident light that marble +does! + +"Eighty years ago, even the commercial photographers knew about +albedo--one of 'em made a picture of a cat, white on white. I told you +about the reflectivity in your stereo cube. But you wouldn't listen, +Lonnie, would you?" Jason let out a bursting peal of laughter. "_So you +tripped over your own albedo!_" + +Through the dying echoes of his own laughter, Jason caught Lonnie's +harsh whisper. "You haven't got me, copper!" + + * * * * * + +The black line marking the opening in the grid suit disappeared. The +barely-discernible limb-shapes dropped, one hand-end again fumbling at +the rheostat in the palm of the other. + +"I'll get him, Chief!" Holland was in action, his disarmer snapping down +into aim. + +"No!" Jason roared. "Holland, don't!" + +Too late. Under the pressure of Holland's finger, the disarmer's +invisible ion-stream tightened to the thread-thin lethal intensity, +leaped out against the suit's grid. Then the disarmer was luminous even +in the dazzle; even through the flesh of Holland's fist. Holland +screamed and squirmed and dropped. Part of him--the part that wasn't +burned away--reached the floor. + +The stench of carbonized flesh scoured Jason's nostrils. Stupidly, he +stared down at the headless, shoulderless, armless torso; black ... +sooty ... against the snowy gleam of the floor; conscious of the +sidelong, round-about approach of the different-white figure. He'd +failed again. Lonnie, in that damned suit, was impervious. + +Slowly, he raised his eyes from the thing on the floor to the thing +approaching. One consolation, he himself wouldn't go on living after +this. With grim frustration, he raised his arm in a final, fruitless +gesture and hurled the useless disarmer at the shape of Lonnie. + +It halted, dead, in mid-air, a yard away from the shape-thing. Dropped +straight down, clanging against the floor. + +A quiver as of mirth appeared to shake the different-whiteness. It +stooped. One hand-end fumbled at the palmed rheostat, then dropped to +pick up the disarmer. Fumbled again at the rheostat while the figure +straightened up to point the glistening projector at Jason's belly. + +The dark opening in the hood appeared again. + +Lonnie's voice chortled, "Told you I'd use whatever you tried to smear +you with. Goodbye, Jasey ..." + +The dark line was gone. The disarmer, turned to lethal potential, +settled in the shape's hand-end and began to spout. Jason went stiff. +Every muscle of his body clenching to withstand obliteration. + +He waited for it. Tight ... except his eyes that, in spite of +themselves, opened. + +Caught within the field, the full power of the disarmer poured itself +into the suit. The suit's capacity absorbed it. Almost. Then turned the +combined energies on itself. + +With the smell of frying organic matter, slowly the grid-coveralls +appeared in dazzling radiance within the dazzle of the Fane's lights; +glowed in it; red--then white--hot. Whiter than the light itself--far, +far lighter than any reflected rays could make it. + +Inside the all-encompassing, roasting grid of the melting suit, +Lonnie writhed. Faintly, as the suit failed, his screams came +through--momentarily. Then they were gone as the fused, molten heap +subsided lower ... lower ... began to trickle across the dazzling, +ice-white marble of the floor. + +Afterward, had Jason known anything at all about Lonnie's Philosophy, +he'd have immediately supplied another "rule"; making a foursome out of +the "Triple Ethic": "If you do it yourself, make sure you know _what_ +you're doing." + + + + +Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from _Planet Stories_ September 1952. + Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. + copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and + typographical errors have been corrected without note. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Zero Data, by Charles Saphro + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ZERO DATA *** + +***** This file should be named 29727.txt or 29727.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/7/2/29727/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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