"Look, Gorman," Carmody said, "I'm not working for you; I'm working for
Lockard. What's the idea of sending for me this hour of the night?"
"Then why did you come this hour of the night when I asked you to?" the
lawyer inquired, leaning back in his chair and smiling.
The big man hesitated and shrugged. "Can't say, myself. Curiosity,
maybe.... But you can hardly expect me to violate my employer's
confidence?"
Gorman laughed. "You get your ideas from the viddies, don't you? Only
don't forget that you're the villain, not the hero, of this piece,
fellow-man."
Carmody, completely taken aback, stared at him--the little alien
couldn't know! And, furthermore, he was mistaken--Carmody, Lockard,
the dutchman, had done nothing wrong, committed no crime, violated no
ethic. On the other hand, he had done nothing right either, nothing to
help himself or any other. "What do you mean?" he finally temporized.
"Tell me this--Lockard hired you to kill the man who goes under the
name of John Keats, didn't he?"
"Yes, but how did you know that?" He was beginning to have the same
primitive fear of Gorman that he had of the Vinzz; only it was more
natural for an extraterrestrial to have apparently supernatural powers.
"Keats told me--and Keats, of course, is the real Carmody."
"So you found out?"
"Found out!" Gorman laughed. "I knew it all along. Does a man keep any
secrets from his lawyer?"
"If he's smart, he does." Carmody absently beat his hand on the desk.
"This Keats isn't too smart, though, is he?"
"No ... he isn't a very bright guy. But it was his idea that this would
be a fine method of getting you out of the way. And not too bad an
idea, either.... You had to be disposed of, you know," he explained
winningly. "And how nice to have hounds do it for us. Of course we had
no idea of who your quarry was."
"I can see your point of view," Carmody said ironically. "But why tell
me now?" And then he thought he saw the answer. "Are you afraid I'll
really kill him?"
The lawyer shook his head and smiled back. "Afraid you really won't."
He placed the tips of his fingers together. "I am prepared to double
whatever Lockard is offering you to make sure that Keats, with Carmody
inside him, is definitely put out of the way forever."
* * * * *
So even here there was no basis of trust--none of the reverse honor
that legend commonly assigned to extralegals. Carmody got up. Even
seated, he had towered above the lawyer. Standing, he was like a
larger-than-life statue of doom--of doom, Gorman nervously hoped,
pointing in the desired direction.
"And if I refuse?" Carmody asked.
Gorman moved his chair back uneasily. "I might persuade Keats that he
could risk one murder in his present shape, if it was to insure his
ultimate safety."
"Meaning it would be a good idea for him to kill me?"
"Meaning it would be an excellent idea for him to kill you."
"Look here, Gorman," Carmody said, in a low voice that gradually
increased in volume. He could no longer restrain the anger that had
been seething up in him for all the years of his wandering. "I've had
enough of all this, hiding, running, shifting bodies and now hiring out
as a killer. Because I'm an honest man. Maybe you've never seen one
before, so take a good look at me. You may never have the chance again."
"I am looking and I see Jed Carmody. Not my idea of the prototype of
honesty."
"But I don't feel like Jed Carmody."
"Tell that to the hounds." Gorman laughed uproariously. "By law, you're
responsible for Carmody's crimes. Of course, if they put you away
or--as they'd undoubtedly prefer--accidently exterminate you in the
line of duty, and _then_ suspect Carmody hulk-hopped, they might look
around some more. But there wouldn't be any percentage in that for you,
especially if you were dead."
"I know, I know," Carmody retorted impatiently. "You can't tell me
anything I haven't told myself." He paused for a moment. "This is a
good body, though," he added. "Almost as good as my old one."
Gorman raised his eyebrows. "You can't be referring to the corpus
currently going by the epithet of John Keats?"
"The name was your idea, I take it. No, that wasn't my original body."
"Oh, so you're a dutchman, eh? A thrill boy?" There was contempt, even
from such as Gorman. "Getting a lot of free falls out of all this, are
you?"
Carmody tried to ignore this, but he couldn't. It wasn't true, he told
himself; he had suffered years of playing the game and derived no
pleasure from those sufferings--no pleasure at all. But he would not
stoop to argue with Gorman. "Maybe I can get away with this body to one
of the frontier planets," he mused. "At least I can make a run for it;
at least that would be a worthwhile kind of running."
"Brave words!" the lawyer sneered. "But rather risky to put into
action. Don't you think the best thing to do would be just go ahead
with the pattern as set? How much did Lockard offer you?"
"Half a million credits."
Gorman sucked in his breath. "You're lying, of course, but I'll match
that. Carmody--Keats--has ten times that amount and maybe more hidden
away where I can lay my hands on it as soon as I'm sure he's where he
can't hurt me. It's worth half a million to me. And, in the remote
instance that you're telling the truth, you can't turn down a million
credits ... whoever you are, dutchman!"
"Oh, can't I?" Carmody went to the door; then turned. "It may interest
you to know that I'm worth a hundred times that amount and maybe more."
The lawyer laughed skeptically. "If you have enough money to buy your
way, then why are you doing this?"
Carmody frowned. "You wouldn't understand.... I'm not sure I understand
myself." The door slammed behind him. Descending pneumos hissed.
"Just talking with his elbows," Gorman said comfortingly to himself.
"He'll do it. He's got to do it." But he wasn't altogether convinced.