Asimov, Isaac - SS Collection - Mysteries.pdf - Isaac Asimov - Planetar81

A devil's dozen of the Masters Mysteries Dr Isaac Asimov is renowned the world over as creator of the

magnificent Foundation trilogy, a galaxy-spanning saga of warfare and political intrigue. He has also

virtually pioneered the mystery story as a distinct branch of science fiction with such novels as The

Naked Sun and The Caves of Steel.

Thirteen ingenious stories of crime, murder, puzzlement and detection in the far reaches of space and

centuries in the future by perhaps the most famous and consistently entertaining science fiction author of

today. This volume is a superb showcase of Asimov's brilliant storytelling talent.

'Any thriller fan with a side interest in sci-fi, or vice versa., will enjoy Asimov's Mysteries,thirteen of the

master's stories, 'all observing the rules of the detective story, but all with the additional fillip of the sci-fi

setting'

ISAAC ASIMOV

MYSTERIES

Introduction

There is a tendency for many people who don't know any better to classify science fiction as just one

more member of the group of specialized literatures that include mysteries, westerns, adventures, sports

stories, love stories, and so on.

This has always seemed odd to those who know science fiction well, for s.f. is a literary response to

scientific change, and that response can run the entire gamut of the human experience. Science fiction, in

other words, includes everything.

How does one differentiate between a science fiction story and an adventure story, for instance, when so

much s.f. is so intensely adventurous as to leave the ordinary stories of the type rather pale ? Surely a trip

to the moon is first of all an adventure of the most thrilling kind, whatever else it is.

I have seen excellent science fiction stories that fall into unusual classifications and bring great enrichment

to what it had touched. Arthur C. Clarke wrote a delightful 'western' —but it took place under the sea,

and it had dolphins in place of cattle. Its name was 'Home on the Range,' however, and it fitted.

Clifford D. Simak wrote 'Rule 18' which is a pure sports story, but one that involved time-travel, so that

the coach of Earth's team could collect all-time greats with whom to win the annual game with Mars.

In 'The Lovers,' Philip Jose Farmer struck a telling variation on ordinary romance by writing a sober and

moving tale of love that crossed the boundary line, not of religion or color, but of species.

Oddly enough, it was the mystery form that seemed most difficult to amalgamate with science fiction.

Surely this is unexpected. One would think that science fiction would blend easily with the mystery.

Science itself is so nearly a mystery and the research scientist so nearly a Sherlock Holmes.

And if we want to reverse things, are there not mysteries that make use of the 'scientific mind' ? R. Austin

Freeman's Dr. Thorndyke is an example of a well known and successful (fictional) scientist-detective.

And yet science fiction writers seemed to be inhibited in the face of the science fiction mystery.

Back in the late 1945, this was finally explained to me. I was told that 'by its very nature' science fiction

would not play fair with the reader. In a science fiction story, the detective could say, 'But as you know,

Watson, ever since 2175, when all Spaniards learned to speak French, Spanish has been a dead

language. How came Juan Lopez, then, to speak those significant words in Spanish!' Or else, he could

have his detective whip out an odd device and say, 'As you know, Watson, my pocket-frannistan is

perfectly capable of detecting the hidden jewel in a trice.'

Such arguments did not impress me. It seemed to me that ordinary mystery writers (non-science-fiction

variety) could be just as unfair to the readers. They could deliberately hide a necessary clue. They could

introduce an additional character from nowhere. They could simply forget about something over which

they had been making a great deal of fuss, and mention it no more. They could do anything. The point

was, though, that they didn't do anything. They stuck to the rule of being fair to the reader. Clues might

be obscured, but not omitted. Essential lines of thought might be thrown out casually, but they were

thrown out. The leader was remorselessly misdirected, misled, and mystified, but he was not cheated.

It seemed, then, a matter to be taken obviously for granted that the same would apply to a science fiction

mystery. You don't spring new devices on the reader and solve the mystery with them. You don't take

advantage of future history to introduce ad hoc phenomena. In fact, you carefully explain all facets of the

future background well in advance so the reader may have a decent chance to see the solution. The

fictional detective can make use only of facts known to the reader in the present or of 'facts' of the

fictional future, which will be carefully explained beforehand. Even some of the real facts of our present

ought to be mentioned if they are to be used—just to make sure the reader is aware of the world now

about him.

Once all this is accepted, not only does it become obvious that the science fiction mystery is a thoroughly

acceptable literary form, but it also becomes obvious that it is a lot more fun to write and read, since it

often has a background that is fascinating in itself quite apart from the mystery.

But talk is cheap, so I put my typewriter where my mouth was, and in 1953 wrote a science fiction

mystery novel called The Caves of Steel (published, 1954). It was accepted by the critics as a good

science fiction novel and a good mystery and after it appeared I never heard anyone say that science

fiction mysteries were impossible to write. I even wrote a sequel called The Naked Sun (published,

1957) just to show that the first book wasn't an accident.

Between and after these novels, moreover, I also wrote several short stories intended to prove that

science fiction mysteriescould be written in all lengths.

These shorter science fiction mysteries (including some boarderline cases) are included in this volume in

order of publication. Judge for yourself.

The Singing Bell

Louis Peyton never discussed publicly the methods by which he had bested the police of Earth in a dozen

duels of wits and bluff, with the psychoprobe always waiting and always foiled. He would have been

foolish to do so, of course, but in his more complacent moments, he fondled the notion of leaving a

testament to be opened only after his death, one in which his unbroken success could clearly be seen to

be due to ability and not to luck.

In such a testament he would say, 'No false pattern can be created to cover a crime without bearing upon

it some trace of its creator. It is better, then, to seek in events some pattern that already exists and then

adjust your actions to it.'

It was with that principle in mind that Peyton planned the murder of Albert Cornwell.

Cornwell, that small-time retailer of stolen things, first approached Peyton at the latter's usual

table-for-one at Grinnell's. Cornwell's blue suit seemed to have a special shine, his lined face a special

grin, and his faded mustache a special bristle.

'Mr. Peyton,' he said, greeting his future murderer with no fourth-dimensional qualm, 'it is so nice to see

you. I'd almost given up, sir, almost given up.'

Peyton, who disliked being approached over his newspaper and dessert at Grinnell's, said, 'If you have

business with me, Cornwell, you know where you can reach me.' Peyton was past forty and his hair was

past its earlier blackness, but his back was rigid, his bearing youthful, his eyes dark, and his voice could

cut the more sharply for long practice.

'Not for this, Mr. Peyton,' said Cornwell, 'not for this. I know of a cache, sir, a cache of ... you know,

sir.' The forefinger of his right hand moved gently, as though it were a clapper striking invisible substance,

and his left hand momentarily cupped his ear.

Peyton turned a page of the paper, still somewhat damp from its tele-dispenser, folded it flat and said,

'Singing Bells ?'

'Oh, hush, Mr. Peyton,' said Cornwell in whispered agony

Peyton said. 'Come with me.'

They walked through the park. It was another Peyton axiom that to be reasonably secret there was

nothing like a low-voiced discussion out of doors.

Cornwell whispered, 'A cache of Singing Bells; an accumulated cache of Singing Bells. Unpolished, but

such beauties, Mr. Peyton.'

'Have you seen them?'

'No, sir, but I have spoken with one who has. He had proofs enough to convince me. There is enough

there to enable you and me to retire in affluence. In absolute affluence, sir.'

'Who was this other man ?'

A look of cunning lit Cornwell's face like a smoking torch, obscuring more than it showed and lending it a

repulsive oiliness. The man was a lunar grubstaker who had a method for locating the Bells in the crater

sides. I don't knowhis method; he never told me that. But he has gathered dozens, hidden them on the

Moon, and come to Earth to arrange the disposing of them.'

'He died, I suppose?'

'Yes. A most shocking accident, Mr. Peyton. A fall from a height. Very sad. Of course, his activities on

the Moon were quite illegal. The Dominion is very strict about unauthorized Bell-mining. So perhaps it

was a judgment upon him after all... In any case, I have his map.'

Peyton said, a look of calm indifference on his face, 'I don't want any of the details of your little

transaction. What I want to know is why you've come to me.'

Cornwell said, 'Well, now, there's enough for both of us, Mr. Peyton, and we can both do our bit. For

my part, I know where the cache is located and I can get a spaceship. You 'Yes?'

'You can pilot a spaceship, and you have such excellent contacts for disposing of the Bells. It is a very

fair division of labor, Mr. Peyton. Wouldn't you say so, now?'

Cornwell considered the pattern of his life—the pattern that already existed—and matters seemed to fit.

He said, 'We will leave for the Moon on August the tenth.'

Cornwell stopped walking and said, 'Mr. Peyton! It's only April now.'

Peyton maintained an even gait and Cornwell had to hurry to catch up. 'Do you hear me, Mr. Peyton ?'

Peyton said, 'August the tenth. I will get in touch with you at the proper time, tell you where to bring your

ship. Make no attempt to see me personally till then. Good-bye, Cornwell.'

Cornwell said, 'Fifty-fifty?'

'Quite,' said Peyton. 'Good-bye.'

Peyton continued his walk alone and considered the pattern of his life again. At the age of twenty-seven,

he had bought a tract of land in the Rockies on which some past owner had built a house designed as

refuge against the threatened atomic wars of two centuries back, the ones that had never come to pass

after all. The house remained, however, a monument to a frightened drive for self-sufficiency.

It was of steel and concrete in as isolated a spot as could well be found on Earth, set high above sea level

and protected on nearly all sides by mountain peaks that reached higher still. It had its self-contained

power unit, its water supply fed by mountain streams, its freezers in which ten sides of beef could hang

comfortably, its cellar outfitted like a fortress with an arsenal of weapons designed to stave off hungry,

panicked hordes that never came. It had its air-conditioning unit that could scrub and scrub the air until

anything but radioactivity (alas for human frailty) could be scrubbed out of it.

In that house of survival, Peyton passed the month of August every subsequent year of his perennially

bachelor life. He took out the communicators, the television, the newspaper tele-dispenser. He built a

force-field fence about his property and left a short-distance signal mechanism to the house from the

point where the fence crossed the one trail winding through the mountains.

For one month each year, he could be thoroughly alone. No one saw him, no one could reach him. In

absolute solitude, he could have the only vacation he valued after eleven months of contact with a

humanity for which he could feel only a cold contempt.

Even the police—and Peyton smiled—knew of his rigid regard for August. He had once jumped bail and

risked the psychoprobe rather than forgo his August.

Peyton considered another aphorism for possible inclusion in his testament: There is nothing so conducive

to an appearance of innocence as the triumphant lack of an alibi.

On July 30, as on July 30 of every year, Louis Peyton took the 9.15 a.m. non-grav stratojet at New

York and arrived in Denver at 12.30 p.m. There he lunched and took the 1.45 p.m. semi-grav bus to

Hump's Point, from which Sam Leibman took him by ancient ground-car—full grav! —up the trail to the

boundaries of his property. Sam Leibman gravely accepted the ten-dollar tip that he always received,

touched his hat as he had done on July 30 for fifteen years.

On July 31, as on July 31 of every year, Louis Peyton returned to Hump's Point in his non-grav aeroflitter

and placed an order through the Hump's Point general store for such supplies as he needed for the

coming month. There was nothing unusual about the order. It was virtually the duplicate of previous such

orders.

MacIntyre, manager of the store, checked gravely over the list, put it through to Central Warehouse,

Mountain District, in Denver, and the whole of it came pushing over the mass-transference beam within

the hour. Peyton loaded the supplies onto his aeroflitter with Maclntyre's help, left his usual ten-dollar tip

and returned to his house.

On August 1, at 12.01 a.m., the force field that surrounded his property was set to full power and Peyton

was isolated.

And now the pattern changed. Deliberately he had left himself eight days. In that time he slowly and

meticulously destroyed just enough of his supplies to account for all of August. He used the dusting

chambers which served the house as a garbage-disposal unit. They were of an advanced model capable

of reducing all matter up to and including metals and silicates to an impalpable and undetectable

molecular dust. The excess energy formed in the process was carried away by the mountain stream that

ran through his property. It ran five degrees warmer than normal for a week.

On August 9 his aeroflitter carried him to a spot in Wyoming where Albert Cornwell and a spaceship

waited.

The spaceship, itself, was a weak point, of course, since there were men who had sold it, men who had

transported ft and helped prepare it for flight. All those men, however, led only as far as Cornwell, and

Cornwell, Peyton thought— with the trace of a smile on his cold lips—would be a dead end. A very

dead end.

On August 10 the spaceship, with Peyton at the controls and Cornwell—and his map—as passenger, left

the surface of Earth. Its non-grav field was excellent. At full power, the ship's weight was reduced to less

than an ounce. The micro-piles fed energy efficiently and noiselessly, and without flame or sound the ship

rose through the atmosphere, shrank to a point, and was gone.

It was very unlikely that there would be witnesses to the flight, or that in these weak, piping times of

peace there would be a radar watch as in days of yore. In point of fact, there was none.

Two days in space; now two weeks on the Moon. Almost instinctively Peyton had allowed for those two

weeks from the first. He was under no illusions as to the value of homemade maps by non-cartographers.

Useful they might be to the designer himself, who had the help of memory. To a stranger, they could be

nothing more than a cryptogram.

Cornwell showed Peyton the map for the first time only after takeoff. He smiled obsequiously. 'After all,

sir, this was my only trump.'

'Have you checked this against the lunar charts ?'

'I would scarcely know how, Mr. Peyton. I depend upon you.'

Peyton stared at him coldly as he returned the map. The one certain thing upon it was Tycho Crater, the

site of the buried Luna City.

In one respect, at least, astronomy was on their side. Tycho was on the daylight side of the Moon at the

moment. It meant that patrol ships were less likely to be out, they themselves less likely to be observed.

Peyton brought the ship down in a riskily quick non-grav landing within the safe, cold darkness of the

inner shadow of a crater. The sun was past zenith and the shadow would grow no shorter.

Cornwall drew a long face. 'Dear, dear, Mr. Peyton. We can scarcely go prospecting in the lunar day.'

The lunar day doesn't last forever,' said Peyton shortly. There are about a hundred hours of sun left. We

Asimov, Isaac - SS Collection - Mysteries.pdf

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