When my examination of the office was complete, I opened my eyes again and turned to Lieutenant Kimball.

  “You can get rid of the body, now.”

  Sally the Secretary gave a little moan. “Let me take the body, please,” he murmured. The Lieutenant patted the man’s shoulder. “I understand, Mr. Wand,” he said, “but the widow has that responsibility.”

  “The bitch,” Sally Wand said, his eyes filling with tears. “What the hell did she ever mean to him’.”

  “The law says,” Lieutenant Kimball began, but Sally interrupted, coming to me with a terribly fervent look in his eyes. “Juster Benson,” he implored as I wondered whether I’d hit him if he tried to cling to my hand. “Do I have to let that bitch take his body?”

  “That’s really not my jurisdiction,” I said, and then set to work. Things might be simpler, of course, if the law didn’t forbid me to sympathize directly with contributing witnesses. But as long as I had no grounds for thinking someone was a material witness, I could only ask questions and get answers verbally.

  “Mr. Garrett,” I began, and I suppose my tone of voice must have conveyed the idea that serious work was beginning, because Sally stood up straight and became the cold, efficient secretary once again. “Mr. Garrett, who discovered the body?”

  “I,” he answered.

  “And when did you last see Mr. Miner alive?” Down the list we go.

  “At four o’clock yesterday afternoon. He came in from a visit with Gilbert and Sons—they’re our auditors—and he went straight into his office. At five-fifteen he started buzzing me. I mean, the buzzing began and didn’t let up even after I picked up the telephone. So I went into the office and found him like this, with his hand on the buzzer.”

  Lieutenant Kimball interrupted. “We disconnected the wire, Juster Benson, because the buzzing was driving everybody crazy and we didn’t want to move his hand.”

  I smiled my approval, with just enough coldness that a reasonably clever person would know that I didn’t want him to interrupt anymore. Kimball was reasonably clever. “Go on,” I told Sally.

  “Well, that’s it. I called the police.”

  “Were you in the outer office the entire time between Miner’s arrival and your finding the body?”

  “The whole time,” Sally answered. “And my assistant typist, Billie Parks, was here with me. She never left and neither did I.”

  I glanced at Kimball, who said, “Billie Parks agrees with that. They were both here the whole time.”

  “Well, then,” I said, “you’d know who got into and out of his office then, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course,” Sally answered. “There’s no other way in—not even a window. Mr. Miner never liked looking out at all the buildings. He always complained about how ugly and industrial Granger is. He’s a very artistically sensitive man.”

  I refrained from pointedly glancing at the pinstripe wallpaper with those totally out-of-date Picasso prints. Instead I asked, “Who came in, then?”

  “Just three people,” Sally told me. “John Cannon—he’s Mr. Miner’s personal attorney and also a good friend, and he usually acts as attorney for Happy Head, too. And then Darrel Schmidt, the executive vice-president, of course; and Dr. Herman Young.”

  “And who’s he?” I asked.

  “Oh, he’s the head of research. He headed the team that invented the prebrain seventeen years ago next Friday.”

  “An anniversary that you commemorate lavishly, I’m sure,” I said.

  Lieutenant Kimball laughed. “It’s bigger than Christmas or the Fourth of July, here at Happy Head.”

  “I don’t see that it’s particularly funny, Lieutenant,” Sally said archly.

  “Anyone else?” I asked, trying to keep us on the subject.

  “No one,” Sally said.

  “And I’ve already arrested the three of them as material witnesses,” Lieutenant Kimball added. My respect for him went up immediately. With the lawsuits that can result from illegitimate arrests of material witnesses, most local law enforcement people are more than happy not to arrest anybody until the juster came—in murder or confession cases, anyway. Fortunately, justers are never called in on anything else, except an occasional kidnapping.

  “Good,” I said. “I’ll commend that, Lieutenant.”

  He tried not to look pleased.

  While Kimball was involved in concealing his pleasure, a woman with close-cut hair stormed into the office. She was wearing a microdress that showed off her figure rather stunningly—but the utter lack of make-up and the mannish way she walked contrasted rather sharply with the costume and its contents.

  “Are you the juster?” she snapped.

  “Juster Benson,” I said, offering my magic hand for confirmation. She waved it away. “Juster Benson,” she said, “I have been detained as a material witness, and I want you to know that unless the arrest is immediately declared void I will bring a lawsuit that Salt Lake County will not soon forget!”

  “Who the hell are you?” I asked quietly.

  “Darrel Smith,” she answered. “Executive vice-president of Happy Head. Do you realize what this investigation is doing to our company? The police won’t let me leave the building, so that not only is Miner dead, but I can’t even go and keep his appointments!”

  She was a good deal shorter than I am, but I still felt as though she towered over me. So I did what I always do when I feel pushed. I pushed back.

  “Ms. Smith,” I said coldly, “you are a prime suspect for murder. If you insist, I will change your arrest as a witness to arrest as a suspect.”

  “You have no grounds!” she shouted.

  “I have plenty of grounds,” I answered. “One of them being an obviously hostile attitude toward a juster who is merely pursuing his duties with a murder case.”

  She cooled off immediately. “I’m—sorry, Juster—Benson? Benson. It’s just that this company means a great deal to me. We were the first, you know. We still have the finest research facility into prebrain enhancement in the world, and I just don’t want to see Happy Head’s reputation ruined. I love this company, Juster Benson. Very dearly.”

  At which Sally Garrett snapped a word that implied that Darrel Smith’s statement might not be correct.

  “You can keep your mouth shut, faggot,” Darrel said.

  “You wish, dyke,” Sally answered. “I happen to know that you love this company a hell of a lot less than you pretend.”

  Darrel’s face went red. “And what kind of smearing, nasty little charge are you going to try to spread now?”

  Sally turned to me. “I happen to know that our little dyke here was under investigation.”

  “By whom?” I asked.

  “By no one!” Darrel shouted.

  “By Mr. Miner,” Sally said, smiling. “He and the auditors found some funny things in the book. And that was why Mr. Miner called Darrel Smith into his office yesterday.”

  I looked at Darrel.

  “Mr. Miner,” Darrel said, her voice in tight control though her face had gone from bright red to a ghastly white, “would never do anything that might endanger Happy Head’s reputation.”

  “Did he accuse you of embezzling?” I asked.

  “No!” she shouted.

  “Will I get the same answer if I subpoena the auditors?” I asked.

  “Mr. Miner was alive when I left him!” she shouted. “I didn’t kill him! Here, here, sympathize with me. I want you to.” And she turned sideways and extended her neck toward me, so I could plug into her prebrain and tiptoe through her memories.

  “No thanks,” I said. “I’ll pass for right now.”

  “Do you want her here?” asked Lieutenant Kimball.

  “Just keep an eye on her until I have a chance to question the others.”

  And Lieutenant Kimball led her out of the room. I was alone with Sally. I knew people well enough—better than most, of course—to know that Sally wasn’t being square. He hated Darrel; that much was obvious. But he didn’t hate her the way he would hate the murderer of the man he loved.

  “Why don’t you think Darrel killed Mr. Miner?” I asked.

  “Don’t I?” he answered.

  “No,” I said.

  He smiled. “Well, well, I must be transparent, mustn’t I? No, I don’t think Darrel killed Mr. Miner. Because of time. You see, Darrel was in there with Mr. Miner and Mr. Cannon—”

  “The lawyer?”

  “Yes, Mr. Cannon is the attorney. Darrel darling was in there from right after four o’clock until about a quarter to five. She left then, but Cannon didn’t. And it wasn’t until nearly five that Dr. Young came, and he was in there for about ten minutes. And when he left, he just looked angry—I don’t think he killed Mr. Miner.”

  “Interesting,” I said, and for once I meant it. “That only leaves Mr. Cannon.”

  “True,” Sally said, and he winked. “And I would have told the cops this before, but they never asked and I wanted to see Darrel arrested. You see, Mr. Cannon was still in there when I found the body.”

  I leaned forward on the chair I somehow ended up sitting in.

  “Juster Benson, John Cannon’s the only one who could have killed Mr. Miner. And that makes me rather sad,” Sally said. “Because John’s one of the few people around who’s really worth anything. I can’t think why he would have done it. And yet he’s the only one who could have, don’t you see?”

  “What was Mr. Cannon doing when you went in?” I asked.

  “That’s the crazy thing. He was standing over in the far corner, going through the files, as if nothing had happened. I didn’t even notice he was there until after I called the police. He must have heard me call them—I did it from Mr. Miner’s phone. But all of a sudden, right out of the clear blue, Mr. Cannon says, ‘Sally, Rodney and I need you to take a letter.’ Just as calm as you please.”

  “Didn’t he even mention the body?”

  “Yes. He said, ‘Is Rodney ill?” And when I said that Mr. Miner was dead, he just shook his head and said, ‘I’m sure you must be mistaken,’ and then he left the room.”

  “Did he examine the body? Did he look frightened? Anything like that? I can’t believe that even a murderer would be so brazen about it.” Of course, I knew perfectly well that murderers are perfectly capable of any bizarre behavior—including murder. But Sally seemed puzzled about it, and so therefore I seemed puzzled, too. Nothing like echoing someone else’s emotions to get good answers to your questions.

  “That’s the strangest thing, Juster,” Sally said. “Mr. Cannon and Rodney were best friends for years. They had no secrets from each other, did so many things together. I find it so hard to accept the idea that John killed Mr. Miner—and even harder to believe the calm way he walked out of the office with Mr. Miner dead, right there.”

  I shook my head and clucked my tongue.

  “But how could it be anyone else? If Herman Tank had killed him—”

  “Herman who?”

  “Oh,” Sally said, smiling. “It’s just what everyone calls him. Herman Young, the head of research. We call him Herman Tank, after the old Sherman tanks from the second war, you know? Because he runs right over everybody—anyway, if Herman had killed Mr. Miner, wouldn’t John Cannon be the first person to speak up about it? And Darrel’s absolutely impossible, because both John and Herman would have said something about Mr. Miner being dead. No, Juster Benson, I’m absolutely certain that it was Mr. Cannon, though God only knows why.”

  “Well, then, we’ll just have to ask God,” I said, smiling. “Thanks for your help, Sally. Where can I find this Dr. Young?”

  “Research is directly down this corridor, at the opposite end of the building.”

  “Would Dr. Young be in?”

  “He never leaves, except to go yell at somebody,” Sally answered.

  “Well, while I’m down there, do you think you could take a few minutes and tell the police that I want to see—” and here I switched over to recall “—Billie Parks, the auditor who knew what Mr. Miner had just found out before coming to the office yesterday, and John Cannon, of course. Could you do that?”

  “Of course,” Sally answered. “I don’t have too much work to do right now, not until somebody takes over Mr. Miner’s position.” He laughed. “I’ll probably be out of a job anyway. Utah isn’t exactly the best place in the world to be gay, and the board of directors never did approve of Rodney’s sex life. They’ll undoubtedly get somebody straight to take over.”

  “You never know with boards of directors.”

  “Juster Benson,” Sally said as I started out the door. “Are you sure I can’t get custody of the body?”

  “That’s not up to me,” I said as gently as I could. And then I left. I’m not gay myself, but over the years I’ve sympathized with enough fags to know that it isn’t easy to be gay, even in these liberated days. Oh well, none of my business. I just catch killers.

  I went down the hall. Past the lobby there was an obvious change—the wood paneling and thickly carpeted floors gave way to smooth plastic floors and walls, with a smell of disinfectant. More like a hospital than a research facility. But at the end of the corridor was a door labeled, “Happy Head Research Laboratories.” Since the sign also said, “Come in,” I went in.

  The contrast with the business end of the building continued. Instead of hushed secretaries and hooded typewriters, there were four stenogs typing their fingers off loudly in a corner, while a dozen or so men and women in white lab coats shuffled other papers and played games with computer terminals throughout the rest of a room large enough to be a barn.

  There were no signs on any desks. So I asked the nearest lab-coated young woman where Dr. Young might be found. She smiled.

  “He’s in the Op Shop right now,” she said. The smile stayed.

  “What’s an Op Shop?”

  “It’s kind of an operating room sometimes, and sometimes our model assembly room. Absolutely sterile and dust-free, you know. So that we put together our new experiments there, and then plunk them right into somebody’s head without having to take the prebrains out of the controlled environment.”

  “You do operations here?”

  “Of course. Experimental models have to be tested, of course, and we have a license to work with human beings.”

  “When will he be out?”

  “Any time. He’s trying out his latest refinement on the emotional link prebrain. It’s really quite an exciting project, though I can’t discuss it too freely. Industrial spying, of course. We’ve made the Big Three pretty rich off our patents, but they’d rather not pay royalties if they can steal something.”

  “Understandable,” I said. “Can I wait for Dr. Young?”

  “Of course, sit down. I see by your built-in terminal that you’re a juster. You must be investigating the big man’s death.”

  “Good guess,” I said, sitting down on a semi-stuffed metal chair that seemed scientifically designed to feel awkward, no matter how you sat in it.

  “Well, I don’t know anything about it, but if you want to know the truth, Mr. Juster—”

  “Benson,” I said. “Juster Benson.”

  “Fine, glad to meet you. If you want to know the truth—oh, and I’m Donna Silberman, I’m always like that, I can never remember to introduce myself, how silly of me—”

  I probably would have liked her if she weren’t smiling all the time.

  “Juster Benson, if you want to know the truth—”

  “I do.”

  “There’s not a soul over here in Research who isn’t glad to see the old turd done in. Oh, I’m sorry he was murdered. I would have been just as happy if he had tripped over his shoelaces and fallen into an abandoned mine shaft. But we’re all perfectly happy that he’s gone.”

  I raised an eyebrow. With talky people, a raised eyebrow is as good as an engraved invitation. She went on.

  “I mean, if you want a perfect motive, we all have one. Old Rodney Miner was cutting off the budget for the emotional prebrain—and it’s the most important thing we’ve had here since the prebrain itself all those years ago.”

  “What is the emotional prebrain?” I asked.

  “Emotional link prebrain. It cross-references not only by chronology, person, subject, and importance, but also by emotion.”

  “I thought that was impossible.”

  “Well, so was flying—till somebody flew!” She laughed. When she was through laughing, her smile went on. It was beginning to drive me crazy.

  “Tell me, Ms. Silberman—”

  “Donna, please, no need to be formal—”

  “Tell me, Donna, do you ever stop smiling?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, her grin broadening which I had not thought was possible. “I’m a very happy person.”

  And then a loud voice boomed from across the room, “And by all that’s holy, Donna Silberman, you’re about to be an unemployed happy person.”

  Her grin didn’t diminish. Without even looking for the source of the voice, she said to me, “That’s Dr. Young.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I answered. I stood and walked toward the man, who was walking toward me. He was toweringly tall, but the hand that shook mine was slender and long, and I realized that Young wasn’t the hamhanded bulldozer he looked to be at first glance.

  “Juster Benson,” I introduced myself again. He glowered and took my magic hand, punched out the identification code, frowned at the answer, and then punched in another code. I was curious as to what he was finding out. So I asked.

  “Your government security clearance, of course. Since this idiot here told you far too much about our work, I have to find out whether we’ve been compromised.”

  “And?”

  “Your security clearance is tight enough that they’d let you sit in on the virgin birth, as long as you washed your hands. Nevertheless, I trust you won’t need to investigate our current lines of research any further.”