12
KRESH STEPPED INTO the interrogation room. Donald came in behind him, closed the door, and then took up a position next to and slightly behind Kresh, rather than retreating to a wall niche. Donald only stayed that close when he had some intimation that Kresh might be in some sort of danger. Kresh couldn’t see any particular peril in the current situation, but Kresh had learned some time ago to trust Donald’s reactions, even above his own. There was something here that Donald did not like; something he thought might be of some sort of possible danger.
If so, then Donald was seeing things Kresh could not. All Kresh could see was a thin, reedy sort of man, Telmhock presumably, accompanied by a rather battered-looking robot.
Telmhock was sitting at the table, facing the door, some papers spread out before him. He did not seem to be the sort of person who could endanger much of anyone.
He was of indeterminate middle age, and his face was long and narrow, with a beaklike nose that might have given him a quite authoritative air, were it not for the distracted, almost dreamy, look in his blue-grey eyes. His clothes were at least twenty years out of fashion, and there was something a bit musty about them. His hair was a little on the longish side, though, if Kresh were any judge, not by choice. He had made no conscious decision on his hairstyle; rather he had merely forgotten to have it cut. There were even traces of dandruff on the shoulders of his jacket—a truly scandalous failing in Inferno’s overly fastidious society.
His robot, which was of near-antique vintage, stood behind him. The robot was a dark grey in color, though it looked as if it had once been a gleaming jet-black. It was holding the handle of a briefcase no less battered than itself, and something about its rather assertive posture suggested that it was not likely to treat its master with the sort of craven slavishness of most Inferno robots.
In short, the man looked like what he clearly was: an old-fashioned civil servant who took his work very seriously indeed, with his personal robot of many years service in attendance.
“Sheriff Kresh?” the man asked.
“Yes.” Who the devil else did he think it might be?
“Hmm. Ha. Good. I am Professor Giver Telmhock. I am the dean of the law department of Hades University.”
A very grand-sounding title, but it didn’t impress Kresh much. The university was not large, and the law department was small, even in proportion. There was not much call for lawyers on Inferno, praise be.
Telmhock seemed to see that Kresh was underimpressed, and therefore added a few other titles to the mix. “I am, ah, also an adviser to the Attorney General, and to the late Governor on any number of legal matters.”
“I see,” Kresh said, though he did not. Nor was he impressed by the man’s resume. Not on Inferno. The population was small, and the duties of government and academic service light, with the result that there was a certain comic-opera flavor to the upper crust of society, with everyone seeming to claim a half-dozen offices, with all sorts of fancy titles that came complete with uniforms and badges and medallions that could be worn to parties. The staff robots did all the work while the office holders went to receptions.
Kresh had been getting all sorts of calls from any number of just such nonofficials, offering help they could not provide and giving advice that would have been suicidal if taken. Telmhock was just about the lowest-ranking official to contact him—and the only one to come in person.
Why the devil should he give half a damn about an “adviser” to the Attorney General when the A. G. hadn’t set foot in her own office in the last year? Alvar Kresh stood over the prim little man, not trying very hard to conceal his annoyance and impatience. “Now then, Professor Telmhock, as you will appreciate, this is a rather busy time for me.”
“Yes, I rather imagine it is,” Telmhock replied, plainly not in any hurry at all to get to the point. “This is a shocking development. Absolutely shocking.” He sat there, shaking his head mournfully.
It seemed to Kresh as if the old boy was not prepared to say anything more without prompting. “I quite agree,” he said. “However, Professor, I am quite pressed for time. You called me away from a rather urgent case review. I appreciate the condolence call, but I really must—”
“Condolence call?” Telmhock asked. “I am not making a mere condolence call. Did I leave that impression? I certainly did not intend to do so. I would not wish to interrupt you needlessly.”
Again, the man didn’t seem prepared to volunteer any actual information. Kresh forced himself to be calm. “All right, then,” he said, “perhaps you could tell me why you did feel the need to interrupt me.” Not the most tactful of phrasings, but there were times when rudeness got things moving.
“Oh, but of course,” Telmhock said. “I think you will agree that it is a matter of some importance. I thought it might be wise if I talked to you about the succession to the late Governor’s office.”
“I thought Shelabas Quellam was the Designate.”
Telmhock looked at him oddly, and seemed to choose his words carefully. “And so he was—up until a few days ago.”
Suddenly Kresh was all attention. A change in the Designation? That could turn the case upside-down. “You’re quite right, Professor Telmhock. Information regarding the succession would be most useful, and of the greatest interest to me.” Both the new Designate and the old would have motives for killing Grieg. The new Designate might have killed to seize power—while the old one, Shelabas, might have struck in desperation, in hopes of succeeding before the new Designation could be made official.
Yes, of course. Why hadn’t he looked harder in that direction, toward Shelabas? Gain was always a likely motive for murder, and who could gain more than the Governor’s successor? If the assassination was a power grab, who was it who ended up gaining power?
In plain terms, the new Governor would have to be a suspect in the case. Gain—and power—were first-rate motives. “But how do you come to have any knowledge of—ah—this subject?”
“I am the executor of the late Governor’s last will and testament,” Telmhock said, a bit taken aback. “But you were not aware of that? Hmmm. Hah. Yes.” The little man seemed to consider that piece of information carefully. “In light of the fact that you did not know who I was, or that I am executor to his will, I wonder—were you—are you—at least aware of the Governor’s new choice as Designate?”
“No,” Kresh said. “Of course not. Why would he tell me?” Confound the man! Couldn’t he get to the point?
“Why indeed?” Telmhock asked, looking toward his robot.
“He did not know. I see. I see.” He thought that bit of information over as well. “That does make things rather more interesting, doesn’t it, Stanmore?” he asked, addressing his robot, before returning to his former air of distraction.
“Yes, sir, it does,” the robot replied, and then said no more. The robot Stanmore seemed to share its master’s reluctance to offer up any actual information.
The four of them—Kresh, Donald, Telmhock, and Stanmore—remained in silence for perhaps half a minute before Kresh spoke again, struggling to keep his temper under control. “Professor Telmhock. I am currently running the most important investigation any law enforcement official has ever faced on this planet. The situation is extremely delicate and requires my full attention. I do not have the time to watch you meditate on my ignorance of the Governor’s will, or to watch you and your robot exchange pleasantries. If you know who the Governor-Designate is, or have any information that might be useful to me, tell it to me right now, as clearly and briefly as possible. Otherwise, I am going to arrest you for obstructing an official investigation. Is that clear?”
“Oh, dear!” Telmhock all but squeaked. “Yes! My apologies,” the little man said, clearly very startled.
“Good,” said Kresh. “Now then—who is the Designate?”
“You. You are,” Telmhock said, still rather flustered.
There was a moment’s dead silence as Kresh tried to absorb what he had just heard. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“You are,” Telmhock said. “You are the Governor-Designate.”
“I don’t understand,” Kresh said, his knees suddenly a bit weak. Me? The Designate? Why the devil would Grieg pick me?
“It’s quite simple,” Telmhock said. “The Governor changed his will just ten days ago. You are the Designate.”
“Excuse me, Professor, but you have misstated the case,” said Telmhock’s robot. “Alvar Kresh is not the Designate.”
