The Empty Door Read online

The late afternoon sun painted orange on the broken clouds that bordered the skyline of the shadowy city. The blacktop streets and cracked sidewalks glistened from a brief rain that had fallen earlier. Most of society’s regular clients had not yet returned to the alleyways and street corners that provided their usual vending spots. The borderline hustlers always seemed to have a place out of the storm, no matter where they practiced their trade.

  Markman was becoming overloaded with concerns. The break-in at his apartment was easy to write off as a common home invasion by a street gang or some other lowlife, but the subsequent disturbance at the Professor’s home was a bit too coincidental. It was possible there was no connection, but then there was the black limousine to consider, as well. Maybe it was just a wrong address, but it didn’t feel right. There was nothing to suggest these things were connected to the experiments in the Professor’s secret lab, but there were no comforting explanations for any them, either. Markman needed more information.

  It was time to go fishing. Calling the police in on the ransacking of his apartment was still not an option. But he did have a close friend in the department, a man who had served with his father; someone Markman had worked with in the past. And, a call to the dispatcher had verified that Dan Parrish was on duty.

  Markman pulled into the fenced parking lot of the station, where a few patrol cars occupied temporary slots, waiting for patrolmen to finish struggling with the recently apprehended, and the mountain of paperwork owed them. As he levered the car into park, he noticed the little silver box on the floor by the passenger seat. He leaned over and recovered it, and once again considered the shiny curiosity with only a passing interest. He opened the glove box, flipped it inside, and snapped the compartment door shut.

  On his way up the worn wooden stairs to the investigative offices, Markman ran into Dan Parish coming down. Parish was an overweight sergeant who looked as though he had been on the force forever. His grey-brown hair was crew cut, and the old scar by his left eye blended almost perfectly with the age lines on his weathered face. He smiled crookedly at Markman. “Well Scott, old buddy! You doin’ okay these days?”

  “Chasing ghosts, but that’s nothing new.”

  “It’s our job, partner, it’s our job.”

  “Are things settling down around here at all?”

  “Not really. Man, seems like we’ve been goin’ in circles the past few days. All kinds of stuff happening, half of it don’t make a bit of sense. You know they brought in a stark naked guy who was out in the middle of the highway preachin’ or somethin’. I’m tellin’ you the drug trade is killin’ us.”

  “Well, at least I’m not alone then. They took my apartment apart the other night while I was out,” Markman groaned.

  “Yeah? Sorry. Hey, what’s the deal you got goin’ at the Showboat Men’s Club anyway?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You lookin’ for somebody in there or somethin’?”

  “I haven’t been near the place.”

  “Hey, you know you don’t hafta’ worry about me. I know how straight you are. They had that place staked out yesterday and saw you going in there. I figured you were on to somethin’.”

  “Honest to God, I haven’t been near the place.”

  Parish stared at Markman with a puzzled expression. “They were gonna ask you about it. They raided the place but didn’t find you inside. Nobody could figure what the hell happened; all the exits were covered. Must’ve been someone who looked exactly like you or somethin’, I don’t know.”

  “It wasn’t me, Dan. I don’t know anything about it.”

  Parish scratched the back of his head and stared at Markman with a perplexed look. “I don’t get it, Scott. Two officers swear they saw you go in there.”

  “All I can say is, it wasn’t me. I’ve never been near the place.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, now. I know you. Everybody around here respects you. If you had a case goin’ on the side, you can tell me about it. You know that.”

  “I’m doing a job for the university, looking for the absent-minded professor. I was with his daughter all day yesterday researching possible places the old man might be.”

  “Well hell, Scott. It’ll take more than a case of mistaken identity to put you in a bad light with me. I’m not forgetting you’re on your second vest. I still got my other one. It’s hangin’ up in my gun rack as a reminder. Keeps me sharp, you know.”

  “You know that day was the last time I worked auxiliary.”

  “Yeah? Well, that’s probably a good thing I’d say. You’d never be able to stay out of anything.”

  “Dan, let me ask you something. Like I said my apartment got trashed the other night. Is there a gang thing happening on my side of town, or something?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is, Scott. Sorry they found you, but I wouldn’t worry about it too much. That guy I told you about that was brought in naked? He was a Nighthawk. We already had most of ‘em in on burglary. That guy and one other were picked up drugged out of their minds last night. They won’t be trashing any cars or homes for quite a while. Hey, I got a prisoner transport. I’m late, sorry I gotta get going. I owe you a beer, right.”

  “No, but I could use one.”

  “Okay. You take care, partner.” Parish skipped down the stairs and ducked around a corner.

  Markman returned to his disrupted dwelling filled with even more doubts than ever. He made a half-hearted effort to straighten up but gave up without finishing. He showered, changed, and with misgivings set course back to the home of the madcap Professor. The place, he thought, where there was a secret hole in the world.

  The evening ride back was mercifully uneventful. No need to pick the lock on the front door this time. He had been privileged a key. The lights were on, but the house was quiet. Cassiopia had not yet returned from her own necessary outings. He went down to the SCIP lab and sat, tapping a drum beat on the counter of the Drack station, staring at the imposing figure of the silent Tel.

  “I think your master is going to get me in a lot of trouble, robot.” he said idly, not expecting a response.

  The robot did not offer one.

  He leaned back thoughtfully. “You know, I like her a little too much, trust her way too much, and barely know her. How do you get to know a person whose IQ is through the roof?” he said, more to himself than to Tel.

  “What information do you require, Mr. Markman?” Tel replied, causing him to flinch. He sat up straight in his chair and with a keen interest addressed his steel companion.

  “What would you know about Ms. Cassell, robot?”

  “I have an extensive personality file as inputted by Dr. Cassell. It is not restricted.”

  “You mean I can ask you things about her, and you’ll tell what you know?”

  “That is correct.”

  Markman’s eyes lit up. “Does she know about this?”

  “Cassiopia has not made any inquiries relative to the respective files. The answer is unknown.”

  Markman pondered his unorthodox good fortune. “What do you think; would it be improper for me to ask you about her?”

  “I am not capable of ethical analysis, Mr. Markman.”

  “Well then, what is she really like, I mean personally?”

  “Please indicate request parameters.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “Your inquiry must be more specific.”

  “Okay—okay, what does she like?”

  “Her favorite music is jazz and classical. She occasionally attends opera. Her favorite spectator sport is auto racing. Her favorite participant sport is racquetball. Her favorite foods are roast duck, pizza, Chinese, and seafood. Her favorite movie category is old science fiction. Her favorite colors are violet and blue. She likes animals of all types. Her....”

  “Hold it! Hold it a second. I can’t keep up with that. You said she likes racquetball?”

  “Her specific statement was that she en
joyed the geometry of it.”

  Markman locked his hands behind his head and leaned back. “Has she ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “Engaged?”

  “No.”

  “Gone steady?”

  “No data available.”

  Markman paused again with a look of frustration on his face, then resumed the same abrupt cadence of questioning.

  “Has she ever been arrested?”

  “There is one reference on file.”

  “What were the charges?”

  “The charge against Miss Cassell and her associate was criminal mischief. A subsequent settlement deferred charges.”

  “What did she do?”

  “Miss Cassell and an associate were accused of installing an electrical circuit in a vehicle owned by a mathematics teacher during her second-year tenure. The installation provided interface between the vehicle’s coil emissions and the conductive springs in the driver’s seat.”

  “Are you saying she hot-wired the car’s high voltage coil to the driver’s seat?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “What happened?”

  “The official report states that the plaintiff attempted to start the vehicle several times and received mild shocks to the buttocks area on each attempt. The loud verbal responses attracted a small group of bystanders and a security officer, and later resulted in the arrests.”

  Markman squinted in disbelief. “Well, that’s it. Now I have heard it all. How did she get out of it?”

  “The effects of the circuit were shown not to be harmful. However statements by the plaintiff indicated a clear displeasure with the event. Unspecified compensation was arranged.”

  After taking a moment to digest the unexpectedly diabolical incident masterminded by the seemingly innocent Cassiopia, Markman resumed his impersonal interrogation.

  “So anyway, can you provide more personal information on her?”

  “Please specify inquiry parameters.”

  “What?”

  “You must be more specific.”

  “Well, for instance, what are her measurements?”

  “Please specify exact dimensions required.”

  “Chest, hips, and waist.”

  “Requested data is not on file. A simple physiological scan would provide the requested data.”

  Markman rubbed his chin with one hand and decided that electronic eavesdropping on Cassiopia was more interesting than he had expected. “What I’d really like to know is; Would someone like me have any chance with someone like her?”

  “Please rephrase the inquiry.”

  “You know—does she like me?”

  “Voice stress comparisons suggest a definitive and progressive pattern of stress reduction.”

  “Wait a minute, voice stress analysis? You can do that sort of thing?”

  “It is a secondary function of pattern recognition programming. Identification of false voice-access inputs and recognition of urgency is an I/O subroutine.”

  “Are you saying that you’re a damn lie detector in addition to everything else?”

  “That function is available.”

  “Then that means if the three of us were in this room and I asked Ms. Cassell a question, later on you could tell me whether or not she had been truthful, right?”

  “Accuracy of voice stress analysis varies with subject and environment. Probability of correct appraisal in such a case would be ninety-five percent.”

  “Wow! What I’d give to have you around when I’m trying to get the truth out of someone. Tel, you never forget anything at all, do you?”

  “That is correct, Mr. Markman.”

  “I think it would be best if you kept this conversation to yourself.”

  “I am designed to make all data available to Cassiopia and Dr. Cassell.”

  “But you would not discuss what we’ve said unless you were asked about it, is that correct?”

  “The information would be provided only if specifically requested.”

  Before Markman could continue the conversation, the robot turned its head in the direction of the lab entrance. “Mr. Markman, someone has entered the upstairs area.”

  “That would be her, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Highly probable.”

  “I must say, you’re one of the strangest friends I’ve ever had, Tel.”

  “Referenced to current definitions it is a qualified description,” replied the robot amiably.

  In silence they waited Cassiopia’s appearance in the corridor, but she did not come. Markman quickly became curious.

  “Perhaps I’d better check on things,” he said, and he headed upstairs.

  Chapter 18