The Gordon Mamon Casebook Read Free Page B

water ice which encapsulated a lethal neurotoxin. The hardened ice needles were of subcellular thickness (‘sharper than a thankless child,’ according to the sales tag), and capable of piercing skin and muscle without leaving any discernible mark. The neurotoxin was necrodegradable, so that the whole projectile had a lifetime, when fired, which was only slightly greater than that of its victim. A ruthless weapon, with a nasty sense of humour.
    “For someone called Gordon, you ain’t exactly flash,” the gun commented sardonically.
    Gordon managed to wrest his gaze from the gun and lifted his face towards his assailant’s.
    “Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” he pleaded.
    “ Regret ?” the gun scoffed. “What could anyone possibly regret about snuffing out your miserable existence? And what in hell’s name do you think you can do to protect yourself against a Deadly-Sirius 357 Needle Gun?”
    “I have the law on my side,” Gordon responded. He had to admit, it sounded weak even to him. He’d have to do better than that. I will not go gentle into that good riddance, he told himself. “Go on,” he said. “Tell me why you did it.”
    Taybill shrugged. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll just shoot.” He stepped fully into the room and allowed the outer door to close, sealing off Gordon’s only feasible escape route.
    Taybill did not look at ease with the weapon he deployed. His face was pale and tense, his hands were unsteady, and his aim was poor. Not that that would matter. The gun’s ammunition pretty much obviated the need for a keen eye: if a round hit you, you were more or less assured of death.
    Gordon’s mind pulsed with the unfamiliar problem of a life-and-death puzzle. He was keenly aware that every action, every word choice, on his part was critical. A skilled negotiator (such as Hostij) might well be able to talk Taybill down, but Gordon wasn’t Hostij. He was under no delusion that he had anything like the required verbal skills to defuse Taybill. And, since the needle gun was semi-autonomous (and perfectly capable of firing itself if it felt the situation warranted it), any attempt by Gordon to dissuade Taybill would probably be disastrous. His one remaining option was to keep the dialogue going, to merely delay the inevitable. Time was all he had to play for now.
    “Tell me why you did it,” he asked again.
    “Why should I bother?” Taybill asked. He was nervous enough, he might just fire the gun accidentally.
    “Humour me,” Gordon said, desperately. “Look, I already know why you did it. I just want to check if I’m right.”
    “Don’t believe you,” the gun sneered. “You couldn’t figure—”
    “No, I’ll prove it,” Gordon interrupted, frantically playing for time. “It was the transport charges, wasn’t it? That, and the gambling debts—”
    “I’ve had it!” Taybill snapped. “Every month, I make another payment off my gambling debts, and they go hike up the interest rates! I’ve been going backwards for the past year! You don’t know what it’s like … I work twenty-five hours a day, seems like, and it’s never enough . And Formey, one-fifteen kilos of excess baggage, dead weight, at fifty credits a gram , just for shipping him back to Proxima Centauri. It was the answer to all my problems! I mean, most passengers, there’d never be enough in the estate to cover that kind of expense, they’d just ask for burial-at-space, but Formey’s families, they’re loaded, they could cover that without even blinking. I’ve got the transmission all set to go, official Chastity letterhead and everything, just as soon as I finish with you here.” His fingers twitched on the gun’s trigger housing.
    Gordon swallowed. “And the projector? That was so it appeared Formey took the flight as a live passenger, from Chastity’s perspective, am I right? You could then just pocket the baggage payment from Formey’s family, and nobody at Chastity would