3 Three Men of the Legion
“Strangled, apparently,” said Eric Ulnar, pointing to a swollen purple mark.
In the soldierly bareness of his quarters, the dead commander lay face upward on his narrow cot, limbs rigid in agony, thin face contorted, eyes protruding, mouth set in an appalling grin of terror and pain.
Bending over the corpse, John Star discovered other strange marks, where the skin was dry, hardened into little greenish scales.
“Look at this,” he said.
“Like the burn of some chemical.
And that bruise—it wasn’t made by a human hand.
A rope—perhaps—”
“So you’re turning detective?” cut in Eric Ulnar, with his thin, superior smile.
“I must warn you that curiosity is a very dangerous trait, John.
But what’s your theory?”
“Last night,” he began slowly, “I saw something rather—dreadful.
I thought afterwards it was just a nightmare, until now.
A huge, purple eye, staring into my window from the court.
It must have been a foot long!
It was evil—pure evil.
“Something must have come into the court, sir.
It looked in my window.
And murdered him.
And left those stains.
That mark about the throat—no human hand could have made that.”
“You aren’t going space-happy, are you, John?”
There was a little, sharp, angry edge to the amused scorn in Eric Ulnar’s voice.
“Anyhow, this thing happened while the old guards were on duty.
I’m going to hold them for questioning.”
His narrow face set coldly.
“John, you will arrest Kalam and Samdu and Habibula, and lock them in the old cell block under the north tower.”
“Arrest them?
Don’t you think that’s extreme, sir, before they’ve had a chance to speak—”
“You are presuming on our kinship, John.
Please remember that I am still your officer—now in sole authority here, since Captain Otan is dead.” “Yes, sir.”
He subdued his haunting doubt.
Aladoree must be wrong.
“Here are the keys to the old prison.”
Each of the men he must arrest occupied a single room opening upon the court.
John Star tapped on the first door, and it was opened by the rather handsome, dark-haired Legionnaire whom he had seen on the tennis court with Aladoree Anthar.
Jay Kalam was in dressing gown and slippers.
His gravely thoughtful face showed weariness; yet he smiled at John Star, courteously but silently invited him in, motioned him to a seat.
It was the room of a cultured man, quietly luxurious, reserved in taste.
Old-fashioned books. A few select pictures.
A case of shining laboratory apparatus.
An optiphone, now filling the room with soft music, its stereoscopic vision panel aglow with the color and motion of a play.
Jay Kalam returned to his own chair, his attention back on the drama.
John Star did not like to arrest such a man for murder, but he took his duty very seriously.
He must obey his officer.
“I’m sorry———” he began.
Jay Kalam stopped him with a little gesture.
“Please wait.
It will soon be done.”
Unable to refuse such a request, John Star sat quietly until the act was ended, and Jay Kalam turned to him with a slow dark smile, reserved and yet attentive.