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THE UNSPEAKABLE Mc INCH
MYSTERY is a word with no objective pertinence, merely describing the limitations of a mind. In fact, a mind may be classified by the order of the phenomena it considers mysterious... The mystery is resolved, the solution made known. "Of course, it is obvious!" comes the chorus. A word about the obvious: it is always obvious... The common mind transposes the sequence, letting the mystery generate the solution. This is logic in reverse; actually the mystery relates to the solution as the foam relates to the beer... - Magnus Ridolph
The Uni-Culture Mission had said simply, "His name's McInch; he's a murderer. That's all we know."
Magnus Ridolph would have refused the commission had his credit balance stood at its usual level. But the collapse of an advertising venture - sky-writing with luminescent gases across interplanetary space - had left the white-bearded philosopher in near-destitution.
A first impression of Sclerotto Planet reinforced his distaste for the job. The light from the two suns - red and blue - struck discordantly at his eyes. The sluggish ocean, the crazy clutter of slab-sided rock suggested no repose, and Sclerotto City, a wretched maze of cabins and snacks, promised no entertainment. Finally, his host, Klemmer Boek, chaplain-in-charge of the Uni-Culture Mission, greeted him with little warmth - in fact seemed to resent his presence, as if it were due to some private officiousness of Magnus Ridolph's own.
They rode in a battered old car up to the Mission, perched high on a shoulder of naked stone, and the dim interior was refreshingly cool after the dust and dazzle of the ride.
Magnus Ridolph took a folded handkerchief from his pocket, patted his forehead, his distinguished nose, his neat, white beard. To his host he turned a quizzical glance.
"I'm afraid I find the illumination disturbing. Blue, red-three different shadows for every stick and stone."
"I'm used to it," said Klemmer Boek tonelessly. He was a short man, with a melon-sized paunch pressing out the front of his tunic. His face was pink and glazed, like cheap china-ware, with round blue eyes and a short lumpy nose. "I hardly remember what Earth looks like."
"The tourist guide," said Magnus Ridolph, replacing the handkerchief, "describes the effect as 'stimulating and exotic' It must be that I am unperceptive."
Boek snorted. "The tourist guide? It calls Sclerotto City 'colorful, fascinating, a commonwealth-in-miniature, a concrete example of interplanetary democracy in action.' I wish the man who wrote that eyewash had to live here as long as I have!"
He pulled out a rattan chair for Magnus Ridolph, poured ice-water into a glass. Magnus Ridolph settled himself into the chair and Boek sank into another opposite.
"Now then," said Magnus Ridolph, "who or what is McInch?"
Boek smiled bitterly. "That's what you're here for."
Magnus Ridolph airily glanced across the room, lit a cigar, said nothing.
"After six years," said Boek presently, "all I know about McInch I can tell you in six seconds. First - he's boss over that entire stinking welter out there." He gestured at the city. "Second, he's a murderer, a self-seeking scoundrel. Third, no one but McInch knows who McInch is."
Magnus Ridolph arose, walked to the window, depolarized it, looked out over the ramshackle roofs, stretching like a tattered Persian rug to Magnetic Bay. His gaze wandered to the shark-tooth crags stabbing the sky opposite, down the bay to where it opened into the tideless ocean, out to a horizon shrouded in lavender haze.
"Unprepossessing. I fail to understand how it attracts visitors."
Boek joined him at the window. "Well - it's a strange world, certainly." He nodded at the roofs below. "Down in that confusion live at least a dozen different types of intelligent creatures - expatriates, exiles, fugitives - all crowded together cheek by jowl. Unquestionably it's amazing, the adjustments they've made to each other."
"Hm..." said Magnus Ridolph noncommittally. Then: "This McInch - is he a man?"
Boek shrugged. "No one knows. And anyone who finds out dies almost at once. Twice Headquarters has sent out key men to investigate. Both of them dropped dead in the middle of town - one by the Export Warehouse, the other in the Mayor's office."
Magnus Ridolph coughed slightly.
"And the cause of their deaths?"
"Unclassified disease." Boek stared down at the roofs, the walls, lanes, arcades below. "The Mission tries to stand apart from local politics, though naturally in rubbing alien noses into Earth culture we're propagandizing our own system of life. And sometimes" - he gri
"Of course," said Magnus Ridolph. "Just what form do McInch's depredations take?"
"Graft," said Boek. "Graft, pure and simple. Old-fashioned Earth-style civic corruption. I should have mentioned" - another sour grin for Magnus Ridolph - "that Sclerotto City has a duly elected mayor, and a group of civic officers. There's a fire department, a postal service, a garbage disposal unit, police force - wait till you see 'em!" He chuckled, a noise like a bucket scraping on a stone floor. "That's actually what brings the tourists - the way these creatures go about making a living Earth-style."
Magnus Ridolph bent forward slightly, a furrow appearing in his forehead. "There seems to be no ostentation, no buildings of pretension - other than that one there by the bay."
"That's the tourist hotel," said Boek. "The Pondicherry House."
"Ah, I see," said Magnus Ridolph abstractedly. "I admit that at first sight Sclerotto City's form of government seems improbable."
"It becomes more sensible when you think of the city's history," said Boek. "Fifty years ago, a colony of Ordinationalists was founded here - the only flat spot on the planet. Gradually - Sclerotto hangs just about outside the Commonwealth and no questions asked - misfits from everywhere in the cluster accumulated, and one way or another found means to survive. Those who failed" - he waved his hand - "merely didn't survive.
"When you come upon it fresh, like the tourists, it's astounding. The first time I walked down the main street, I thought I was having a nightmare. The Kmaush, in tanks, secreting pearls in their gizzards... centipedes from Port-mar's Planet, the Tau Geminis, the Armadillos from Carnegie Twelve... Yellowbirds, Zeeks, even a few Aldebaranese - not to mention several types of anthropoids. How they get along without tearing each other to pieces still bothers me once in a while."
"This difficulty is perhaps more apparent than real," said Magnus Ridolph, his voice taking on a certain resonance.
Boek glanced sidewise at his guest, curled his lip. "You haven't lived here as long as I have." He turned his eyes back down to Sclerotto City. "With that dust, that smell, that..." He struggled for a word.
"In any event," said Magnus Ridolph, "these are all intelligent creatures... Just a few more questions. First, how does McInch collect his graft?"
Boek returned to his own chair, leaned back heavily. "Apparently he helps himself outright to city funds. The municipal taxes are collected in cash, taken to the city hall and locked in a safe. McInch merely opens the safe when he finds himself short, takes what he needs, closes the safe again."
"And the citizens do not object?"
"Indignation is an emotion," said Boek with heavy sarcasm. "The bulk of the population are non-human, and don't have emotions."
"And those of the population that are men, and therefore can know indignation?"
"Being men - they're afraid."
Magnus Ridolph stroked his beard gently. "Let me put it this way. Do the citizens show any reluctance toward paying their taxes?"