Free The Gordon Mamon Casebook by Simon Petrie Page B

the occupant of the O’Meara-suit.
    The reluctant detective flicked a switch, opening the outer hatch of the pod’s cramped airlock. The suited figure squeezed out clumsily. Earth was a huge curve of brilliant blue and white, hanging off to the side of the pod, deceptively distant.
    But no time to sightsee. This was time to meet and greet.
    “Haier,” he called out through the suit’s short-range radio, hoping O’Meara’s occupant was tuned to the correct frequency.
     
    * * *
     
    The gun, Gordon judged, was a Magnum 3.14159, one of the deadliest bits of weaponry either side of the exosphere. ‘O’Meara’ held it in his right hand, his face unreadable as any mannequin. The gun pointed straight at Gordon’s mirrored visor as the pair faced off, perhaps ten paces apart.
    Gordon fumbled his suit’s verniers, straining with the double necessity of arresting a slow tumble and of keeping his suit interposed between ‘O’Meara’ and the pod. (The gun didn’t help. Signals of cold dread trickled down Gordon’s spine. He wished he’d thought to bring the laser pistol with him.)
    A voice crackled through the radio speaker, cold, devoid of charm: “Any messages for your next of kin?”
    “Haier?” Gordon responded.
    “Who do I got the pleasure of addressing?” Haier asked. Snide.
    Gordon introduced himself.
    “They might at least have sent me a professional .” For the first time, a degree of emotion crept into Haier’s tone. Disgust.
    Gordon swallowed. That gun looked big . “Give up, Haier, the game’s over.”
    “I don’t read that, Marmot.”
    “ Mamon .”
    “Whatever. Where’s your backup?”
    “Just me.”
    “Oh, how sad.”
    “You were clever,” Gordon said, wondering how long before Haier pulled the trigger. “But you slipped up.”
    “You’re pretty damned cocky, considering you’re not packing. What you got, aside from those plastimache cuffs you’re dangling? A bullet-proof vest, under that suit? Vacuum patches? Way I see it, a visor shot’ll take care of you good, whatever. You clearly haven’t thought this through.”
    “I figured you out, didn’t I?”
    “You got lucky. But that’s about run out, Mambo.”
    “ Mamon . Luck had nothing to do with it. Give me credit for my intelligence.”
    “I don’t deal in denominations that small,” Haier scoffed. “But I bet you thought you were pretty smart, tracking me, figuring Wrestler-Boy here for just a suit.”
    “Yeah. It had us fooled, for a bit. You were obviously busy, those two weeks in the engineering shop. Nice bit of plastiflesh moulding, over a frame of—what? Stainless steel? With what, some additional heatproofing? And oxygen tanks, propellant, navigational computers—no wonder you needed a sumo-sized frame for the play. But the ‘murder’ was too obviously a set-up. You were too careful about placing the pointers, giving us what you wanted us to see. Like I said, you stuffed up.”
    “I don’t see that,” said Haier. His finger—O’Meara’s finger—shifted lazily on the gun’s trigger. “You ever seen what one of these can do? Two minutes from now—less if you bore me—you’ll be dead. And I’ll be trimming Sumo-baby here for final re-entry. An hour after that I’ll be splashing down somewhere around Indonesia or the Philippines. Still need to figure where, but somewhere they’ll never find me. Not with the disguises I’m shipping. But say your bit. For all the good it’ll do you.”
    “What did you with O’Meara? The real O’Meara?”
    “Sumo-guy? Tranked him and trussed him up in a trashpile topside somewhere. Don’t remember where. The dose was supposed to be enough to fell a horse. He took three.”
    “ Where is he ?”
    “What d’you care, Marlin?”
    “ Mamon . He’s my friend.”
    “Hah.”
    “If he’s come to harm through this, I’ll , I’ll—”
    “You’ll nothing. Face it, Membrane, you’re finished.”
    “ Mamon . And you’re missing two important