“I thought not,” Mike said. “Your statement alone, of course, wouldn’t make it true. But we have already shown that the killer had to be on good terms with Mellon in order to borrow his books and slip a drug into his wine. He would have to be a visitor in Mellon’s quarters. And, considering the strained relations between the two of you, I think that lets you out, Jake.”
Von Liegnitz nodded his thanks without changing his expression.
“But there was one thing that marked these attempts. I’m sure that all but one of you has noticed it. They are incredibly, childishly sloppy.” Mike paused to let that sink in before he went on. “I don’t mean that the little details weren’t ingenious—they were. But the killer never stopped to figure out the ultimate end-point of his schemes. He worked like the very devil to convince Snookums that it would be all right to kill me without ever once considering whether Snookums would do it or not. He then drugged Mellon’s wine, not knowing whether Mellon would try to kill me or someone else—or anyone at all, for that matter. He got a dream in his head and then started the preliminary steps going without filling in the necessary steps in between. Our killer—no matter what his chronological age—does not think like an adult.
“And yet his hatred of me was so great that he took the chances he has taken, here on the Brainchild, where it should have been obvious that he stood a much better chance of being caught than if he had waited until we were back on Earth again.
“So I gave him one more chance. I handed him my life on a platter, you might say.
“He grabbed the bait. I now own a spacesuit that would kill me very quickly if I went out into that howling, hydrogen-filled storm outside.” Then he looked straight at the killer.
“Tell me, Vaneski, are you in love with your half sister? Or is it your half brother?”
Ensign Vaneski had already jumped to his feet. The grimace of hate on his youthful face made him almost unrecognizable. His hand had gone into a pocket, and now he was leaping up and across the table, a singing vibroblade in his hand.
“You son of a bitch! I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!”
Mike the Angel wasn’t wearing the little gadget that had saved his life in Old Harry’s shop. All he had were his hands and his agility. He slammed at the ensign’s wrist and missed. The boy was swooping underneath Mike’s guard. Mike spun to one side to avoid Vaneski’s dive and came down with a balled fist aimed at the ensign’s neck.