POMPEII.
“Agent Ñ̰, I wish to speak with you confidentially,” said Alfred Nobel. “Could you walk with us?”
Non rose, following as the higher ups exchanged names and pleasantries. The whole group entered a large elevator. Non realized he’d been addressed. “How might we help?”
“I’d like you to try a simulation,” said Alfred. “Set in 2022, when the Earth population reached 8 billion. Have you seen the movie Soylent Green?”
“I did. And I lived through 2022.” Non felt self-conscious as he filled half the space.
“Mr. Equitaur has a character lock at the moment,” said Edward Albert.
“I see that,” said Alfred Nobel, looking through an invisible screen. “Edward Alfred, to be more precise, you are escorting Picoid, a former sector of the Galactic Core. The disruption of a two million year mission for Andromeda Traveler has probability zero. Disappointing that Sagittario escalated the threat.”
“Sagittario has earned the boon. I’m escorting Picoid to assure the zero probability.”
Alfred Nobel nodded, then handed Edward a copy of the book Icosaméron. “Behavior worthy of the first weapon merchant in science fiction. Could you sign for me?”
“I’m humbled, of course. For Alfred Nobel, promoter of the sciences. I pray these ancient scribbles about the arming of armies had at least partial accuracy. Edward Alfred.”
“Thank you.” Nobel blew on the ink as they exited the elevator into a reception area.
“Welcome to Secret Powers,” said a disturbingly unremarkable human.
Several minutes of managerial banter followed as Non followed in Nobel’s wake.
Arriving in a fancy meeting room, Nobel brought up a screen of a sea lion (or seal?) watching the 2023 film Oppenheimer. He cleared his throat to get the creature’s attention.
“Popp, could you prepare Mr. Equitaur for insertion?”
“Sorry. Of course, sir,” said the seal (or sea lion?). “I’ll listen in on the pre-insert interview.”
║ IT HAS EAR FLAPS, SO IT’S A SEA LION. POPP THE SEA LION.
“Will you be far?” asked Non. “Picoid has a range limit of about a kilometer.”
“Not a problem.” Nobel offered his hand to Picoid, who climbed on.
“You served in the Air Force in Texas on Earth. Harry Harrison did the same. Tell me a story of your service,” said Edward Robinson. “Popp tells me he’s ready. The details help with the Turing test.”
“Typist for enlisted and officer promotions. I prepared lists of officer promotions on White House stationary for Reagan’s signature. When Congress approved that, I prepared hundreds of Flash messages on an OCR form to send to military bases worldwide. But we had an early PC, so I wrote programs to handle all the finicky forms. As a terrible typist, I managed the work of six people. Got a medal.”
“You let a computer do your job.”
“I did. They let me be a programmer and I went to NORAD. My first day took me to a computer room far underground. On a big color monitor, something new then, I saw threat cones indicating hundreds of nuclear missiles coming to the US. The end of the world. I ask if it’s real, and everyone looks sad. After a few minutes, the bombs land and they read out destroyed cities. When my eyes teared up, they all cheered ‘Welcome to Missile Warning!’”
The actor laughed. “Any memorable meals?”
“One Christmas, I stayed on base. Not many did. The commander had dozens of incredible Alaska lobsters. The chow hall prepared the best steak and lobster dinner I ever had. Then a huge baked Alaska used too much alcohol and set the ceiling on fire. I finished Christmas hanging new ceiling tiles.”
“I learned about firefighting for Blackmail. Those brass canisters helped me twice. I can’t help but notice you’re an equitaur.”
“I’ve been taur-obsessed for a long time. I read thousands of science fiction and fantasy novels and games looking for centaurs. Then I started editing an art magazine: Centaurs Gatherum. Typed it all out on an IBM Selectric. One subscriber hired artists on my mailing list and put out the card game Magic: The Gathering, which became the most popular fantasy game of all time.”
The right side of the hallway showed movie posters from 1973, including one with green square wafers raining from the sky. As a boy he’d seen Disney’s Robin Hood in the theater. Others, such as The Sting, he’d seen on TV. The left side of the hallway featured major items from the half century before 2022, things the movie didn’t know about. A wall of anachronisms.
“How did role-playing games fold into this?”
“Few RPGs allow taurs, but I tried about a hundred. I also played Button Men and tried mixing that with Fate. Now I seem weakly linked to it. Also, you’re one of the all-time great actors, I’m definitely not. I’m embarrassed to even talk about playing a role.”
“You fill your chosen role better than I could be my favorite role. Paul Ehrlich, the one that cured syphilis. He’s here and he’s better at being him than me. I gave voice to detestable beings. You helped obscure artists and brought them some fame. That’s the role I played while not acting.”
“I didn’t know about your artist connection.”
“When Hollywood conveyed me, through devious and sin-stained roles, to a succession of sizzling electric chairs, the paintings began to appear. Crime, it seems, sometimes does pay. I’m an innocent bystander, overtaken by art.”
Non looked at a clipping for a Frida Kahlo piece selling for 35 million.
“My dear friend Frida. Once this all pays off, I plan to visit her again. Watch out for anachronisms.”
Past a lovely office crowded with art sat a dismal apartment with a bicycle rigged to charge the lead batteries atop an ancient refrigerator. “Here’s where we live. You’ll sleep and wake up in the simulation. Ah, we got a delivery.” Edward opened up a bag of polyhedral dice and rolled them out. “Beyond the cubes, I’ve never seen these.” He held an icosahedral d20 between thumb and finger. “I bet Las Vegas has all sorts of new dice games now.”
“Polyhedral dice started in the mid-70s. Except for slot machines going digital, Las Vegas hasn’t developed anything new.”
“Pity. How long would it take to explain Button Men?”
“Five minutes to explain and play? It has my favorite level of quantum uncertainty.”
Five minutes later, Edward won 3-2. He gathered the dice up and returned them to the box.
“Enough for a background element. Vegetarian here, omnivore on Earth?”
“Yes, but my food choices lessened as I aged, especially meat and potatoes.”
“Having cows as co-workers certainly complicates dinner parties. The Soylent in the simulation is soy and lentils with plankton, as far as I know. But I won’t let that eat me. Popp sent me a thumbs up. So… somewhere here, yes. There’s a bathroom you can use two floors up. Here’s a map.”
⚷ AS YOUR CURRENT DOCTOR, YOUR BODY PROVIDES INFORMATION TO ME. MORE REST AND DIET NEEDED.
Ñ̰ WHILE I’M IN THE BATHROOM? I’M ABOUT TO DO A SIMULATION IN THE NOBEL AREA.
⚷ AH, SECRET POWERS. I’LL HEAD UP TO WATCH. DID YOU KNOW I HAVE A SECRET POWER?
Ñ̰ REALLY? WHAT CAN YOU DO?
⚷ I DON’T KNOW. IT’S A SECRET. HOPEFULLY, I’LL NEVER FIND OUT.
Ñ̰ WHAT HAPPENED WITH VICTORIA FRANKENSTEIN?
⚷ SECRET. I’M A DOCTOR, MON FRÈRE! ULTIMATELY, THOUGH … NOTHING. PHYSICALLY, SHE’S FINE.
Moments later, Non rejoined the actor, laid on the indicated mat, then put on headgear.
Ñ̰ LAST CHANCE TO STOP?
Ᵽ WE SHOULD NOT LIVE IN FEAR.
Non woke up sprawled on a dirty sidewalk, four five-gallon jerrycans next to him. The line detoured the taur. His head hurt. ‘I’m in a water line. Manhattan. The 70’s envisioning of 2022.’
“You okay, Inspector?” asked a cat in uniform.
Non stood up. He looked at the blood on his hand, from his head. “What happened?”
“According to the boy there, that brick fell on you.” The cat pointed to the ratboy and brick. “I’m gonna get back to maintaining the line. Anyone mind if my friend resumes his place in line?”
‘Due to a head injury, I don’t remember anything. I guess that’s the easy way to start a game. However, I’m omniscient. Is it book victim Mike O’Brien or movie victim William R. Simonson?’
Non waved the dirty ratboy over. “Hey, mister. Can I have one of your cans?”
“What happened, beyond that brick hitting me?”
“Rose the Nose was sketching you. Then the brick hit you. You dropped your book and Rose took off.” The ratboy held a copy of Flatland. ‘3D omniscience among 2D beings!’
“Let me have it. Police evidence.”
Reluctantly, the boy handed over a book repurposed as a notepad for a murder investigation. The latest victim: Miles Power. Anthro lobster TV host. Killed by pressurized wine cork remover to the ear at a dinner table, causing the lobster to urinate out his face, based on table soakage. Lobster then dragged to a jury-rigged sauna for steaming. Main course: tenderloin from a minotaur. Dexter Corriente, the recently murdered and butchered rock star. According to the coroner, the lobster’s claws and tail were expertly cracked and harvested—possible crime syndicate connections. Flashing sections in the notes triggered new memories from the crime scene as he touched them. He stopped touching them.
The taur reached the front of the water line and filled his cans. ‘Okay, I’m a poor detective investigating the murder of a rich lobster mobster. Also, different victim. I’m not omniscient.’
The taur percussionist tapped the metal cans as they filled, but they did not change to lower pitches while filling. ‘This simulation is broken!’ Deprived of musical notes, he read more crime notes.
One untouched dinner setting covered with lobster pee. Another setting over a towel over the pee, mostly eaten. Hors d’oeuvres in the victim’s stomach. The assailant cooked and served the meal, then killed Miles. Much like me, they didn’t know lobsters peed out their faces. They dragged him to the steam room, made a new setting and ate the steak. Then collected lobster meat and left.’
With twelve stones in water on his back, the taur started home on the crowded streets. Canines, mice, rats, cats, rabbits. Lots of trash.
“Sir, we had a deal for one of your cans?” The rat boy. “Mine got stolen. I need to bring water to my mother, she’s extremely sick.”
‘Ugh. Do I white knight? He did help me.’
“You could make a container with the box and broken umbrella right there,” said the taur. The boy had doubts. “Fine.” He knelt down and lightly washed the umbrella before folding it into the box, then poured in two gallons of water. “If you see Rose the Nose, here’s my address.”
“Okay, Mister.” The rat boy took the address and jerrycan.
Non carried the sloshy box and his three remaining jerrycans past crowded alcoves. ‘Lots of recycling opportunities here.’ A newspaper showed December 30, 2022, but everything looked 70s-ish. The temperature read 76°F. Imperial measures. No cars on the street.
Two blocks away he climbed 10 stories of dark crowded stairways, then knocked on his door. “It’s Non, I’m back with the water.”
An old bald, bearded human peered at him past the chain. “Your head is bleeding.” Then he closed the door and reopened it. “I put your oatmeal on the table. Your roll for the day was a natural 20, so I added one raisin. Lucky you! Put that box in the sink.” The bowl of oatmeal, glass of water, spoon and napkin awaited, beautifully set. Across the table, The Tomb of Horrors module S1 lurked under a dicebag.
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
The full jerrycans went on the shelf next to the old-style Frigidaire under a bank of batteries. ‘This derelict uses twenty times the power of a real 2022 fridge. The compressor is failing.’
Non looked at the flywheel bicycle used to keep the lead batteries charged. ‘He’s bicycling at least a hundred times more than he needs to.’ The taur found himself horrified at the waste of so much power. ‘Calm down, you have a murderer to catch. What’s my roommate’s name?’
He found the name Ace Rerak on an envelope. ‘My roommate the demilich.’
Ace turned on the bulky cathode ray tube TV and adjusted the UHF channel. The weather report expected the warm snap to stay until the new year.
‘This uses more than twice the power of an LCD! I haven’t even seen a CRT in decades. Do they even sell them now? Stop. Eat and go back to the murder notes.’
A flip and a touch in Flatland showed the taur cop the sauna scene. ‘Assailant strong to move a 150kg lobster in here. Unless they had an accomplice?’
“Are you okay, Non?”
“Last night’s murder scene has haunted me,” said the taur. As he found the raisin, the fridge made a nasty sound. Looking at it he saw Ace’s note on it, FIND FREON.
‘Think of the murder. Don’t break character. Don’t think of the ozone layer. Eat.’
The taur remembered an Earth science class. The teacher had a big sealed plastic bag. Then she put an ice cube on the bag and fluid started dripping on the inside as the bag seemed to deflate. “What is in this bag?” The class discussion determined it had to be something with a boiling point between 0°C and room temperature. Turned out to be freon-11 from a drinky bird.
“Could you take a look at my head? My memory is shot. I’m not even sure your name is Ace.”
“Of course my name is Ace.” He took a look, touching behind the equine ear. “I’ll clean up the blood with some of your box water. What happened to my other can?” He started dabbing at the blood.
“A brick fell on me. A rat boy kept others from stealing all the cans and also found my crime scene notes. He wanted one can. Said I was talking to Rose the Nose.”
Ace pointed to a picture on the wall with him and Non. “She drew that for us months ago. While on your treadmill, you asked our D&D group about her. All while playing Danse Macabre on your junk glock. And I’m done cleaning. That brick rang your bell, but you should be able to walk it off.”
‘I’m definitely in the ‘70s. A head blow causing unconsciousness needs medical attention.’
After rinsing his bowl, Non pressed his torso to the front bar of the treadmill, walking to feel the resistance as batteries filled. He played Beethoven’s Pastoral on the glockenspiel made from junk.
‘Okay, Earth me, geek out on how well we can play.’ Non awed himself with the four mallets.
“That’s beautiful.”
He put the mallets away, the sounds didn’t quite ring true. ‘Ring true. Wheeltappers walked around a train tapping wheels, listening for a lower pitch indicating early cracks. Stop. Stay on task.’
“Ace, you know more about food preparation than me. If you got a lot of money and wanted a fancy feast, who might you hire to fix it for you?”
“You’ve seen me spend hours working with bland paste to make it look and taste better. I have little onions and herbs in the window there. I have grown and regrown our romaine lettuce from a stalk over a hundred times. I slave away on that bicycle hours every day to keep the fridge going. Who might I hire? Do you think I would hire anyone if I had a chance at working with good ingredients?”
On the TV, a gibbon newscaster asked, “What movie do you have lined up for us, Miles?”
The lobster murder victim sat berobed in a comfy chair, twirling a glass of wine in his claw. “Tonight we revisit the 1968 classic, Planet of the Apes. We’ll be showing the whole franchise this week. You’ll love it!”
The gibbon newscaster seemed unenthused. “I’m sure we will. After these messages, we’ll tell you about the latest from the farmer’s strike.” Gibica, according to the chyron.
“Miles is the one that was killed! That must have been pre-recorded.”
“Serves him right, teasing us with that wine all these years. To be helpful, there is a culinary institute in the Chrysler building. I have a contact there who occasionally brings me trash I can resurrect. I’m one of his many local growers. He doesn’t put all his eggs in one basket.”
“That’s just fruits, herbs and vegetables? I need someone that knows how to prepare meat.”
“You’re serious?” said Ace. “We have four cookbooks.”
“Remember the rock star minotaur that got killed last week? Dexter Corriente? Steaks from his body wound up on Miles’ dinner plate. Whoever did it knew how to prepare a beautiful meal and was good enough to be hired.”
“A killer like that would introduce themselves. Your quarry has a lobster lover lined up. They own a refrigerator or access to ice and can get into the restricted markets.”
“Ace, don’t take this the wrong way, but right now my main suspect is you. I’m a close number two, since I don’t remember anything. I need to line up more suspects.”
“I can’t eat non-kosher lobster or a minotaur. You’re a vegetarian disaster cook. Last night you said the murder happened between five and seven. You were sent there at eight.”
“You don’t have an alibi?”
“Not for five. I could have killed him. But it takes a while to steam a lobster that size. Our group started arriving at half past six. You got home at ten. Besides, I can’t even eat chocolate without you noticing. Do you think I’d pass up a rich benefactor offering me a triple chocolate square? No! Atherosclerotic plaque be damned, no I would not! Five hours later, you walk in and ask about the chocolate. Anyways, it’s time for you to get to work, big nose. I’ll draw out a map and tell you what I know about your boss.”
“I had another idea. Could I borrow your Swiss army knife?”
The five foot raccoon stood on his desk and screamed. “Dammit, Non, why haven’t you solved this yet? The higher ups are breathing down my neck!”
A note in Flatland answered that. “The desk sergeant took me off the case as soon as they identified the Dexter steaks at a quarter to ten.”
“You listened to the desk sergeant? You work for me, Non. Me! So head back to the crime scene. I’ll give you until noon on that. Then you’re on riot patrol until dark. File a report that closes this case and have it on my desk by midnight. Now Get Out Of My Office!”
The goat building guard went over the visitor log for 4 to 8. Thirty unlogged building residents, but the victim arrived at 4:30 and made a note to allow access to Rose the Nose. She arrived at 6 with a piece of art, left at 6:10. Several food deliveries by kids.
A skunk cop guarded the door for the crime scene. According to Flatland notes, hypersensitive to odor comments. Non distractedly perused his notes while waiting for her to open the door. ‘Why did they assign a skunk to a crime scene with a scent component?’
After the door closed behind him, he took in the overwhelming scent of lobster. He looked about the entry room, checked his notes. Coat closet. Bookcase. Empty table.
Some dust on the bookcase. He peered for any recently moved books. No.
The table, under the platter, had a butter scent. A chevron pattern. He measured and sketched. Someone had set a box near the door that left faint butter chevrons.
The sauna controls had a service number. They let him know the sauna could be flooded with water. Last serviced a week ago to handle hotter temperatures.
‘Is that maybe a human scent?’
The fridge/freezer food had been taken away for ‘testing.’ He carefully checked the nearby floor, then moved the fridge. Among other debris, he found a pressurized wine cork remover smelling of lobster, vague human and wine. He used a specimen bag, then disconnected the compressor.
He spoke to the skunk cop. “Please take in this specimen bag, it’s the murder weapon. I’ll be here until you get back.” The skunk left with the pressurized wine cork remover.
Non checked the time, then got the compressor and went to the basement. According to notes, the security system on a window wasn’t working. A small enough climber could enter here.
His roommate Ace waited on the ledge, too large to enter, but a good enough climber to trade compressors with him. Ace left with it as Non locked the window.
Ten minutes later, he finished putting the bad compressor on the fridge. A cabinet had brand new wine cork removers, so he loaded a cartridge into one and put it in the hard-to-reach spot in case the murderer returned. Then moved the fridge back.
‘Where’s the art?’
“I’m back,” said the skunk, from the door. “The body of Rose the Nose is at the morgue.”
“Damn. So much for that lead. I need to talk to neighbors.”
Left side hadn’t heard anything. An elderly lioness. “But around 7:30 I started smelling more lobster than usual. Buttered lobster.” She licked her jowls, then burst into tears. “He smelled so delicious. But I was worried, so I knocked on the door, then called the police.”
Non hugged her as she continued to sob. “He let me have the wines he didn’t like.”
Other neighbors smelled lobster. “Did you see the art Rose left off?” he asked the building guard.
“Yes. It was Miles at a table, a steak in front of him. He held out a wine glass in a claw and a word bubble said, ‘You’ll love it!.’ Rose drew this for me for free while I was in the water line.”
Cartoon goat held two water cans. Word bubble: “I work in luxury, but I live in the slums.”
Chevrons in the recycle bin caught his eye. “Let me have that cardboard box.” It matched the size for the imprints on the entry table. Former contents: Culinary Institute food storage container.
“Who would have brought this box down here?” The guard called the building handyperson, a male human who looked over the box. “Yes, that was in the hallway three days ago. Pretty standard to leave recyclables without deposits at the trash drop-off. If you look closely, there’s hair on the tape here. This is sixth floor hair.”
“You’re sure? Miles Power lived on the third floor.”
“I’ve vacuumed every floor a hundred times and I have to save every bag for a week. I know every floor by sight. This tape was on the sixth floor.”
Non made a similar-sized box while checking the resident list, then went back to the lobster’s apartment to call in a warrant request for victim coworker and newscaster Gibica on the sixth floor as soon as hair analysis came back. He added a second warrant for the office at the TV station.
Then he exited the building to talk to people in alcoves. “Were you here last night? Did you smell buttered lobster? Did anyone carry a box this size?” Positives got him back to the water line.
He trotted around the Chrysler building before showing up for riot control. On time, in theory.
“Ya snooze, ya lose,” said the sergeant in charge. “If ya wanted a helmet, baton or shield, ya shoulda been here an hour ago. Put that on. Front rank, over there.”
Flanked by a camel and a moose, a blue blanket with the word POLICE on his back, Non faced hundreds of angry farmers.
“We can’t grow anything without water!” yelled one.
“You should be plowing a field!” yelled another.
He wondered why the farmers didn’t have water. Did they need it in December? The shouts and pushes turned into background noise as he thought out the report he’d write. He added sentences to his Flatland notebook. For an hour he stayed stalwart, mostly agreeing with the farmers.
Then someone hit him hard. He looked down, surprised.
“Did you mean to–”
“Behind you!” The man, other farmers and cops ran in fear from a fast-moving scoop truck.
Non Sequitur the Equitaur in a Soylent Green homage. [https://i.imgur.com/NPW2XNc.png]
Non ran over roads and elevated sidewalks before realizing the truck wanted him specifically. “Now what do I do? Open areas let the truck catch up. Crowded areas slow it down, but that’s bad. I have more maneuverability. Isn’t that enough?” Non pondered the original Soylent Green poster as he ran. Then he had a revelation.
“It’s the homicidal chauffeur problem! There’s a mathematical solution! Grand Central or 42nd Street?”
Non went with 42nd Street and turned tightly off the Park viaduct at the Vanderbilt statue, running close to Grand Central Terminal while calculating isochrone maps for himself and the truck. He pondered taking a door somewhere, but only saw cramped revolving doors he wasn’t sure he could manage. Then he saw the bollards guarding the pedestrian tunnel under the Grand Hyatt. He paused once past them, looking back to watch the scoop truck stop. Bollards simplified the homicidal chauffeur problem.
An angry, well-dressed gibbon with a shotgun exited the truck, so Non ran again, soon taking stairs to 42nd Street. The gibbon parkoured after him.
“May as well check out the Chrysler building.”
Non ran in through a non-revolving door. A guard tried to stop him, but the taur pulled him down just as the shotgun went off. The taur then continued on, past the art nouveau walls covered with chevrons. His hooves slid on the marble floor.
One sign pointed to the elevators. Culinary Institute, 15th floor. Just past warning signs for Sticky Floor.
“You can’t go that way!” shouted the guard.
Then Non tripped down into the floor. ‘Did I fall into a hologram? No, this is glue. It’s Lucite!’ He could see the many art deco layers built into what would have been a spectacular 3D art nouveau effect, but he’d just ruined it. Stuck in resin, he heard the gibbon chambering a round into the shotgun while walking on the marble behind him.
Non reached for an elevator button. If a door opened, he could crawl out. Then tried scooping a ball of Lucite into one hand to throw at newscaster Gibica.
Arm-stockings hindered the throwing of resin as the gibbon stopped behind him and aimed.
“Wait! Was he any good?” In the resin, Non found one of the big metal chevrons in the 3D design.
Gibica paused, then nodded. “Delicious.”
“How close was I before that brick? It made me lose my memory.”
“Rose drew me as I watched you from above.”
“What does the Culinary Institute have to do with this?” Non gripped the large metal chevron with both hands, ready to lift them both up. ‘What’s the stopping power of amber?’
“I teach classes there,” said the gibbon.
The taur tried to explode out of the resin, lifting up his arms to make a big wall of the goop while standing. The arms rose up fast enough, but the rush forward failed. The gibbon shot him before the chevron knocked the ape down. The resin stopped some of the damage as he slogged forward to grab the gibbon’s leg and drag him in.
DING. All the elevator doors around him opened. The sudden crowd spoke in unison.
“Welcome to the Galactic Core Corps!”
His roommate Ace laughed in one elevator. “You can calm down now, Non. Popp suggested this and sent refreshments. He’s playing Gibica and did a lot of the set-up. No need to kill his sim character. Kneel down and we’ll end it. Close your eyes when you’re ready.”
Fear in his eyes, Gibica waved from under him as Non held his neck. The taur looked around at the crowd, his thoughts filled with curses as he calmed down. Blink.
His brother Chyron helped him to stand in the real world. Glasses of bubbling cider waited on a table. Non tapped two with different levels to assure different notes. To assure reality.
“Right to a flaw,” said Alfred Nobel. “Yes, this has secret power applications. An invading army has to sleep sometime. If they can be pushed into a simulation, they can be controlled. You did well.”
Picoid landed on Non’s shoulder. “Good job.”
On a screen, Popp the sea lion spoke, seated at a remote desk. “You’re the first to find the murder weapon next to the fridge. I’m Popp, your nemesis in all this.” Behind the sea lion, Non saw books and photos for Alan Turing, Robert Oppenheimer and Walt Disney. “You should give a speech for a toast.”
‘There they are. All the clues. Gibica was too obscure.’
Ᵽ WHAT CLUES?
Non picked up a glass of cider.
“Moving the refrigerator was accidental. It felt in character to help out my roommate.”
“In character, I appreciate that,” said Edward Robinson.
“Waking up in medias res with amnesia was a nice touch. I’m guessing Popp the Sea Lion was behind that? If I’m reading your desk correctly, you’re number two to Alfred Nobel.”
“Yes, that was mine. I’m glad you liked it,” said Popp.
Non swirled the cider. “And you’re a fan of Oppenheimer. Did you know he got in trouble as a student when he put a poisoned apple on the desk of his advisor? You’re a fan of Alan Turing, who died from eating a poisoned apple. And a fan of Walt Disney, whose first film revolved around a poisoned apple. Queen Grimhilde poisoned the apple in that movie. What was the name of her husband? Gibica, the name you picked for playing a character in the Big Apple for food related murders.”
Around the room, people looked at their glasses of cider with alarm, setting them down.
Popp tried to turn off his camera, but Agent diGriz appeared at the remote office to arrest him.
“Popp the Sea Lion is an anagram of The Poison Apple. But the real golden apple was to become the Secret Powers main decider. I don’t want this cider inside me.” Non set his glass down, then pulled a glass out of Alfred Nobel’s trembling hand before shaking the hand of the merchant of death.
“I’ll get my refreshments elsewhere. It’s been an honor to meet you, sir.”