The Chain of Chance by Stanislaw Lem Page B

purse, likewise demolished. The contents of her purse were neatly arranged, like stacks of poker chips, on little squares of white paper. The officer returned and, wringing his hands, said, “Newspaper reporters!” A few of the more enterprising reporters had managed to get this far before being turned back. Meanwhile another officer introduced himself to me.
    “Lieutenant Canetti. What can you tell us about the explosive used? How was it smuggled in?”
    “The camera had a false bottom. He opened it and the back popped out—film and all—like a jack-in-the-box. All he had to do then was to pull out the hand grenade.”
    “Are you familiar with this type of grenade?”
    “I’ve come across something like it in the States. Part of the primer is located in the handle. As soon as I saw the handle was missing, I realized the primer was a modified one. A highly explosive antipersonnel bomb, metal content almost nil, with a casing made of solidified silicon carbide.”
    “And you just happened to be standing in that particular place on the escalator? Is that it?”
    “Not quite.”
    I took advantage of the pause, a nerve-racking pause interrupted only by the hammering outside, to select my words carefully.
    “It wasn’t just by accident that I was standing there. The Japanese let the girl go ahead of him because he figured a kid would be the least likely to cramp his style. The girl”—I nodded in her direction—“was at the head of the line because she was intrigued by a stuffed dog. That’s my impression, anyway. Am I right, Annabella?”
    “Yes.” She was visibly surprised.
    I smiled at her.
    “And as for me… I was in a hurry. It’s irrational, I agree, but when you’re in a hurry you automatically want to be the first to board the plane. And that goes for the boarding ramp as well… It wasn’t deliberate on my part, it just happened that way.”
    Everyone sighed. Canetti murmured something to the deputy police chief, who nodded.
    “We would like to spare you, young lady … certain details of the inquiry. Would you mind stepping outside for a while?”
    I glanced over at Annabella. A girlish smile—her first—just for me. She got up. Someone opened the door for her. As soon as she was out of the room, Canetti went at it again.
    “Now for the next question. When did you begin to suspect the Japanese?”
    “I never suspected him for a moment; he was so totally convincing in that tourist getup of his. Till the moment he crouched down, that is. At first I thought he was out of his mind. But as soon as I saw he’d triggered the grenade, I figured I had about three seconds, more or less.”
    “How many did you have exactly?”
    “Hard to say. The grenade didn’t explode right away when he pulled the pin, it must have had a delay mechanism. My guess is two, maybe two and a half seconds.”
    “That would coincide with our own estimate,” said one of the men over by the window.
    “You seem to have trouble walking. Were you injured?”
    “Yes, but not by the explosion. The blast came just as I was landing in the water. How high up is the bridge? About five meters?”
    “Four and a half.”
    “That would account for one second. My reaching for the grenade and clearing the railing would account for another. You asked if I was injured. I banged my back against something while I was in the air. I once fractured my tail bone.”
    “You hit a deflector,” explained the man seated on the window sill. “A boom equipped with a diagonal shield designed to deflect an object into the center of the funnel. You’ve never heard of such a deflector?”
    “No.”
    “I beg your pardon, but it’s still my turn!” protested Canetti. “Did that man—that Japanese—actually throw the grenade?”
    “No. He held on to it till the very end.”
    “Didn’t he try to escape?”
    “Nope.”
    “Poltrinelli, head of airport security.” The newcomer was leaning against the desk, dressed in a pair of