by Hank Davis
The village held an immediate meeting, to determine how best to conform with the Earth mandate. All they could do was hastily model themselves upon the Earth pattern as shown in their ancient books.
“I don’t see why there has to be a criminal,” Tom said.
“That’s a very important part of Earth society,” the mayor explained. “All the books agree on it. The criminal is as important as the postman, say, or the police chief. Unlike them, the criminal is engaged in anti-social work. He works against society, Tom. If you don’t have people working against society, how can you have people working for it? There’d be no jobs for them to do.”
Tom shook his head. “I just don’t see it.”
“Be reasonable, Tom. We have to have earthly things. Like paved roads. All the books mention that. And churches, and schoolhouses, and jails. And all the books mention crime.”
“I won’t do it,” Tom said.
“Put yourself in my position,” the mayor begged. “This inspector comes and meets Billy Painter, our police chief. He asks to see the jail. Then he says, ‘No prisoners?’ I answer, ‘Of course not. We don’t have any crime here.’ ‘No crime?’ he says. ‘But Earth colonies always have crime. You know that.’ ‘We don’t,’ I answer. ‘Didn’t even know what it was until we looked up the word last week.’ ‘Then why did you build a jail?’ he asks me. ‘Why did you appoint a police chief?’”
The mayor paused for breath. “You see? The whole thing falls through. He sees at once that we’re not truly earthlike. We’re faking it. We’re aliens!”
“Hmm,” Tom said, impressed in spite of himself.
“This way,” the mayor went on quickly, “I can say, ‘Certainly we’ve got crime here, just like on Earth. We’ve got a combination thief and murderer. Poor fellow had a bad upbringing and he’s maladjusted. Our police chief has some clues, though. We expect an arrest within twenty-four hours. We’ll lock him in the jail, then rehabilitate him.’”
“What’s rehabilitate?” Tom asked.
“I’m not sure. I’ll worry about that when I come to it. But now do you see how necessary crime is?”
“I suppose so. But why me?”
“Can’t spare anyone else. And you’ve got narrow eyes. Criminals always have narrow eyes.”
“They aren’t that narrow. They’re no narrower than Ed Weaver’s—”
“Tom, please,” the mayor said. “We’re all doing our part. You want to help, don’t you?”
“I suppose so,” Tom repeated wearily.
“Fine. You’re our criminal. Here, this makes it legal.” He handed Tom a document. It read:
SKULKING PERMIT.
Know all Men by these Presents that Tom Fisher
is a Duly Authorized Thief and Murderer.
He is hereby required to Skulk in Dismal Alleys,
Haunt Places of Low Repute, and Break the Law.
Tom read it through twice, then asked, “What law?”
“I’ll let you know as fast as I make them up,” the mayor said. “All Earth colonies have laws.”
“But what do I do?”
“You steal. And kill. That should be easy enough.” The mayor walked to his bookcase and took down ancient volumes entitled The Criminal and his Environment, Psychology of the Slayer, and Studies in Thief Motivation.
“These’ll give you everything you need to know. Steal as much as you like. One murder should be enough, though. No sense overdoing it.”
“Right,” Tom nodded. “I guess I’ll catch on.” He picked up the books and returned to his cottage. It was very hot and all the talk about crime had puzzled and wearied him. He lay down on his bed and began to go through the ancient books.
There was a knock on his door. “Come in,” Tom called, rubbing his tired eyes. Marv Carpenter, oldest and tallest of the red-headed Carpenter boys, came in, followed by old Jed Farmer. They were carrying a small sack.
“You the town criminal, Tom?” Marv asked.
“Looks like it.”
“Then this is for you.” They put the sack on the floor and took from it a hatchet, two knives, a short spear, a club and a blackjack.
“What’s all that?” Tom asked, sitting upright.
“Weapons, of course,” Jed Farmer said testily. “You can’t be a real criminal without weapons.”
Tom scratched his head. “Is that a fact?”
“You’d better start figuring these things out for yourself,” Farmer went on in his impatient voice. “Can’t expect us to do everything for you.”
Marv Carpenter winked at Tom. “Jed’s sore because the mayor made him our postman.”
“I’ll do my part,” Jed said. “I just don’t like having to write all those letters.”
“Can’t be too hard,” Marv Carpenter said, grinning. “The postmen do it on Earth and they got a lot more people there. Good luck, Tom.”
They left.
Tom bent down and examined the weapons. He knew what they were; the old books were full of them. But no one had ever actually used a weapon on New Delaware. The only native animals on the planet were small, furry, and confirmed eaters of grass. As for turning a weapon on a fellow villager—why would anybody want to do that?
He picked up one of the knives. It was cold. He touched the point. It was sharp.
Tom began to pace the floor, staring at the weapons. They gave him a queer sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He decided he had been hasty in accepting the job.
But there was no sense worrying about it yet. He still had those books to read. After that, perhaps he could make some sense out of the whole thing.
He read for several hours, stopping only to eat a light lunch. The books were understandable enough; the various criminal methods were clearly explained, sometimes with diagrams. But the whole thing was unreasonable. What was the purpose of crime? Whom did it benefit? What did people get out of it?
The books didn’t explain that. He leafed through them, looking at the photographed faces of criminals. They looked very serious and dedicated, extremely conscious of the significance of their work to society.
Tom wished he could find out what that significance was. It would probably make things much easier.
“Tom?” he heard the mayor call from outside.
“I’m in here, Mayor,” Tom said.
The door opened and the mayor peered in. Behind him were Jane Farmer, Mary Waterman and Alice Cook. “How about it, Tom?” the mayor asked.
“How about what?”
“How about getting to work?”
Tom grinned self-consciously. “I was going to,” he said. “I was reading these books, trying to figure out—”
The three middle-aged ladies glared at him, and Tom stopped in embarrassment.
“You’re taking your time reading,” Alice Cook said.
“Everyone else is outside working,” said Jane Farmer.
“What’s so hard about stealing?” Mary Waterman challenged.
“It’s true,” the mayor told him. “That inspector might be here any day now and we don’t have a crime to show him.”
“All right, all right,” Tom said.
He stuck a knife and a blackjack in his belt, put the sack in his pocket—for loot—and stalked out.
But where was he going? It was mid-afternoon. The market, which was the most logical place to rob, would be empty until evening. Besides, he didn’t want to commit a robbery in daylight. It seemed unprofessional.
He opened his skulking permit and read it through. Required to Haunt Places of Low Repute.
That was it! He’d haunt a low-repute place. He could form some plans there, get into the mood of the thing. But unfortunately, the village didn’t have much to choose from. There was the Tiny Restaurant, run by the widowed Ames sisters, there was Jeff Hern’s Lounging Spot, and finally there was Ed Beer’s Tavern.
Ed’s place would have to do.
The tavern was a cottage much like the other cottages in the village. It had one big r
oom for guests, a kitchen, and family sleeping quarters. Ed’s wife did the cooking and kept the place as clean as she could, considering her ailing back. Ed served the drinks. He was a pale, sleepy-eyed man with a talent for worrying.
“Hello, Tom,” Ed said. “Hear you’re our criminal.”
“That’s right,” said Tom. “I’ll take a perricola.”
Ed Beer served him the nonalcoholic root extract and stood anxiously in front of Tom’s table. “How come you ain’t out thieving, Tom?”
“I’m planning,” Tom said. “My permit says I have to haunt places of low repute. That’s why I’m here.”
“Is that nice?” Ed Beer asked sadly. “This is no place of low repute, Tom.”
“You serve the worst meals in town,” Tom pointed out.
“I know. My wife can’t cook. But there’s a friendly atmosphere here. Folks like it.”
“That’s all changed, Ed. I’m making this tavern my headquarters.”
Ed Beer’s shoulders drooped. “Try to keep a nice place,” he muttered. “A lot of thanks you get.” He returned to the bar.
Tom proceeded to think. He found it amazingly difficult. The more he tried, the less came out. But he stuck grimly to it.
An hour passed. Richie Farmer, Jed’s youngest son, stuck his head in the door. “You steal anything yet, Tom?”
“Not yet,” Tom told him, hunched over his table, still thinking.
The scorching afternoon drifted slowly by. Patches of evening became visible through the tavern’s small, not too clean windows. A cricket began to chirp outside, and the first whisper of night wind stirred the surrounding forest.
Big George Waterman and Max Weaver came in for a glass of glava. They sat down beside Tom.
“How’s it going?” George Waterman asked.
“Not so good,” Tom said. “Can’t seem to get the hang of this stealing.”
“You’ll catch on,” Waterman said in his slow, ponderous, earnest fashion. “If anyone could learn it, you can.”
“We’ve got confidence in you, Tom,” Weaver assured him.
Tom thanked them. They drank and left. He continued thinking, staring into his empty perricola glass.
An hour later, Ed Beer cleared his throat apologetically. “It’s none of my business, Tom, but when are you going to steal something?”
“Right now,” Tom said.
He stood up, made sure his weapons were securely in place, and strode out the door.
Nightly bartering had begun in the market. Goods were piled carelessly on benches, or spread over the grass on straw mats. There was no currency, no rate of exchange. Ten hand-wrought nails were worth a pail of milk or two fish, or vice versa, depending on what you had to barter and needed at the moment. No one ever bothered keeping accounts. That was one Earth custom the mayor was having difficulty introducing.
As Tom Fisher walked down the square, everyone greeted him.
“Stealing now, huh, Tom?”
“Go to it, boy!”
“You can do it!”
No one in the village had ever witnessed an actual theft. They considered it an exotic custom of distant Earth and they wanted to see how it worked. They left their goods and followed Tom through the market, watching avidly.
Tom found that his hands were trembling. He didn’t like having so many people watch him steal. He decided he’d better work fast, while he still had the nerve.
He stopped abruptly in front of Mrs. Miller’s fruit-laden bench. “Tasty-looking geefers,” he said casually.
“They’re fresh,” Mrs. Miller told him. She was a small and bright-eyed old woman. Tom could remember long conversations she had had with his mother, back when his parents were alive.
“They look very tasty,” he said, wishing he had stopped somewhere else instead.
“Oh, they are,” said Mrs. Miller. “I picked them just this afternoon.”
“Is he going to steal now?” someone whispered.
“Sure he is. Watch him,” someone whispered back.
Tom picked up a bright green geefer and inspected it. The crowd became suddenly silent.
“Certainly looks very tasty,” Tom said, carefully replacing the geefer.
The crowd released a long-drawn sigh.
Max Weaver and his wife and five children were at the next bench. Tonight they were displaying two blankets and a shirt. They all smiled shyly when Tom came over, followed by the crowd.
“That shirt’s about your size,” Weaver informed him. He wished the people would go away and let Tom work.
“Hmm,” Tom said, picking up the shirt.
The crowd stirred expectantly. A girl began to giggle hysterically. Tom gripped the shirt tightly and opened his loot bag.
“Just a moment!” Billy Painter pushed his way through. He was wearing a badge now, an old Earth coin he had polished and pinned to his belt. The expression on his face was unmistakably official.
“What were you doing with that shirt, Tom?” Billy asked.
“Why…I was just looking at it.”
“Just looking at it, huh?” Billy turned away, his hands clasped behind his back. Suddenly he whirled and extended a rigid forefinger. “I don’t think you were just looking at it, Tom. I think you were planning on stealing it!”
Tom didn’t answer. The tell-tale sack hung limply from one hand, the shirt from the other.
“As police chief,” Billy went on, “I’ve got a duty to protect these people. You’re a suspicious character. I think I’d better lock you up for further questioning.”
Tom hung his head. He hadn’t expected this, but it was just as well.
Once he was in jail, it would be all over. And when Billy released him, he could get back to fishing.
Suddenly the mayor bounded through the crowd, his shirt flapping wildly around his waist.
“Billy, what are you doing?”
“Doing my duty, Mayor. Tom here is acting plenty suspicious. The book says—”
“I know what the book says,” the mayor told him. “I gave you the book. You can’t go arresting Tom. Not yet.”
“But there’s no other criminal in the village,” Billy complained.
“I can’t help that,” the mayor said.
Billy’s lips tightened. “The book talks about preventive police work. I’m supposed to stop crime before it happens.”
The mayor raised his hands and dropped them wearily. “Billy, don’t you understand? This village needs a criminal record. You have to help, too.”
Billy shrugged his shoulders. “All right, Mayor. I was just trying to do my job.” He turned to go. Then he whirled again on Tom. “I’ll still get you. Remember—Crime Does Not Pay.” He stalked off.
“He’s overambitious, Tom,” the mayor explained. “Forget it. Go ahead and steal something. Let’s get this job over with.”
Tom started to edge away toward the green forest outside the village.
“What’s wrong, Tom?” the mayor asked worriedly.
“I’m not in the mood anymore,” Tom said. “Maybe tomorrow night—”
“No, right now,” the mayor insisted. “You can’t go on putting it off. Come on, we’ll all help you.”
“Sure we will,” Max Weaver said. “Steal the shirt, Tom. It’s your size anyhow.”
“How about a nice water jug, Tom?”
“Look at these skeegee nuts over here.”
Tom looked from bench to bench. As he reached for Weaver’s shirt, a knife slipped from his belt and dropped to the ground. The crowd clucked sympathetically.
Tom replaced it, perspiring, knowing he looked like a butterfingers. He reached out, took the shirt and stuffed it into the loot bag. The crowd cheered.
Tom smiled faintly, feeling a bit better. “I think I’m getting the hang of it.”
“Sure you are.”
“We knew you could do it.”
“Take something else, boy.”
Tom walked down the market and helped himself to a length of rope
, a handful of skeegee nuts and a grass hat.
“I guess that’s enough,” he told the mayor.
“Enough for now,” the mayor agreed. “This doesn’t really count, you know. This was the same as people giving it to you. Practice, you might say.”
“Oh,” Tom said, disappointed.
“But you know what you’re doing. The next time it’ll be just as easy.”
“I suppose it will.”
“And don’t forget that murder.”
“Is it really necessary?” Tom asked.
“I wish it weren’t,” the mayor said. “But this colony has been here for over two hundred years and we haven’t had a single murder. Not one! According to the records, all the other colonies had lots.”
“I suppose we should have one,” Tom admitted. “I’ll take care of it.” He headed for his cottage. The crowd gave a rousing cheer as he departed.
At home, Tom lighted a rush lamp and fixed himself supper. After eating, he sat for a long time in his big armchair. He was dissatisfied with himself. He had not really handled the stealing well. All day he had worried and hesitated. People had practically had to put things in his hands before he could take them.
A fine thief he was!
And there was no excuse for it. Stealing and murdering were like any other necessary jobs. Just because he had never done them before, just because he could see no sense to them, that was no reason to bungle them.
He walked to the door. It was a fine night, illuminated by a dozen nearby giant stars. The market was deserted again and the village lights were winking out.
This was the time to steal!
A thrill ran through him at the thought. He was proud of himself. That was how criminals planned and this was how stealing should be—skulking, late at night.