"When do I get a police chief badge?" Billy demanded. "I read that police chiefs always get badges."
"Make yourself one," the mayor said. He mopped his face with his shirttail. "Sure hot. Don't know why that inspector couldn't have come in winter. Tom! Tom Fisher! Got an important job for you. Come on, I'll tell you all about it."
He put an arm around Tom's shoulders and they walked to the mayor's cottage past the empty market, along the village's single paved road. In the old days, that road had been of packed dirt. But the old days had ended two weeks ago and now the road was paved with crushed rock. It made barefoot walking so uncomfortable that the villagers simply cut across each other's lawns. The mayor, though, walked on it out of principle.
"Now look, Mayor, I'm on my vacation —"
"Can't have any vacations now," the mayor said. "Not now, He's due any day." He ushered Tom inside his cottage and sat down in the big armchair, which had been pushed as close to the interstellar radio as possible.
"Tom," the mayor said directly, "how would you like to be a criminal?"
"I don't know," said Tom. "What's a criminal?"
Squirming uncomfortably in his chair, the mayor rested a hand on the radio for authority. "It's this way," he said, and began to explain.
Tom listened, but the more he heard, the less he liked. It was all the fault of that interstellar radio, he decided. Why hadn't it really been broken?
No one had believed it could work. It had gathered dust in the office of one mayor after another, for generations, the last silent link with Mother Earth. Two hundred years ago Earth talked with New Delaware, and with Ford IV, Alpha Centauri, Nueva Espana, and the other colonies that made up the United Democracies of Earth. Then all conversations stopped.
There seemed to be a war on Earth. New Delaware, with its one village, was too small and too distant to take part. They waited for news, but no news came. And then plague struck the village, wiping out three-quarters of the inhabitants.
Slowly the village healed. The villagers adopted their own ways of doing things. They forgot Earth.
Two hundred years passed.
And then, two weeks ago, the ancient radio had coughed itself into life. For hours, it growled and spat static, while the inhabitants of the village gathered around the mayor's cottage,
Finally words came out: ". hear me, New Delaware? Do you hear me?"
"Yes, yes, we hear you," the mayor said.
"The colony is still there?"
"It certainly is," the mayor said proudly. The voice became stern and official. "There has been no contact with the Outer Colonies for some time, due to unsettled conditions here. But that's over, except for a little mopping up. You of New Delaware are still a colony of Imperial Earth and subject to her laws. Do you acknowledge the status?"
The mayor hesitated. All the books referred to Earth as the United Democracies. Well, in two centuries, names could change.
"We are still loyal to Earth," the mayor said with dignity.
"Excellent. That saves us the trouble of sending an expeditionary force. A resident inspector will be dispatched to you from the nearest point, to ascertain whether you conform to the customs, institutions and traditions of Earth."
"What?" the mayor asked, worried.
The stern voice became higher-pitched. "You realize, of course, that there is room for only one intelligent species in the Universe — Man! All others must be suppressed, wiped out, annihilated. We can tolerate no aliens sneaking around us. I'm sure you understand, General."
"I'm not a general. I'm a mayor."
"You're in charge, aren't you?"
"Yes, but —"
"Then you are a general. Permit me to continue. In this galaxy, there is no room for aliens. None! Nor is there room for deviant human cultures, which, by definition, are alien. It is impossible to administer an empire when everyone does as he pleases. There must be order, no matter what the cost." The mayor gulped hard and stared at the radio. "Be sure you're running an Earth colony, General, with no radical departures from the norm, such as free will, free love, free elections, or anything else on the proscribed list. Those things are alien, and we're pretty rough on aliens. Get your colony in order, General. The inspector will call in about two weeks. That is all."
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. Gook 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 room 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 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 ben
ch. 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."
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