'You might say that,' Smeg said. He straightened his shoulders. 'I'd like to walk around and look at your town, Mr Painter. May I leave my car here?'
''Tain't in the way that I can see,' Painter said. He managed to appear both interested and disinterested in Smeg's question. His glance flicked sideways, all around - at the car, the road, at a house behind a privet hedge across the way.
'Fine,' Smeg said. He got out, slammed the door, reached into the back for the flat-crowned western hat he affected in these parts. It tended to break down some barriers.
'You forgetting your papers?' Painter asked.
'Papers?' Smeg turned, looked at the man.
'Them papers full of questions you gov'ment people all us use.'
'Oh.' Smeg shook his head. 'We can forget about papers today.'
'You jes' going to wander around?' Painter asked.
'That's right.'
'Well, some folks'll talk to you,' Painter said. 'Got all kinds of different folks here.' He turned away, started to walk off.
'Please, just a minute,' Smeg said.
Painter stopped as though he'd run into a barrier, spoke without turning. 'You want something?'
'Where're you going, Mr Painter?'
'Jes' down the road a piece.'
'I'd ... ahhh, hoped you might guide me,' Smeg said. 'That is if you haven't anything better to do?'
Painter turned, stared at him. 'Guide? In Wadeville?' He looked around him, back to Smeg. A tiny smile tugged at his mouth.
'Well, where do I find your sheriff, for instance?' Smeg asked.
The smile disappeared. 'Why'd you want him?'
'Sheriffs usually know a great deal about an area.'
'You sure you actual' want to see him?'
'Sure. Where's his office?'
'Well now, Mr Smeg ... ' Painter hesitated, then: 'His office is just around the corner here, next the bank.'
'Would you show me?' Smeg moved forward, his feet kicking up dust puddles in the street. 'Which corner?'
'This'n right here.' Painter pointed to a field stone building at his left. A weed-grown lane led off past it. The corner of a wooden porch jutted from the stone building into the lane.
* * * *
Smeg walked past Painter, peered down the lane. Tufts of grass grew in the middle and along both sides, green runners stretching all through the area. Smeg doubted that a wheeled vehicle had been down this way in two years - possibly longer.
A row of objects on the porch caught his attention. He moved closer, studied them, turned back to Painter.
'What're all those bags and packages on that porch?'
'Them?' Painter came up beside Smeg, stood a moment, lips pursed, eyes focused beyond the porch.
'Well, what are they?' Smeg pressed.
'This here's the bank.' Painter said. 'Them's night deposits.'
Smeg turned back to the porch. Night deposits? Paper bags and fabric sacks left out in the open?
'People leaves 'em here if'n the bank ain't open,' Painter said. 'Bank's a little late opening today. Sheriff had 'em in looking at the books last night.'
Sheriff examining the bank's books? Smeg wondered. He hoped Rick was missing none of this and could repeat it accurately ... just in case. The situation here appeared far more mysterious than the reports had indicated. Smeg didn't like the feeling of this place at all.
'Makes it convenient for people who got to get up early and them that collects their money at night,' Painter explained.
'They just leave it right put in the open?' Smeg asked.
'Yep. 'Night deposit' it's called. People don't have to come around when -'
'I know what it's called! But ... right out in the open like that ... without a guard?'
'Bank don't open till ten thirty most days,' Painter said. 'Even later when the sheriff's had 'em in at night.'
'There's a guard,' Smeg said. 'That's it, isn't it?'
'Guard? What we need a guard fer? Sheriff says leave them things alone, they gets left alone.'
The sheriff again, Smeg thought. 'Who ... ahh, deposits money like this?' he asked.
'Like I said: the people who got to get up early and ...'
'But who are these people?'
'Oh. Well, my cousin Reb: He has the gas station down to the forks. Mr Seelway at the General Store there. Some farmers with cash crops come back late from the city. Folks work across the line at the mill in Anderson when they get paid late of a Friday. Folks like that.'
'They just ... leave their money out on this porch.'
'Why not?'
'Lord knows,' Smeg whispered.
'Sheriff says don't touch it, why - it don't get touched.'
Smeg looked around him, sensing the strangeness of this weed-grown street with its wide-open night depository protected only by a sheriff's command. Who was this sheriff? What was this sheriff?
'Doesn't seem like there'd be much money in Wadeville,' Smeg said. 'That gas station down the main street out there looks abandoned, looks like a good wind would blow it over. Most of the other buildings -'
'Station's closed,' Painter said. 'You need gas, just go out to the forks where my cousin, Reb - '
'Station failed?' Smeg asked.
'Kind of.'
'Kind of?'
'Sheriff, he closed it.'
'Why?'
'Fire hazard. Sheriff, he got to reading the state Fire Ordinance one day. Next day he told Jamison to dig up the gas tanks and cart 'em away. They was too old and rusty, not deep enough in the ground and didn't have no concrete on 'em. 'Sides that, the building's too old, wood all oily.'
'The sheriff ordered it ... just like that.' Smeg snapped his fingers.
'Yep. Said he had to tear down that station. Old Jamison sure was mad.'
'But if the sheriff says do it, then it gets done?' Smeg asked.
'Yep. Jamison's tearing it down - one board every day. Sheriff don't seem to pay it no mind long as Jamison takes down that one board every day.'
Smeg shook his head. One board every day. What did that signify? Lack of a strong time sense? He looked back at the night deposits on the porch, asked: 'How long have people been depositing their money here this way?'
'Been since a week or so after the sheriff come.'
'And how long has that been?'
'Ohhhhh ... four, five years maybe.'
Smeg nodded to himself. His little group of Slorin had been on the planet slightly more than five years. This could be ... this could be - He frowned. But what if it wasn't?
The dull plodding of footsteps sounded from the main street behind Smeg. He turned, saw a tall fat man passing there. The man glanced curiously at Smeg, nodded to Painter.
'Mornin', Josh,' the fat man said. It was a rumbling voice.
'Morning', Jim,' Painter said.
The fat man skirted the Plymouth, hesitated to read the emblem on the car door, glanced back at Painter, resumed his plodding course down the street and out of sight.
'That was Jim,' Painter said.
'Neighbor?'
'Yep. Been over to the Widow McNabry's again ... all the whole dang' night. Sheriff's going to be mighty displeasured believe me.'
'He keeps an eye on your morals, too?'
'Morals?' Painter scratched the back of his neck. 'Can't rightly say he does.'
'Then why would he mind if ... Jim -'
'Sheriff, he says it's a sin and a crime to take what don't belong to you, but it's a blessing to give. Jim, he stood right up to the sheriff, said he jes' went to the widow's to give. So -' Painter shrugged.
'The sheriff's open to persuasion, then?'
'Some folks seems to think so.'
'You don't?'
'He made Jim stop smoking and drinking.'
Smeg shook his head sharply, wondering if he'd heard correctly. The conversation kept darting around into seeming irrelevancies. Headjusted his hat brim, looked at his hand. It was a good hand, couldn't be told from the human original. 'Smoking an
d drinking?' he asked.
'Yep.'
'But why?'
'Said if Jim was taking on new ree-sponsibilities like the widow he couldn't commit suicide - not even slow like.'
Smeg stared at Painter who appeared engrossed with a nonexistent point in the sky. Presently. Smeg managed: 'That's the weirdest interpretation of the law I ever heard.'
'Don't let the sheriff hear you say that.'
'Quick to anger, eh?'
'Wouldn't say that.'
'What would you say?'
'Like I told Jim: Sheriff get his eye on you, that is it. You going to toe the line. Ain't so bad till the sheriff get his eye on you. When he see you - that is the end.'
'Does the sheriff have his eye on you, Mr Painter?'
Painter made a fist, shook it at the air. His mouth drew back in a fierce, scowling grimace. The expression faded. Presently, he relaxed, sighed. 'Pretty bad, eh?' Smeg asked.
'Dang conspiracy,' Painter muttered. 'Gov'ment got its nose in things don't concern it.'
'Oh?' Smeg watched Painter closely, sensing they were on productive ground. 'What does -'
'Dang near a thousand gallons a year!' Painter exploded.
'Uhhh -' Smeg said. He wet his lips with his tongue, a gesture he'd found to denote human uncertainty.
'Don't care if you are part of the conspiracy,' Painter said. 'Can't do nothing to me now.'
'Believe me, Mr Painter, I have no designs on ...'
'I made some 'shine when folks wanted,' Painter said. 'Less'n a thousand gallons a year ... almost. Ain't much considering the size of some of them stills t'other side of Anderson. But them's across the line! 'Nother county! All I made was enough fer the folks 'round here.'
'Sheriff put a stop to it?'
'Made me bust up my still.'
'Made you bust up your still?'
'Yep. That's when he got my Barton.'
'Your ... ahhh ... barton?' Smeg ventured.
'Right from under Lilly's nose,' Painter muttered. His nostrils dilated, eyes glared. Rage lay close to the surface.
Smeg looked around him, searching the blank windows, the empty doorways. What in the name of all the Slorin furies was a barton?
'Your sheriff seems to hold pretty close to the law,' Smeg ventured.
'Hah!'
'No liquor,' Smeg said. 'No smoking. He rough on speeders?'
'Speeders?' Painter turned his glare on Smeg. 'Now, you tell me what we'd speed in, Mr Smeg.'
'Don't you have any cars here?'
'If my cousin Reb didn't have his station over to the forks where he get the city traffic, he'd be bust long ago. State got a law - car got to stop in jes' so many feet. Got to have jes' so many lights. Got to have windshield wiper things. Got to have tires which you can measure the tread on. Got to steer absolutely jes' right. Car don't do them things, it isjunk. Junk! Sheriff, he make you sell that car for junk! Ain't but two, three folks in Wadeville can afford a car with all them things.'
'He sounds pretty strict,' Smeg said.
'Bible-totin' parson with hell fire in his eye couldn't be worse. I tell you, if that sheriff didn't have my Barton, I'd a run out long ago. I'd a ree-beled like we done in Sixty-one. Same with the rest of the folks here ... most of 'em.'
'He has their ... ahhh, bartons?' Smeg asked, cocking his head to one side, waiting.
Painter considered this for a moment, then: 'Well, now ... in a manner of speaking, you could call it that way.'
Smeg frowned. Did he dare ask what a barton was? No! It might betray too much ignorance. He longed for a proper Slorin net, all the interlocked detail memories, the Slorin spaced out within the limits of the narrow band, ready to relay questions, test hypotheses, offer suggestions. But he was alone except for one inexperienced offspring hiding out there across the fields ... waiting for disaster. Perhaps Rick had encountered the word, though. Smeg ventured a weak interrogative.
Back came Rick's response, much too loud: 'Negative.'
So Rick didn't know the word either.
Smeg studied Painter for a sign the man had detected the narrow band exchange. Nothing. Smeg swallowed, a natural fear response he'd noticed in this body, decided to move ahead more strongly.
'Anybody ever tell you you have a most unusual sheriff?' he asked.
'Them gov'ment survey fellows, that's what they say. Come here with all them papers and all them questions, say they interested in our crime rate. Got no crime in Wade County, they say. Think they telling us something!'
'That's what I heard about you,' Smeg offered. 'No crime.'
'Hah!'
'But there must be some crime,' Smeg said.
'Got no 'shine,' Painter muttered. 'Got no robbing and stealing, no gambling. Got no drunk drivers 'cepting they come from somewhere else and then they is mighty displeasured they drunk drove in Wade County. Got noy'w-venile dee-linquents like they talkabout in the city. Got no patent medicine fellows. Got nothing.'
'You must have a mighty full jail, though.'
'Jail?'
'All the criminals your sheriff apprehends.'
'Hah! Sheriff don't throw folks in jail, Mr Smeg. Not 'less they is from over the line and needs to sleep off a little ol' spree while they sobers up enough to pay the fine.'
'Oh!' Smeg stared out at the empty main street, remembering the fat man - Jim. 'He gives the local residents a bit more latitude, eh? Like your friend, Jim.'
'Jes' leading Jim along, I say.'
'What do you mean?'
'Pretty soon the widow's going to be in the family way. Going to be a quick wedding and a baby and Jim'll be jes' like all the rest of us.'
Smeg nodded as though he understood. It was like the reports which had lured him here ... but unlike them, too. Painter's 'survey fellows' had been amused by Wadeville and Wade County, so amused even their driest governmentese couldn't conceal it. Their amusement had written the area off - 'purely a local phenomenon.' Tough southern sheriff. Smeg was not amused. He walked slowly out to the main street, looked back along the road he'd traveled.
Rick was out there listening ... waiting.
What would the waiting produce?
An abandoned building up the street caught Smeg's attention. Somewhere within it a door creaked with a rhythm that matched the breeze stirring the dust in the street. A 'SALOON' sign dangled from the building on a broken guy wire. The sign swayed in the wind - now partly obscured by a porch roof, now revealed: 'LOON' ... 'SALOON' ... 'LOON' ... 'SALOON' ...
The mystery of Wadeville was like that sign, Smeg thought. The mystery moved and changed, now one thing, now another. He wondered how he could hold the mystery still long enough to examine it and understand it.
A distant wailing interrupted his reverie.
It grew louder - a siren.
'Here he come,' Painter said.
Smeg glanced at Painter. The man was standing beside him glaring in the direction of the siren.
'Here he sure do come,' Painter muttered.
Another sound accompanied the siren now - the hungry throbbing of a powerful motor.
Smeg looked toward the sound, saw a dust cloud on the horizon, something vaguely red within it.
'Dad! Dad!' That was Rick on the narrow band.
Before he could send out the questioning thought, Smeg felt it - the growing force of a mindcloud so strong it made him stagger.
Painter caught his arm, steadied him.
'Gets some folks that way the first time,' Painter said.
Smeg composed himself, disengaged his arm, stood trembling. Another Slorin! It had to be another Slorin. But the fool was broadcasting a signal that could bring down chaos on them all. Smeg looked at Painter. The natives had the potential - his own Slorin group had determined this. Were they in luck here? Was the local strain insensitive? But Painter had spoken of it getting some folks the first time. He'd spoken of telepaths.
Something was very wrong in Wadeville ... and the mindcloud was enveloping him like a gray fog. Sme
g summoned all his mental energy, fought free of the controlling force. He felt himself standing there then like an island of clarity and calm in the midst of that mental hurricane.
The Worlds of Frank Herbert Page 17