He and Ozma were to go to an artists’ party at 7:30 P.M. That meant two hours or more of standing around drinking cocktails and talking with people who were mostly phonies. There were, however, a few he would enjoy talking to.
He had a luncheon engagement with Anthony Horn, the Manhattan organic commissioner-general. He doubted that they would talk much about police business. She was an immer.
There was also a note to see Major Wallenquist about the Yankev Gril case. He frowned. The man was a Monday citizen. What was Gril’s name doing on the MCOD file?
He sighed. Yankev Gril. He did not even know what he looked like, but he would find out today.
3.
After kissing Ozma good-bye, he got a bicycle, one of six, out of the garage. As soon as it had rolled a few feet, its squeaking told him that Monday’s occupants had neglected to lubricate the pedal mechanism. He cursed softly. He would make a recording to chew Monday out, but the omission was no big thing. He’d get an OD mechanic to attend to it. He was not supposed to do that, but what was the use of being a detective-inspector if he did not have his little perks?
No. That would not be right. Anyway, he’d be damned if he’d ride all the way to work on the irritating and attention-getting vehicle. He returned to the garage and got another bike. This one squeaked, too. Swearing, he took out a third, the last of the adult-size, and rode out of the garage. When he saw Ozma bent over with laughter, he shouted, “Straighten up! You look like a cow! And put a robe on!”
Ozma, still laughing, gave him the finger.
“What a relationship we have,” he muttered. He went past the white picket fence along Bleecker Street and turned the corner onto the bike path along the canal. Two men fishing from the walk looked up as he passed them. Caird rode on. As usual, there were many pedestrians illegally on the path. Some of them saw his OD badge, but they moved only to get out of his way and some did not do that.
Time for another sweep, he thought. Not that it would do any good. The pedestrians would have to pay only a small fine. Ah, well. His daughter Ariel, the historian, had told him that Manhattanites had always paid little attention to traffic rules. Even in this law-abiding age, there were so many misdemeanors that the organic officers usually ignored most of them.
The air had cooled off a little during the night but was beginning to warm up. A fifteen-mile-per-hour wind behind him, however, helped his pedaling and cooled him somewhat. The sky was unclouded. It had not rained for twelve days, and the thermometer had surged past 112°F for eight of them. He kept on pumping, zigzagging to avoid walkers. Now and then, he glanced at the canal, ten feet below street level. Rowboats or foot-pumped pontoon craft or small barges pushed by small waterjet tugs moved up and down the canal. The houses along the wide path were mostly two-story dwellings of various architecture with here and there a six-story apartment building or a two-story community general store. In the distance to his right was the enormous building known as the Thirteen-Principles Towers, the only skyscraper on the island. Its center was on the site of the last Empire State Building, torn down five hundred obyears ago.
Jeff Caird had passed twelve canal bridges when he saw a pedestrian sixty feet ahead of him drop a banana peel on the pavement. Jeff looked around. There was no organic officer in sight. Maybe it was true that the organics were always around except when you needed them. He would have to write out this ticket himself. He looked at his wristwatch. Fifteen minutes to report on time. He was going to be late. But, if he was performing a duty, he would be excused.
He braked to a stop. The litterer, a short thin pale man—the shortness and paleness were in themselves causes for suspicion—was suddenly aware that a cop was near him. He froze, looked around, then grinned. He removed his huge brown coolie hat, revealing an uncombed pale brown thatch.
“It sort of slipped out of my hand,” he whined. “I was going to pick it up.”
“Is that why you walked away from it?” Caird said. “You are now approximately twelve feet past it and the waste barrel by the wall.”
Caird pointed at the TV strip on the wall.
NO LITTERING
LITTERING IS UNESTHETIC
UNSOCIAL
UNLAWFUL
REPORT ALL CRIMES TO TC CHANNEL, 245-5500
Caird kicked the bike parking-stand down, opened the bag in the basket over the front wheel, and removed a Kelly-green box. He raised the attached screen on its top and said, “ID, please.”
Holding the unbitten banana in one hand, the man lifted a chain from around his neck. Caird took the chain and the metal seven-rayed star-on-a-disc attached to it. He inserted a ray point into the slot in the box.
The screen displayed:
DOROTHY WU ROOTENBEAK
CZ-49V-#27-8b*-WAP412
Caird glanced at the personal history and pertinent data that rolled on the screen after the name and ID number, Rootenbeak had four priors, all misdemeanors for slobbishness, though none for littering. Neither the history nor the present offense justified Caird in having a sky-eye satellite zero in on Rootenbeak.
The man edged closer so he could see the screen. “Give me a break, officer!”
“Did you give your fellow seniors a break? What if one had slipped on the peel?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Look, officer, I’ve got a lot on my mind. I got a sick child and a wife that drinks, and I been late a couple of times without a good excuse—so they said. What do they know? My mind was on my troubles. You got troubles, ain’t you? Maybe you don’t, being an organic and all that. But I got them. Everybody got them. Give me a break. I won’t do it again.”
Caird spoke into the front section of the box, asking for the file department. A complete update on Rootenbeak flashed on the screen. This included the fact that Rootenbeak had used the same excuses to other officers as he had to Caird. Also, Rootenbeak had no children, and his wife had left him three weeks ago.
“I’m going to be late again if you don’t let me go now. I can’t afford another credit cut. I ain’t making enough now. We just barely get by.”
The state guaranteed that nobody just barely got by. Rootenbeak knew that Caird had checked out his story, yet he was lying. And he knew that being caught in a lie would cost him at least another credit.
Caird sighed. What made them do it?
He should know. He was a far bigger criminal than Rootenbeak, who was, actually, a committer of misdemeanors, not of felonies. But Caird believed, at least he told himself that he believed, that there was a difference between him and other criminals. A qualitative difference. Also, if he let Rootenbeak go because of a misplaced sense of empathy, he would put himself in danger. Moreover, the discarded peel, besides being offensive, was dangerous.
And I’m not hurting anyone.
No, not yet. But if I were caught, many would be hurt.
He took a camera from the bag, held it between two fingers, sighting with one eye through the tiny magnifying glass in the center, and squeezed. A second later a photograph slid out. He inserted that into another slot in the R-T box. The screen displayed that the photograph had been transmitted and was recorded in the files. It also confirmed that the culprit was indeed Rootenbeak. Caird read the ticket for Rootenbeak into the box. A few seconds later, the screen flashed that the charges had been recorded at files and on the culprit’s ID disc.
Caird handed the disc to Rootenbeak. “I’ll give you a break,” he said. “You won’t have to appear immediately at court. You can go after work. Put that peel where it belongs and get going.”
Rootenbeak’s face matched his whine. It was long and narrow with a thin drooping nose, close-set small watery blue eyes, a short jaw, and a chin that had failed to bud in the womb. His shoulders were slumped, his hair was uncombed, and his robe was torn. Caird expected only servility from the slob. He certainly did not expect what happened next.
Rootenbeak put the chain of his ID badge around his neck and started to walk off, his eyes downcast. Sudd
enly he wheeled, screaming, the ferret face changed into a wildcat’s, and pushed an old woman who had just come between him and Caird. Propelled by the woman, Caird fell back into the bicycle, knocked it over, and fell down on it. He yelled with pain as the end of the pedal drove against his spine. Before Caird could get up, Rootenbeak had jumped into the air and come down with both sandaled feet on Caird’s chest. The air oofed out of his lungs, making it impossible for him to yell with pain as the pedal drove again into his back.
Rootenbeak grabbed the bars, yanked the bicycle up and ran it toward the edge of the path. He stopped and let it go over into the canal. Caird’s R-T box and the bag went with the vehicle.
Caird had his breath and his strength back. He roared with anger, rose, and charged. Rootenbeak turned as if to run, then dropped to one knee, spun, and grabbed Caird’s outstretched hand. Rootenbeak fell backward, his foot came up, planted itself in Caird’s stomach, and Caird went over and into the water. He missed striking the edge of a rowboat by an inch.
When he came up spluttering, more from rage than from swallowed water, he saw Rootenbeak’s jeering face above.
“How do you like that, pig!”
Other faces were lined up along the edge of the path. Caird yelled at them to hold Rootenbeak for him. The faces disappeared.
“You’re ignoring your organic duty!” Caird roared, but there was no one to hear him except the two grinning men in the rowboat. They helped him in and took him to the steps below the West Twenty-third Street bridge. By the time he got to the path, Rootenbeak was gone. Caird phoned in to the precinct via his wristwatch and arranged for divers to recover his vehicle, bag, and R-T box. He walked the rest of the way to work.
The precinct station on East Twenty-third Street and Womanway occupied one-fourth of the six-story building that formed the whole block. Dripping and scowling, Caird strode down the entrance walk lined on both sides by the uniformed and stoned bodies of officers who had died in the line of duty. All were in upright, lifelike poses, though some had not been very upright in life. The one closest to the entrance, standing on a six-foot granite pedestal, was Abel “Bloodhound” Ortega, Caird’s mentor and ex-partner. Caird usually said good morning to him, a ritual which some of his fellow officers thought morbid. Now he strode past Ortega’s body without a glance or a word.
Caird walked by the desk sergeant without acknowledging his greeting. The sergeant called after him, “Hey, Inspector, I didn’t know it was raining! Haw, haw!”
Ignoring the stares, Caird left the big admittance lobby and went down a hall. Near the end, he turned right into the locker room. After opening a locker, he chose one of a dozen robes, took it out, and hung the wet robe on a hook.
He rode an elevator to the third floor and entered his office. The screen on his desk told him what he already knew. He was to call Major Ricardo Wallenquist at once. Instead, he made his verbal report to the computer and then had the Rootenbeak file displayed. The culprit’s last known address was an apartment at 100 King Street. Caird called two foot-patrolmen in that area and asked them to check out the apartment. He was told that had been done five minutes ago. Rootenbeak had not come home nor had he gone to work.
Which meant that he probably was not going to do so. Having assaulted an officer, his first known felony, he was probably headed for the “minnie” district near Hudson Park. People living on the minimum guaranteed income, those who for some unfathomable reason disdained work, tended to congregate there. They were also inclined to take in criminals and hide them. Now and then the organics raided the area and swept up a few of the wanted. It was time for another search.
Caird had coffee brought in. While sipping the hot liquid, he cooled off. Finally, envisioning his dunking, he began laughing. There was something funny about the scene even if he was the one humiliated. If he had seen the incident in a movie, he would have thought it laugh-provoking. And he had to admire Rootenbeak to some degree. Who would have expected a whiner, a sniveler, a nothing, to erupt like that?
Tracking him down was a routine better left to the patrolmen. He switched off the display and started to tell the strip to call Wallenquist’s office. Then he remembered that he was to apply for a reproduction license. Just as he was going to code in the propagation department of the Population Bureau, the face of Ricardo “Big Dick” Wallenquist appeared on a wall strip.
“Good morning, Jeff.”
Wallenquist’s fat red face beamed.
“Morning, Major.”
“You saw my message?”
“Yes, sir. I had some prior duty. I was just going to…”
“Come up to my office, Jeff. Now. I’ve got something interesting. No run of the mill, no distilled-water bootlegger. I’d rather be face to face.”
Caird stood up. “Right away, Major.”
Wallenquist made a big thing of the personal touch. He deplored communication through electronics. It was too impersonal, too aloof. “Barriers go up then, man! Wires, waves, screens! You can’t really know a person or like him or get him to know you and like you if you’re talking through machines. You’re just ghosts then. What we need is flesh and blood, man. Touch and smell. Electricity can’t transmit nuances or soul. Can’t send you the proper signals. Only face to face, nose to nose can do that. God knows we’ve lost too much humanity. We must preserve it. Flesh to flesh, eye to eye. Touch and smell.”
All very fine, Caird thought as he went up on the elevator. The trouble was that Wallenquist was an onion-fiend. Ate them for breakfast, lunch, and supper. And he insisted on getting as close as possible to the person he was talking to.
Wallenquist’s office was twice as big as Caird’s, which was the way it should be. The major, however, was only one-fourth larger than his lieutenant. Six feet and seven inches tall, he weighed two hundred and eighty-seven pounds. Ninety of that had to be excess fat. The Health Department was after him, of course, but he had enough connections to keep its attention from being more than a minor nuisance. No subordinate bureaucrat was going to tackle an organic major head-on, and the Health Department supervisors were rather lax about getting rid of their own lard. It was the person without power, the little guy, who had to toe the mark in this officially classless society. Thus it had been and would be.
The major rose from his huge padded chair when Caird entered, and he shook hands with himself. Caird shook his own hands.
“Sit down, Jeff.”
Caird took a chair. Wallenquist came around the crescent-topped desk and sat on its edge. He leaned far forward until he seemed to be in danger of toppling off. Like Humpty-Dumpty, Caird thought. But that big egg did not eat onions.
Grinning, Wallenquist said, “How’s the wife, Jeff?”
For a second, Caird felt sick. Had Ozma done something unlawful?
“Fine.”
“Still painting those insects?”
“Still.”
Wallenquist boomed laughter and slapped Caird’s shoulder.
“Isn’t that something! I don’t know if it’s art, but it’s sure good publicity. Everybody knows about her. I heard about the party given in her honor.”
Caird relaxed. The major was just going through his warming-up routine. Nose to nose, eye to eye, flesh to flesh.
“How’s the daughter? Ariel…uh… Mauser, isn’t it?”
“Fine. Still teaching at East Harlem University?”
Wallenquist nodded; his jowls flapped like sails.
“Good, good. Party, heh? Anyone I know?”
“Perhaps. It’s one of those arty events. The host is Malcolm Chang Kant, the curator of the Twentieth-Century Museum.”
“I’ve heard of him, of course. But I don’t move in those circles. It’s good that you do. An organic should know people outside his field.”
You’d be surprised how many I know, Caird thought. He continued the ritual by asking about the major’s health and that of his wife, two children, and three grandchildren.
“Fine, couldn’t be better.
”
Wallenquist paused. Caird had turned his head away until he was looking at the major from the corners of his eyes. He moved his head then to look directly into his eyes and received the full blast.
“I got a make-your-ears-prick-up case,” the major said. “A daybreaker! Ah, I thought so! That woke you up, heh?”
He punched Caird lightly on the arm. “I’ll supervise, of course, but I’m letting you have all the fun. You’re a damned good man, by God, and what’s more, I like you!”
“Thanks,” Caird said. “I…get along fine with you, too.”
“I know my people. If I do say so myself, I got a knack for bringing out the best in the best. You’re a real bloodhound, Jeff.”
4.
The major got off the desk, much to Caird’s relief, went behind it, sat down, and activated a wall strip behind and to one side of him. Wallenquist spun his chair to look at it.
“This isn’t any run-of-the-mill daybreaker.”
Three views of a clothed adult male from head to toes and at different angles appeared. Below these came three views of the same man unclothed. The two stared, fascinated, at the circumcised organ. Caird had never seen one in the flesh and had viewed few photographs of them. It was exotic but ugly and Old Stone Ageish.
The head and shoulders, full-face, of the same subject followed. His red hair was long, and he wore a green skullcap. The bushy red beard underlined a strong broad face with small green eyes, a broad and short nose with flaring nostrils, and very thin lips.
YANKEV GAD GRIL
MONDAY SENIOR
His code-identification flashed. It moved up and was succeeded by codes of his earprints, eyeprints, fingerprints, footprints, voiceprints, normal skin-odorprints, bloodtype, skull and skeleton X-ray and sonograms, brain topography and waveprints, hormone balance, hair and blood and genetic prints, exterior dimensions, intelligence quotient, psychic quotient, social quotient, and gait classification.
Dayworld Page 3
