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 any more," 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 onel According to the records, all the other colonies had lots."
"I suppose we should have one," Tom admitted. "Ill 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.
Quickly Tom checked his weapons, emptied his loot sack and walked out.
The last rash lights were extinguished. Tom moved noiselessly through the village. He came to Roger Waterman's house. Big Roger had left his spade propped against a wall. Tom picked it up. Down the block, Mrs. Weaver's water jug was in its usual place beside the front door. Tom took it. On his way home, he found a little wooden horse that some child had forgotten. It went with the rest.
He was pleasantly exhilarated, once the goods were safely home. He decided to make another haul.
This time he returned with a bronze plaque from the mayor's house, Marv Carpenter's best saw, and Jed Farmer's sickle.
"Not bad," he told himself. He was catching on. One more load would constitute a good night's work.
This time he found a hammer and chisel in Ron Stone's shed, and a reed basket at Alice Cook's house. He was about to take Jeff Hern's rake when he heard a faint noise. He flattened himself against a wall.
Billy Painter came prowling quietly along, his badge gleaming in the starlight. In one hand, he carried a short, heavy club; in the other, a pair of homemade handcuffs. In the dim light, his face was ominous. It was the face of a man who had pledged himself against crime, even though he wasn't really sure what it was.
Tom held his breath as Billy Painter passed within ten feet of him. Slowly Tom backed away.
The loot sack jingled.
"Who's there?" Billy yelled. When no one answered, he turned a slow circle, peering into the shadows. Tom was flattened against a wall again. He was fairly sure Billy wouldn't see him. Billy had weak eyes because of the fumes of the paint he mixed. All painters had weak eyes. It was one of the reasons they were moody.
"Is that you, Tom?" Billy asked, in a friendly tone. Tom was about to answer, when he noticed that Billy's club was raised in a striking position. He kept quiet.
"I'll get you yet!" Billy shouted.
"Well, get him in the morning!" Jeff Hern shouted from his bedroom window. "Some of us are trying to sleep."
Billy moved away. When he was gone, Tom hurried home and dumped his pile of loot on the floor with the rest. He surveyed his haul proudly. It gave him the sense of a job well done.
After a cool drink of glava, Tom went to bed, falling at once into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
Next morning, Tom sauntered out to see how the little red schoolhouse was progressing. The Carpenter boys were hard at work on it, helped by several villagers.
"How's it coming?" Tom called out cheerfully.
"Fair," Mary Carpenter said. "It'd come along better if I had my saw."
"Your saw?" Tom repeated blankly.
After a moment, he remembered that he had stolen it last night. It hadn't seemed to belong to anyone then. The saw and all the rest had been objects to be stolen. He had never given a thought to the fact that they might be used or needed.
Marv Carpenter asked, "Do you suppose I could use the saw for a while? Just for an hour or so?"
"I'm not sure," Tom said, frowning. "It's legally stolen, you know."
"Of course it is. But if I could just borrow it —"
"You'd have to give it back."
"Well, naturally I'd give it back," Marv said indignantly. "I wouldn't keep anything that was legally stolen."
"It's in the house with the rest of the loot."
Marv thanked him and hurried after it.
Tom began to stroll through the village. He reached the mayor's house. The mayor was standing outside, staring at the sky.
"Tom, did you take my bronze plaque?" he asked.
"I certainly did," Tom said belligerently.
"Oh. Just wondering." The mayor pointed upward. "See it?"
Tom looked. "What?"
"Black dot near the rim of the small sun."
"Yes. What is it?"
"I'll bet it's the inspector's ship. How's your work coming?"
"Fine," Tom said, a trifle uncomfortably.
"Got your murder planned?"
"I've been having a little trouble with that," Tom confessed. "To tell the truth, I haven't made any progress on it at all."
"Come on in, Tom. I want to talk to you."
Inside the cool, shuttered living room, the mayor poured two glasses of glava and motioned Tom to a chair.
"Our time is running short," the mayor said gloomily. "The inspector may land any hour now. And my hands are full." He motioned at the interstellar radio. "That has been talking again. Something about a revolt on Deng IV and all loyal Earth colonies are to prepare for conscription, whatever that is. I never even heard of Deng IV, but I have to start worrying about it, in addition to everything else."
He fixed Tom with a stern stare. "Criminals on Earth commit dozens of murders a day and never even think about it. All your village wants of you is one little killing. Is that t
oo much to ask?"
Tom spread his hands nervously. "Do you really think it's necessary?"
"You know it is," the mayor said. "If we're going earthly, we have to go all the way. This is the only thing holding us back. All the other projects are right on schedule."
Billy Painter entered, wearing a new official-blue shirt with bright metal buttons. He sank into a chair.
"Kill anyone yet, Tom?"
The mayor said, "He wants to know if it's necessary."
"Of course it is," the police chief said. "Read any of the books. You're not much of a criminal if you don't commit a murder."
"Who'll it be, Tom?" the mayor asked.
Tom squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. He rubbed his fingers together nervously.
"Well?"
"Oh, I'll kill Jeff Hern," Tom blurted.
Billy Painter leaned forward quickly. "Why?" he asked.
"Why? Why not?"
"What's your motive?"
"I thought you just wanted a murder," Tom retorted. "Who said anything about motive?"
"We can't have a fake murder," the police chief explained. "It has to be done right. And that means you have to have a proper motive."
Tom thought for a moment. "Well, I don't know Jeff well. Is that a good enough motive?"
The mayor shook his head. "No, Tom, that won't do. Better pick someone else."
"Let's see," Tom said. "How about George Waterman?"
"What's the motive?" Billy asked immediately.
"Oh. um. Well, I don't like the way George walks. Never did. And he's noisy sometimes."
The mayor nodded approvingly. "Sounds good to me. What do you say, Billy?"
"How am I supposed to deduce a motive like that?" Billy asked angrily. "No, that might be good enough for a crime of passion. But you're a legal criminal, Tom. By definition, you're cold-blooded, ruthless and cunning. You can't kill someone just because you don't like the way he walks. That's silly."
"I'd better think this whole thing over," Tom said, standing up.
"Don't take too long," the mayor told him. "The sooner it's done, the better."
Tom nodded and started out the door.
"Oh, Tom!" Billy called. "Don't forget to leave clues. They're very important."
"All right," Tom said, and left.
Outside, most of the villagers were watching the sky. The black dot had grown immensely larger. It covered most of the smaller sun.
Tom went to his place of low repute to think things out. Ed Beer had apparently changed his mind about the desirability of criminal elements. The tavern was redecorated. There was a large sign, reading: CRIMINAL'S LAIR. Inside, there were new, carefully soiled curtains on the windows, blocking the daylight and making the tavern truly a Dismal Retreat. Weapons, hastily carved out of soft wood, hung on one wall. On another wall was a large red splotch, an ominous-looking thing, even though Tom knew it was only Billy Painter's rootberry red paint.
"Come right in, Tom," Ed Beer said, and led him to the darkest corner in the room. Tom noticed that the tavern was unusually filled for the time of day. People seemed to like the idea of being in a genuine criminal's lair.
Tom sipped a perricola and began to think.
He had to commit a murder.
He took out his skulking permit and looked it over. Unpleasant, unpalatable, something he wouldn't normally do, but he did have the legal obligation.
Tom drank his perricola and concentrated on murder. He told himself he was going to kill someone. He had to snuff out a life. He would make someone cease to exist.
But the phrases didn't contain the essence of the act. They were just words. To clarify his thoughts, he took big, redheaded Marv Carpenter as an example. Today, Marv was working on the schoolhouse with his borrowed saw. If Tom killed Marv — well, Marv wouldn't work any more.
Tom shook his head impatiently. He still wasn't grasping it.
All right, here was Marv Carpenter, biggest and, many thought, the pleasantest of the Carpenter boys. He'd be planing down a piece of wood, grasping the plane firmly in his large freckled hands, squinting down the line he had drawn. Thristy, undoubtedly, and with a small pain in his left shoulder that Jan Druggist was unsuccessfully treating.
That was Marv Carpenter.
Then —
Marv Carpenter sprawled on the ground, his eyes glaring open, limbs stiff, mouth twisted, no air going in or out his nostrils, no beat to his heart. Never again to hold a piece of wood in his large, freckled hands. Never again to feel the small and really unimportant pain in his shoulder that Jan Druggist was —
For just a moment, Tom glimpsed what murder really was. The vision passed, but enough of a memory remained to make him feel sick.
He could live with the thieving. But murder, even in the best interests of the village.
What would people think, after they saw what he had just imagined? How could he live with them? How could he live with himself afterward?
And yet he had to kill. Everybody in the village had a job and that was his.
But whom could he murder?
The excitement started later in the day when the interstellar radio was filled with angry voices.
"Call that a colony? Where's the capital?"
"This is it," the mayor replied.
"Where's your landing field?"
"I think it's being used as a pasture," the mayor said. "I could look up where it was. No ship has landed here in over —"
"The main ship will stay aloft then. Assemble your officials. I am coming down immediately."
The entire village gathered around an open field that the inspector designated. Tom strapped on his weapons and skulked behind a tree, watching.
A small ship detached itself from the big one and dropped swiftly down. It plummeted toward the field while the villagers held their breaths, certain it would crash. At the last moment, jets flared, scorching the grass, and the ship settled gently to the ground.
The mayor edged forward, followed by Billy Painter. A door in the ship opened, and four men marched out. They held shining metallic instruments that Tom knew were weapons. After them came a large, red-faced man dressed in black, wearing four bright medals. He was followed by a little man with a wrinkled face, also dressed in black. Four more uniformed men followed him.
"Welcome to New Delaware," the mayor said.
"Thank you, General," the big man said, shaking the mayor's hand firmly. "I am Inspector Delumaine. This is Mr. Grent, my political adviser."
Grent nodded to the mayor, ignoring his outstretched hand. He was looking at the villagers with an expression of mild disgust.
"We will survey the village," the inspector said, glancing at Grent out of the corner of his eye. Grent nodded. The uniformed guards closed around them.
Tom followed at a safe distance, skulking in true criminal fashion. In the village, he hid behind a house to watch the inspection.
The mayor pointed out, with pardonable pride, the jail, the post office, the church and the little red schoolhouse. The inspector seemed bewildered. Mr. Grent smiled unpleasantly and rubbed his jaw.
"As I thought," he told the inspector. "A waste of time, fuel and a battle cruiser. This place has nothing of value."
"I'm not so sure," the inspector said. He turned to the mayor. "But what did you build them for, General?"
"Why, to be earthly," the mayor said. "We're doing our best, as you can see."
Mr. Grent whispered something in the inspector's ear.
"Tell me," the inspector asked the mayor, "how many young men are there in the village?"
"I beg your pardon?" the mayor said in polite bewilderment.
"Young men between the ages of fifteen and sixty," Mr. Grent explained.
"You see, General, Imperial Mother Earth is engaged in a war. The colonists on Deng IV and some other colonies have turned against their birthright. They are revolting against the absolute authority of Mother Earth."
"I'm sorry to hear that," the mayor sa
id sympathetically.
"We need men for the space fleet," the inspector told him. "Good healthy fighting men. Our reserves are depleted —"
"We wish," Mr. Grent broke in smoothly, "to give all loyal Earth colonists a chance to fight for Imperial Mother Earth. We are sure you won't refuse."
"Oh, no," the mayor said. "Certainly not. I'm sure our young men will be glad — I mean they don't know much about it, but they're all bright boys. They can learn, I guess."
"You see?" the inspector said to Mr. Grent. "Sixty, seventy, perhaps a hundred recruits. Not such a waste after all."
Mr. Grent still looked dubious.
The inspector and his adviser went to the mayor's house for refreshment. Four soldiers accompanied them. The other four walked around the village, helping themselves to anything they found.
Tom hid in the woods nearby to think things over. In the early evening, Mrs. Ed Beer came furtively out of the village. She was a gaunt, grayish-blond middle-aged woman, but she moved quite rapidly in spite of her case of housemaid's knee. She had a basket with her, covered with a red checkered napkin.
"Here's your dinner," she said, as soon as she found Tom.
"Why. thanks," said Tom, taken by surprise, "You didn't have to do that."
"I certainly did. Our tavern is your place of low repute, isn't it? We're responsible for your well-being. And the mayor sent you a message."
Tom looked up, his mouth full of food. "What is it?"
"He said to hurry up with the murder. He's been stalling the inspector and that nasty little Grent man. But they're going to ask him. He's sure of it."
Tom nodded.
"When are you going to do it?" Mrs. Beer asked, cocking her head to one side.
"I mustn't tell you," Tom said.
"Of course you must. I'm a criminal's accomplice," Mrs. Beer leaned closer.
"That's true," Tom admitted thoughtfully. "Well, I'm going to do it tonight. After dark. Tell Billy Painter I'll leave all the fingerprints I can, and any other clues I think of."
"All right, Tom," Mrs. Beer said. "Good luck."
Tom waited for dark, meanwhile watching the village. He noticed that most of the soldiers had been drinking. They swaggered around as though the villagers didn't exist. One of them fired his weapon into the air, frightening all the small, furry grass-eaters for miles around.
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