“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 Hem’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 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 sdll 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 all be 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 n
eeds 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 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 butter- fingers. He reached out, took the shirt and stuffed it into the loot bag. The crowd cheered.
Tom smiled faintly, feeling a little 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.
Quickly Tom checked his weapons, emptied his loot sack and walked out.
The last rush 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 Hem’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 Hem 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,” Marv 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. Som
ething 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 too 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 a 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 from 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 coldblooded, ruthless and cunning. You can’t kill someone just because you don’t like the way he walks. That’s silly.”
Citizen in Space Page 18
