“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 comer 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 school-house 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. Thirsty, 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 swifdy 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 gendy 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 advisor.”
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 unpleasandy and rubbed his jaw.
“As I thought,” he told the inspector. “A waste of dme, 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 said 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 advisor 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 the 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.
The inspector and Mr. Grent were still in the mayor’s house.
Night came. Tom slipped into the village and stationed himself in an alley between two houses. He drew his knife and waited.
Someone was approaching! He tried to remember his criminal methods, but nothing came. He knew he would just have to do the murder as best he could, and fast.
The person came up, his figure indistinct in the darkness.
“Why, hello, Tom.” It was the mayor. He looked at the knife. “What are you doing?”
“You said there had to be a murder, so—”
“I didn’t mean me,” the mayor said, backing away. “It can’t be me.”
“Why not?” Tom asked.
“Well, for one thing, somebody has to talk to the inspector. He’s waiting for me. Someone has to show him—”
“Billy Painter can do that,” said Tom. He grasped the mayor by the shirt front, raised the knife and aimed for the throat. “Nothing personal, of course,” he added.
“Wait!” the mayor cried. “If there’s nothing personal, then you have no motive!”
Tom lowered the knife, but kept his grasp on the mayor’s shirt. “I guess I can think of one. I’ve been pretty sore about you appointing me criminal.”
“It was the mayor who appointed you, wasn’t it?”
“Well, sure—”
The mayor pulled Tom out of the shadows, into the bright starlight. “Look!”
Tom gaped. The mayor was dressed in long, sharply creased pants and a tunic resplendent with medals. On each shoulder was a double row of ten stars. His hat was thickly crusted with gold braid in the shape of comets.
“You see, Tom? I’m not the mayor any more. I’m a General!”
“What’s that got to do with it? You’re the same person, aren’t you?”
“Not officially. You missed the ceremony this afternoon. The inspector said that since I was officially a general, I had to wear a general’s uniform. It was a very friendly ceremony. All the Earth- men were grinning and winking at me and each other.”
Raising the knife again, Tom held it as he would to gut a fish. “Congratulations,” he said sincerely, “but you were the mayor when you appointed me criminal, so my motive still holds.”
“But you wouldn’t be killing the mayor! You’d be killing a general! And that’s not murder!”
“It isn’t?” Tom asked. “What is it then?”
“Why, killing a general is mutiny!”
“Oh.” Tom put down the knife. He released the mayor. “Sorry.”
“Quite all right,” the mayor said. “Natural error. I’ve read up on it and you haven’t, of course—no need to.” He took a deep breath. “I’d better get back. The inspector wants a list of the men he can draft.”
Tom called out, “Are you sure this murder is necessary?”
“Yes, absolutely,” the mayor said, hurrying away. “Just not me.”
Tom put the knife back in his belt.
Not me, not me. Everyone would feel that way. Yet somebody had to be murdered. Who? He couldn’t kill himself. That would be suicide, which wouldn’t count.
He began to shiver, trying not to think of the glimpse he’d had of the reality of murder. The job had to be done.
Someone else was coming!
The person came nearer. Tom hunched down, his muscles tightening for the leap.
It was Mrs. Miller, returning home with a bag of vegetables.
Tom told himself that it didn’t matter whether it was Mrs. Miller or anybody else. But he couldn’t help remembering those conversations with his mother. They left him without a motive for killing Mrs. Miller.
She passed by without seeing him.
He waited for half an hour. Another person walked through the dark alley between the houses. Tom recognized him as Max Weaver.
Tom had always liked him. But that didn’t mean there couldn’t be a motive. All he could come up with, though, was that Max had a wife and five children who loved him and would miss him. Tom didn’t want Billy Painter to tell him that that was no motive. He drew deeper into the shadow and let Max go safely by.
The three Carpenter boys came along. Tom had painfully been through that already. He let them pass. Then Roger Waterman approached.
He had no real motive for killing Roger, but he had never been especially friendly with him. Besides, Roger had no children and his wife wasn’t fond of him. Would that be enough for Billy Painter to work on?
He knew it wouldn’t be…and the same was true of all the villagers. He had grown up with these people, shared food and work and fun and grief with them. How could he possibly have a motive for killing any of them?
But he had to commit a murder. His skulking permit required it. He couldn’t let the village down. But neither could he kill the people he had known all his life.
Wait, he told himself in sudden excitement. He could kill the inspector!
Motive? Why, it would be an even more heinous crime than murdering the mayor—except that the mayor was a general now, of course, and that would only be mutiny. But even if the mayor were still mayor, the inspector would be a far more important victim. Tom would be killing for glory, for fame, for notoriety. And the murder would show Earth how Earthly the colony really was. They would say, “Crime is so bad on New Delaware that it’s hardly safe to land there. A criminal actually killed our inspector on the very first day! Worst criminal we’ve come across in all space.”
It would be the most spectacular crime he could commit, Tom realized, just the sort of a thing a master criminal would do.
Feeling proud of himself for the first time in a long while, Tom hurried out of the alley and over to the mayor’s house. He could hear conversation going on inside.
“…sufficiently passive population,” Mr. Grent was saying. “Sheeplike, in fact.”
“Makes it rather boring,” the inspector answered. “For the soldiers especially.”
“Well, what do you expect from backward agrarians? At least we’re getting some recruits out of it.” Mr. Grent yawned audibly. “On your feet, guards. We’re going back to the ship.”
Guards! Tom had forgotten about them. He looked doubtfully at his knife. Even if he sprang at the inspector, the guards would probably stop him before the murder could be committed. They must have been trained for just that sort of thing.
But if he had one of their own weapons….
He heard the shuffling of feet inside. Tom hurried back into the village.
Near the market, he saw a soldier sitting on a doorstep, singing drunkenly to himself. Two empty bottles lay at his feet and his weapon was slung sloppily over his shoulder.
Tom crept up, drew his blackjack and took aim.
The soldier must have glimpsed his shadow. He leaped to his feet, ducking the stroke of the blackjack. In the same motion, he jabbed with his slung rifle, catching Tom in the ribs, tore the rifle from his shoulder and aimed. Tom closed his eyes and lashed out with both feet
He caught the soldier on the knee, knocking him over. Before he could get up, Tom swung the blackjack.
Tom felt the soldier’s pulse—no sense killing the wrong man—and found it satisfactory. He took the weapon, checked to make sure he knew which button to push, and hastened after the inspector.
Halfway to the ship, he caught up with them. The insp
ector and Grent were walking ahead, the soldiers straggling behind.
Tom moved into the underbrush. He trotted silently along until he was opposite Grent and the inspector. He took aim and his finger tightened on the trigger….
He didn’t want to kill Grent, though. He was supposed to commit only one murder.
He ran on, past the inspector’s party, and came out on the road in front of them. His weapon was poised as the party reached him.
“What’s this?” the inspector demanded.
“Stand still,” Tom said. The rest of you drop your weapons and move out of the way.”
The soldiers moved like men in shock. One by one they dropped their weapons and retreated to the underbrush. Grent held his ground.
“What are you doing, boy?” he asked.
“I’m the town criminal,” Tom stated proudly. “I’m going to kill the inspector. Please move out of the way.”
Grent stared at him. “Criminal? So that’s what the mayor was prattling about.”
“I know we haven’t had any murder in two hundred years,” Tom explained, “but I’m changing that right now. Move out of the way!”
Grent leaped out of the line of fire. The inspector stood alone, swaying slightly.
Tom took aim, trying to think about the spectacular nature of his crime and its social value. But he saw the inspector on the ground, eyes glaring open, limbs stiff, mouth twisted, no air going in or out the nostrils, no beat to the heart.
He tried to force his finger to close on the trigger. His mind could talk all it wished about the desirability of crime; his hand knew better.
“I can’t!” Tom shouted.
He threw down the gun and sprinted into the underbrush.
The inspector wanted to send a search party out for Tom and hang him on the spot. Mr. Grent didn’t agree. New Delaware was all forest. Ten thousand men couldn’t have caught a fugitive in the forest, if he didn’t want to be caught.
The mayor and several villagers came out, to find out about the commotion. The soldiers formed a hollow square around the inspector and Mr. Grent. They stood with weapons ready, their faces set and serious.
And the mayor explained everything. The village’s uncivilized lack of crime. The job that Tom had been given. How ashamed they were that he had been unable to handle it.
Citizen in Space Page 19
