Rite of Passage

by Alexei Panshin

  “It been’t a simple thing,” he said. “These be bad times. Now and again when you decide to stop, we see you people from the Ships. You be not poor or backward like us. When we be dropped here, there been no scientists or technicians amongst us. I can understand. Why should they leave the last places where they had a chance to use and develop their knowledge for a place like this where there be no equipment, no opportunity? But what be felt here be that all the men who survived the end of Earth be the equal heirs of man’s knowledge and accomplishment. But things be not that way. So when times be good the Ships be hated and ignored. When times be bad, people from the Ships when known be treated as you have been or worse.”

  I could understand what he said, but I couldn’t really understand it.

  I said, “But we don’t hurt anybody. We just live like anybody else.”

  “I don’t hold you to blame,” Mr. Kutsov said slowly, “but I can’t help but to feel that you have made a mistake and that it will hurt you in the end.”

  After I felt better, I had the run of Mr. Kutsov’s house. It was a small place near the edge of Forton, a neat little house surrounded by trees and a small garden. Mr. Kutsov lived alone, and when it wasn’t raining he worked in his garden. When it was, he came inside to his books. He used his wagon to make a regular trip to the coast and back once every two weeks. It wasn’t a very profitable business, but he said that at his age profit was no longer very important. I don’t know whether he meant it or not.

  He took my clothes away, saying they weren’t appropriate for a girl, and in their place he brought me some clothes that were more locally acceptable. They were about the right length, but they were loose under the arms as though they had been meant for somebody who was broader than I.

  “There,” he said. “That be better.” But I had to take them in a little before they fit.

  I had the run of the house, but I wasn’t allowed outside. In some ways this wasn’t so bad because it rained, it seemed, two days in three and the third day it threatened to. I kept busy. Mr. Kutsov continued to tutor me until he at last decided that if I was careful I could get by in polite society. When Mr. Kutsov was outside, I prowled around the house.

  Mr. Kutsov had a good library of books and I looked through them, in the process finding a number of very interesting things. History—the Losels’ natural home was on a continent to the west where they had been discovered one hundred years earlier. Since that time they had been brought over by the shipload and used for simple manual labor. There had previously been no native population of Losels on this continent. Now, in addition to those owned and used for work, there was a small but growing number of Losels running wild in the back country. Most of the opinions I read granted them no particular intelligence, citing their inability to do anything beyond the simplest sort of labor, their lack of fire, and their lack of language. For my part, I remembered what Mr. Kutsov had said about the ability of the wild ones to recognize their particular enemies and that didn’t seem stupid to me at all. In fact, I was relieved that I had come off so well from my encounter with one that second day.

  Geography—I oriented myself by Mr. Kutsov’s maps and I tentatively tried to copy them.

  And I found a book that Mr. Kutsov had written himself. It was an old book, a novel called The White Way. It was not completely successful—it tried to do too many things other than tell a story—but it was far better than my brother Joe’s book.

  When I found it, I showed it to Mr. Kutsov and he admitted that it was his.

  “It took me forty years to write it, and I have spent forty-two years since then living with the political repercussions. It has been an interesting forty-two years, but I be not sure that I would do it again. Read the book if you be interested.”

  There were politics in the book, and from something else Mr. Kutsov said in passing, I got the impression that the simple, physical job he held was in part a result. Politics are funny.

  I found two other things. I found my clothes where Mr. Kutsov had hidden them and I found the answer to a question that I didn’t ask Mr. Kutsov in one of his newspapers. The last sentence of the story read, “After sentencing, Dentermount been sent to the Territorial Jail in Forton to serve his three-month term.”

  The charge was Trespassing. I thought Incitement to Riot would have been better, and that the least they could do would be to spell his name correctly. Trust it to be Jimmy.

  So when I got the chance, I put on my own clothes and my coat and snuck into town. Before I came home I found out where the jail was. On the way, I passed Horst Fanger’s place of business. It was a house, pen, shed, stable, and auction block in the worst quarter of town. From what I gathered, it was the worst quarter of town because Horst Fanger and similar people lived there.

  When I came back, Mr. Kutsov was very angry with me. “It been’t right,” he said, “going on the streets dressed like that. It been’t right for women.” He kept a fairly close eye on me for several days after that until I convinced him that I now knew better.

  It was during the next two days, while I was being good, that I found the portrait. It showed Mr. Kutsov and a younger man and woman, and a little girl. The little girl was about my size, but much more stocky. Her hair was dark brown. It was obviously a family picture and I asked him about it.

  He looked very grave and the only thing he said was, “They all be dead.” That was all. I couldn’t help but think that the picture might have something to do with his keeping me, and beyond that to his keeping me close at hand. Mr. Kutsov was a nice and intelligent old man, but there was something that was either unexplainable or irrational about the way he treated me. He expected me to stay in his house, though he should have known that I wouldn’t and couldn’t stay. When I ran off, he was unhappy, but then it was pathetic how little assurance it took before things were all right again. I think he was telling himself lies. He must have been telling himself lies. He was already preparing to make another wagon trip. His old-fashioned nature wouldn’t allow him to take me along, so quite happily he made plans for me to stay alone in the house until he got back. He told me where things were and what to do if I ran out of butter and eggs. I nodded and he was pleased.

  When he went off to arrange his wagon load one afternoon, I went off to town again. To reach the jail, I had to walk across most of the town. Although it was the Territorial Capital, it was still a town and not a city, not as I understood the word. It was a raw, unpleasant day, the sort that makes me hate planets, and rain was threatening when I reached the jail. It was a solid, three-story building of great stone blocks, shaped like a fortress and protected by an iron spike fence. All the windows, from the cellar to the top floor, were double-barred. I walked around the building as I had before and looked it over again. It seemed impregnable. Between the fence and the building was a run in which patrolled two large, hairy, and vicious-looking dogs. One of them followed me all the way around the building.

  As I was about to start around again, the rain started. It gave me the impetus I needed, and I ran for the front door and dodged into the entrance.

  I was standing there, shaking the rain off, when a man in a green uniform came stalking out of one of the offices that lined the first-floor hallway. My heart stopped for a moment, but he barely glanced at me and went right on by and up the stairs to the second floor. That gave me some confidence and so I started poking around.

  I looked at the bulletin boards and the offices on one side of the hall when another man in green came into the hall and made straight for me, much like Mrs. Keithley. I didn’t wait, but walked toward him, too.

  I said, as wide-eyed and innocently as I could, “Can you help me, sir?”

  “Well, that depends. What sort of help do you need?”

  He was a big, rather slow man with one angled cloth bar on his shirt front over one pocket, and a plate that said “Robards” pinned over the pocket on the other side. He seemed good-natured and un-Keithley-like.

  “Wel
l, Jerry had to write about the capitol, and Jimmy had to interview the town manager, and I got you.”

  “Hold on there. First, what be your name?”

  “Billy Davidow,” I said. I picked the last name out of a newspaper story. “And I don’t know what to write, sir, so I thought I’d ask one of you to show me around and tell me things. That be, if you would.”

  “Any relation to Hobar Davidow?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” I said.

  “That be good. Do you know who Hobar Davidow be?”

  I shook my head.

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t. That would be a little before you. We executed him six, no, seven years ago. Mixed in the wrong politics.” Then he said, “Well, I be sorry, son. We be pretty caught up today. Could you come back some afternoon later in the week, or maybe some evening?”

  I said slowly, “I have to hand the paper in this week.” Then I waited.

  After a minute he said, “All right. I’ll take you around. But I can’t spare you much time. It will have to be a quick tour.”

  The offices were on the first floor, with a few more on the third. The arsenal and target range were in the basement. Most of the cells were on the second, and the very rough people were celled on the third.

  “If the judge says maximum security, they go on the third, everybody else on the second unless we have an overflow. We have one boy up there now.”

  My heart sank.

  “A real bad actor. He has already killed one man.”

  My heart came back to normal. That, for certain, wasn’t Jimmy and his trespassing.

  Maximum security had three sets of barred doors before you got to the cells, as well as armed guards covering the block and the doors from wall stations. The halls were lit with oil lamps and the light was warm and yellow. We didn’t go beyond the first door. Sgt. Robards just pointed and told me what things were like.

  “By this time next week, it will all be full in here,” he said sadly. “The Anti-Redemptionists be getting out of hand again and they be going to cool them off. Uh, don’t put that in your paper.”

  “Oh, I won’t,” I said, crossing off what I was writing.

  The ordinary cells on the second floor were a much simpler affair and I got a guided tour of them. I walked down the corridor between the ranks of cells right beside Sgt. Robards and looked at every prisoner. I stared right at Jimmy Dentremont’s face and he didn’t even seem to notice me. He’s a smart, lovely boy.

  Sgt. Robards said, waving a hand at the cells, “These be all short-timers here. Just a week or a month or two to serve.” He jingled his keys. “I be letting them out soon enough.”

  “Do they give you any trouble?” I asked.

  “These? Not these. They don’t have long enough to serve. They all be on good behavior. Most of the time, anyway.”

  When we finished, I thanked Sgt. Robards enthusiastically. “It sure has been swell, sir.”

  He smiled. “Not at all son,” he said. “I enjoyed it myself. If you have time, drop by again when I have the duty. My schedule be on the bulletin board.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “Maybe I will.”

  I ran back home through the rain and when Mr. Kutsov got home about an hour later I was dry, dressed in proper clothes, and reading a book.

  Chapter 17

  BEFORE I SCOUTED THE JAIL, I had only vague notions of what I could do to get Jimmy free. I had, for instance, spent an hour or so toying with the idea of forcing the Territorial Governor at the point of a gun to release Jimmy. I spent that much time with it because the idea was fun to think about, but I dropped it because it was stupid.

  I finally decided on a very simple course of action. It seemed quite possible that it might go wrong, but I didn’t have a great many days left and I had to bring this off by myself. Before I left the jail building, I looked very closely at the duty schedule, just as Sgt. Robards had recommended.

  Mr. Kutsov left in the afternoon two days later, his wagon loaded.

  “I be back in six days, Mia,” he said. “Now you know exactly what to do, don’t you?”

  I reassured him, and I stood at the back door of the house as he drove off, dressed in pink because I knew he liked it, and waved goodbye. Then I went back into the house. I sat down and wrote a note to Mr. Kutsov. I didn’t tell him what I was going to do because I thought it might distress him, but I thanked him for all that he had done for me. I left the note in the library where he would be sure to find it. I was sorry to do it to him because I knew it would make him unhappy, but I couldn’t stay.

  Then I went into the kitchen and started getting food together. I picked out things I thought we would need like matches, candles, a knife, and a hatchet, and I made up a package. Finally, I changed into my own clothes.

  I set out just after dark. It was raining lightly in the night and the spray on my face felt surprisingly good. I carried paper and pencil in one pocket as before for protective coverage. In the other pocket of my coat I had a single sock, several stout pieces of line, and matches.

  This is the way I had it figured. The jail was a strong place—bars, guards, dogs, guns, and spiked fences. These were primarily designed to keep in jail the people who were supposed to be in jail. They weren’t designed to keep people out.

  In the Western-cowboy stories I used to read in the Ship, people were always breaking into jails to let somebody out. It was a common thing, an expected part of day-to-day life. But I couldn’t imagine that people here made any sort of practice of breaking into jails. It wouldn’t be expected, and that was one advantage I had. I knew whom I was up against. I knew the layout of the jail. And when I walked into the jail, nobody was going to see a desperate character intent on busting a prisoner out—they were going to see a little eager schoolboy. I think that was the biggest advantage. People do see what they expect to see.

  On the other hand, all I had was me, a not-always-effective hell on wheels. If I didn’t do things exactly right, if I weren’t lucky, I would be in jail right beside Jimmy, probably on the third floor.

  Just before I got to the jail I stopped and knelt on the wet ground. I took out the sock and I filled it with sand until it was about half full.

  I didn’t hesitate then. I went right into the jail. There were warm oil lights in only two of the main floor offices. I looked in the first and Sgt. Robards was there.

  “Hello, Sgt. Robards,” I said, going in. “How be you tonight?”

  “Hello, Billy,” he said. “It be pretty slow tonight down here. Won’t be later, though.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. They pick up the Anti-Redemptionists tonight. The boys just went out. You won’t be able to stay long.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “How did your paper go?”

  I had to backtrack for a moment. Then I said, “I finished it this afternoon. I’ll turn it in tomorrow.”

  “Found out everything you want to know?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “I just came by to visit tonight. You know when you showed me the target range? That been neat. I thought if you had time you might shoot for me like you said.”

  He looked at the clock. Then he said, “Sure. I be local champion, you know.”

  “Gee,” I said, just like some of the fatuous boys I know.

  We went downstairs, Sgt. Robards leading the way with a lamp. He was picking out the key to the target range when I pulled out my sock. I hesitated for a moment because it isn’t easy to deliberately set out to hurt somebody, but then he started to turn his head to say something. So I swung as hard as I could and the sand hit him wetly across the back of the neck. He crumpled. He was too heavy for me to catch, but I pushed him against the door and then managed to get him to the floor without dropping him on his face. I left the lamp on the floor where he had set it.

  The weapons room was across the hall. I took the keys from the floor by Sgt. Robards’s hand and tried the ones on either side of the one he had picked out for the target room doo
r. The door opened on the second try. I left it open and went back to Sgt. Robards, lying on the floor. I grabbed his collar and his coat and heaved him, then heaved him again, and eventually got his dead weight across the floor and into the weapons room. I got out my line and tied his elbows and knees. I emptied the sand out of the sock onto the floor, and then shoved the sock into his mouth. My heart was pounding and my breath was coming fast as I went back for the lamp.

  Then I turned to the weapons rack. I took a hurried look over them. There was nothing modern, of course, only powder-and-lead antiques like those in the old books. I’d never fired one, but I understood that they didn’t hold still when you shot them—for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and all that—so I picked out a pair of the smallest guns they had. I tested the ammunition until I found the right kind of bullets, and then I put the guns and a number of the bullets in my pocket.

  I swung the door shut and locked it again, leaving Sgt. Robards inside. I stood then for a moment in the hallway with the keys in my hand. There were ten of them, not enough to cover each individual cell, yet Sgt. Robards had clinked his keys and said that he could unlock the cells. Maybe I would have done better to stick up the Territorial Governor.

  My heart pounding, I blew out the light and started upstairs. I eased up to the first floor. Nobody was there. Then I went carefully up the wooden stairs to the second floor. It was dark there, but a little light leaked up from the first floor and down from the third. There were voices on the third floor, and somebody laughed up there. I held my breath and moved quietly to Jimmy’s cell.

  I whispered, “Jimmy!” and he came alert and moved to the door of the cell.

  “Am I glad to see you,” he whispered back.

  I said, “I have the keys. Which one fits?”

  “The key marked ‘D.’ It fits the four cells here in the corner.”