The Third Science Fiction Megapack

by E. C. Tubb

  “I’ll say nothing,” he told Clurg. “If you come through.” He took the sheet from the twenty-fifth-century newspaper from Clurg’s hands and put it securely in his own pocket. “When I get those diamonds duplicated,” he said, “I’ll burn this paper and forget the rest. Until then, I want you to stay close to home. I’ll come around in a day or so with the stuff for you to duplicate.”

  Clurg nervously promised.

  * * * *

  The secrecy, of course, didn’t include Betty. He told her when he got home, and she let out a yell of delight. She demanded the newspaper, read it avidly, and then demanded to see Clurg.

  “I don’t think he’ll talk,” Walter said doubtfully. “But if you really want to…”

  She did, and they walked to the Curran bungalow. Clurg was gone, lock, stock and barrel, leaving not a trace behind. They waited for hours, nervously.

  At last Betty said, “He’s gone back.”

  Walter nodded. “He wouldn’t keep his bargain, but by God I’m going to keep mine. Come along. We’re going to the Enterprise.”

  “Walter,” she said. “You wouldn’t—would you?”

  * * * *

  He went alone, after a bitter quarrel.

  At the Enterprise office, he was wearily listened to by a reporter, who wearily looked over the twenty-fifth-century newspaper. “I don’t know what you’re peddling, Mr. Lachlan,” he said, “but we like people to buy their ads in the Enterprise. This is a pretty bare-faced publicity grab.”

  “But—” Walter sputtered.

  “Sam, would you please ask Mr. Morris to come up here if he can?” the reporter was saying into the phone. To Walter he explained, “Mr. Morris is our press-room foreman.”

  The foreman was a huge, white-haired old fellow, partly deaf. The reporter showed him the newspaper from the twenty-fifth century and said, “How about this?”

  Mr. Morris looked at it and smelled it and said, showing no interest in the reading matter: “American Type Foundry Futura number nine, discontinued about ten years ago. It’s been hand-set. The ink—hard to say. Expensive stuff, not a news ink. A book ink, a job-printing ink. The paper, now, I know. A nice linen rag that Benziger jobs in Philadelphia.”

  “You see, Mr. Lachlan? It’s a fake.” The reporter shrugged.

  Walter walked slowly from the city room. The press-room foreman knew. It was a fake. And Clurg was a faker. Suddenly Walter’s heels touched the ground after twenty-four hours and stayed there. Good God, the diamonds! Clurg was a conman! He would have worked a package switch! He would have had thirty thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds for less than a month’s work!

  He told Betty about it when he got home, and she laughed unmercifully. “Time Policeman” was to become a family joke between the Lachlans.

  * * * *

  Harry Twenty-Third Street stood, blinking, in a very peculiar place. Peculiarly, his feet were firmly encased, up to the ankles, in a block of clear plastic.

  There were odd-looking people, and a big voice was saying: “May it please the court. The People of the Twenty-Fifth Century versus Harold Parish, alias Harry Twenty-Third Street, alias Clurg, of the Twentieth Century. The charge is impersonating an officer of the Time Police. The Prosecutor’s Office will ask the death penalty in view of the heinous nature of the offense, which threatens the whole fabric—”

  THE HUMAN EQUATIONS, by Dave Creek

  As many times as I’d been called upon to banish Volatile people to Earth, few of them had ever attacked me.

  The final time it happened was within the New Lancaster Habitat, home to 10,000 New Order Mennonites, known as the “Habitat of the Gentle People.” Moments after I arrived at the farm of Bishop Anna Troyer and her son, Samuel, I knew it contained at least one exception.

  As I stepped onto the porch, I couldn’t help thinking that the Troyer home looked like something out of history: wooden structure, metal gutters, the porch sporting a swing and rocking chairs. An even more primitive-looking building, the barn, stood in the rear. Between them was an electric car, and a larger vehicle that probably harvested the crops. In fields both adjacent to the Troyer home and directly overhead, I could see people working in the sprawling fields scattered troughout the habitat.

  The heat and humidity of the habitat’s interior washed over me. It was only mid-morning and already conditions here were oppressive; why would people work in those fields all day? I wished I could’ve come about a week later when the habitat was due to turn colder. It was a practical measure; the apple, cherry, and pear trees needed that cold snap to blossom.

  I knocked on the flimsy-looking door, which was a thin frame of wood surrounding a fine metal mesh. Out of the shadows within the house, two figures resolved themselves. Bishop Troyer was dressed in a gray one-piece dress beneath an apron of the same color, and wore her snow-white hair up, topped with a finely pleated white hat. I knew she was only middle-aged, about sixty, but her deeply lined face made her look decades older. Being a Mennonite, I thought, must be a rough life. I knew it could even be deadly. Bishop Troyer’s husband Amos had died eight years earlier when a grain harvester rolled over on him—not an uncommon fate for farmers here, apparently.

  Samuel was twenty, broad-shouldered, and with skin burnished by countless hours beneath reflected sunlight. He was wearing a farmer’s overalls and thick-soled boots.

  Bishop Troyer didn’t speak, just glared at me, but she still opened the door—Congregationalist courtesy, no doubt. I stepped inside, grateful for the respite from the heat. “I’m Triage Officer Leo Bakri. I’m here to carry out the Order of Banishment on Samuel Troyer.”

  The only thing that saved me was that although Samuel was big, he wasn’t a trained fighter, and that my New Human reflexes are faster than those of most Volatiles. His right fist swung at my face, and I grabbed it with my right hand and twisted sharply, measuring my force so I wouldn’t break his wrist. Samuel yelped and sank to one knee. I placed my hand on the butt of my stunner but didn’t draw it.

  Bishop Troyer went to her son’s side and held his shoulders. I wondered if she was trying to comfort or restrain her son.

  I felt the chill of perspiration drying on my forehead. The house wasn’t climate-controlled, but it was cooler than the habitat’s current outdoor setting. Too much like a “natural” environment, too uncontrolled, I thought. Why should any environment be uncomfortable for the Humans living in it?

  Bishop Troyer said, “You realize that sending Samuel down there is a certain death sentence?”

  I said, “You know the seriousness of Samuel’s crime.”

  “I still have trouble believing that Samuel would—”

  “Attack someone the way he just attacked me?”

  Samuel looked up at me. “You’re taking me away from my mom, you bastard!”

  “Samuel!” Bishop Troyer said. “Even in such a time, you’ll not use that kind of language.”

  “Mom, he’s taking my life away.”

  I said, “Samuel, you know the law. There are no appeals.

  Bishop Troyer said, “Triage Officer Bakri, you must understand my son doesn’t want to leave his home.”

  In my heart of hearts, I didn’t think his home was anything to fight for. The many shelves and a mantle above the fireplace (now there was a danger!) here in the living room were crowded with, I believed the term was, “knick-knacks.” They included small stylized figurines with vaguely Human form, tiny woven baskets of an unknown (at least to me) significance, and flat, unmoving pictures of loved ones. The paintings on the walls seemed to be originals by talented but untrained artists. The comp in one corner was a bulky console-and-monitor combination.

  Samuel Troyer said, “You didn’t prove anything—”

  I told him, “We have cubes. They show you inside a shop within the Shosha Habitat, assaulting its manager, Saburo Endo.”

  Bishop Troyer stood. She held her hand out to Samuel, who took his place beside her and said, “That’s not evidence to us
. My people don’t use that kind of technology.”

  “With all respect to your beliefs, the Shosha authorities do make decisions based upon that technology. We also have nearly a half-dozen witnesses to the assault against Mr Endo. You know the penalty for traveling to another habitat to commit violence.”

  Samuel Troyer tilted his head and squeezed his eyes shut. “I didn’t go there to commit violence.” Then he looked me right in the eye. “I just wanted to see what it was like somewhere you don’t have to get up in the middle of the night to milk cows. Or spend half your days just growing food. Where you have time to read and to think—”

  Bishop Troyer shook her head. “It looks as if you’ve spent too much time thinking already, and it’s allowed ungodly ideas to get into your head. I never should’ve agreed to that trip. You’re too young. You don’t understand why our way of life is so important to us.”

  Samuel’s voice held a bitterness I guessed he’d been nurturing for some time. “You always said these places were so evil. I wanted to decide for myself. I always expected to come back here. And I did. I wanted to find a way to make a different kind of life for myself here, with you.”

  I said, “You knew you were here only on probation, awaiting your sentence.”

  “On something that wasn’t a crime. I just wanted something nice for my mother.”

  “A gold necklace worth six months pay on Shosha.”

  Bishop Troyer said, “My son had never been to another habitat. He had no concept of a market economy.”

  “You should have taught him, then. To let a Volatile—”

  “I am so sick of hearing Samuel referred to by that term. I suppose you’re what they call a New Human?”

  “I am.” I allowed a little pride to come through in my tone of voice. Nothing wrong with faster reflexes, added strength, or more immunity to disease. Not to mention the moral improvements. Less prone to violence. More inclined to find peaceful solutions. “I’m from Newton Habitat.” Customarily, Banishment Orders were carried out by Triage Officers from habitats other than those involved in the original crime. The Earth-circling habitats have two common rules—live as you wish, but anyone can leave whenever they want. And anyone who commits the slightest physical assault is immediately banished.

  Samuel shook his head. “Great. Not just a New Human, but a scientist. You think you’re better than I am.”

  I shifted my weight from one foot to another. No one seemed likely to offer me a seat. And I wasn’t sure I’d accept it—the Troyers’ living room chairs were wooden, some upholstered with actual cloth, everything apparently hand-crafted. I supposed that was fine if you liked that kind of thing, but it all seemed unnatural and wasteful of time and resources to me. “Statistics show a Volatile is more likely to act inappropriately. A point you helped prove on Shosha.”

  Samuel wiggled his fingers in front of my face. “They were so upset that these hands touched their precious property.”

  “In Shosha, it’s called stealing.”

  “And the shopkeeper—

  “—Mr. Endo—”

  “—was rude. He yelled at me in front of all those people in the market square. And he grabbed my arm so hard it hurt.”

  “You wouldn’t let go of the necklace.”

  Samuel shook his head. “It was mine. I’d picked it up. I tried to tell them I’d send them something in trade later.”

  “That’s when the real crime happened. When you struck Mr. Endo.”

  “He wouldn’t let go of my arm. He started it.”

  I said, “And I’m finishing it. Get your things.”

  Samuel pointed to one of the upholstered chairs. “There’s my bag.” His shoulders slumped, as if having prepared the bag also meant acknowledging his crime. He picked the bag up and stood passively, his attention focused on his mother.

  I told him, “You can see that I’m accustomed to dealing with Volatiles. If you try to assault me or anyone else again, I’m stunning you and carrying you to the port. If you give me your word you won’t be violent, I’ll let your mother come along.”

  Bishop Troyer folded her hands in front of her. “Thank you, Triage Officer.” She looked meaningfully at her son. “We may be plain unaltered Humans, but we won’t be any trouble.”

  I said, “My car’s waiting.”

  * * * *

  I insisted that both Bishop Troyer and Samuel ride in the rear of my borrowed police cruiser. The car mostly drove itself, which let me keep an eye on them on a heads-up vid display.

  As we drove off her property, Bishop Troyer said, “All this for a trinket I wouldn’t have wanted anyway.”

  Samuel said, “The gold was from what you call the good Earth. I know you miss it there, even if you never want to go back. The shopkeeper said it was hand-crafted, not replicated.”

  I said, “They just say that, Samuel. That’s a typical ploy to get a little extra money out of a tourist.”

  Samuel’s mouth gaped open. “He’d lie?”

  “Plenty of shopkeepers in plenty of habitats will do the same thing.”

  Bishop Troyer said, “It’s one reason we chose a different path in this place.”

  New Lancaster Habitat was a typical kilometer-long cylinder, its homes mostly single-family dwellings scattered across a broad landscape of furrowed fields. Most Human colonists brought workbots, nanotech, and grav pallets, along with virtualities and newsnets. They desired the conveniences of Earthly existence even while they sought more living space or the opportunity to form a unique societal structure.

  Not here. Workers harvested timothy and clover in the countless fields that curved upward and met two-tenths of a kilometer overhead. I didn’t understand the pull of such an existence. The repetitive toil, the eternal cycle of artificially-generated seasons with the rituals of planting and harvesting, and all for what?

  I supposed that was why we have dozens of habitats circling the homeworld. Live as you want, without anyone abridging your freedoms.

  But that was just what Samuel Troyer had tried to do to Mr. Endo in Shosha.

  I said, “If Samuel had struck someone here in New Lancaster, it would’ve been a purely internal matter. But it’s gone inter-habitat. It’s the equivalent of a diplomatic incident on Earth.”

  Samuel sat with his hands in his lap, as if waiting for his mother and me to settle this between ourselves. I had to wonder if the anger he’d shown just moments ago had been only momentarily suppressed.

  Bishop Troyer asked, “Can’t you give Samuel some leniency? He’s never been in trouble before.”

  “Could I suggest you render unto Caesar that which is—”

  “That is an inappropriate context for that reference, Triage Officer. And you will not use my religious beliefs as a pretext for taking my son from me.”

  I took a deep breath. “I apologize.”

  Samuel rolled his eyes at that, which I pointed out to Bishop Troyer. “You see his attitude? Haven’t you glimpsed that before?”

  Bishop Troyer cast a hard look at her son. “Only…aimed at me.”

  “With all respect,” I said, “Perhaps Samuel found it all too easy in Shosha, a place where no one knew him, that he could intimidate anyone who challenged him as he committed his mischief. Add to that, not realizing his actions were being recorded in holographic vid and immersion sound.”

  Samuel said, “Perhaps you should take me away. I might finally find respect down there on Earth.”

  Bishop Troyer said, “Don’t even pretend to feel that way. I’m still your mother, I’ll always care for you the way no one else can.”

  I said, “You can still care about your son, Bishop Troyer. He just can’t continue to live here.”

  Bishop Troyer turned a stern visage toward the vid input. “We’re talking about a 20 year old boy who committed an inadvertent theft, and who struck a shopkeeper. Meanwhile, we don’t seem concerned that we’re about to send Samuel down to a planet where some countries still mandate the death penalty f
or non-violent crimes. The PacFed doesn’t believe you have a soul, Triage Officer, or even that Samuel or I do, and it wouldn’t be illegal to kill us for no reason. The Eastern Sword chops the hands off of thieves. Do you need more examples?”

  I said, “A condition of establishing Human habitats in Earth orbit was that we could only ship back malcontents or criminals if a government agreed to take responsibility for them. That makes it difficult for us, but if Samuel doesn’t go to Earth, that would mean someone who committed violence wouldn’t be dealt with. Our entire system will fall apart, in every habitat. Samuel will leave. But he goes somewhere he’s wanted.”

  “What kind of place will have me? What kind of people can I live near?”

  I said, “Most of the world falls into two major categories, culturally.”

  Samuel frowned. “Yes, Euro-American and Afro-Asian. I’ve been to college, thank you.”

  “Your culture here most closely resembles Euro-American. I’ve gotten you a good job on the English Strait. Reclamation duty. They’re desperate for manpower there.”

  Samuel asked, “Manpower? What’s that?”

  “People who perform physical labor, or sometimes skilled tasks.”

  “Why would anyone perform physical labor back on Earth?”

  “Some societies there also reject nanotech, just as your own does.”

  “What if I refused to work? What could they do to me?”

  “You wouldn’t get paid. You wouldn’t be able to buy food or clothes or shelter.”

  “Oh, I see, these are places like Shosha.”

  “Much worse than Shosha. Hard work, very little pay. Hard to get ahead. Harder still to save for old age.”

  “They don’t even take care of old people?”

  “You have to save enough so you can get by when you’re too old to work.”

  We’d arrived at the habitat’s southern cap. I flashed my Triage Services shield at the nearest lift, asking the civilians gathered there to take the next one. I didn’t think Samuel would become violent again, but I wanted to keep things simple.