Citizen in Spase. Stories / Гражданин в Космосе. Рассказы. Книга для чтения на английском языке

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 still 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 ofifcial.

“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 be all 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 needs 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.