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

“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. Something 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 ofifcial-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 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 like 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 cold-blooded, ruthless and cunning. You can’t kill someone just because you don’t like the way he walks. That’s silly.”

“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 corner 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.