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

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 schoolhouse 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. Thristy, 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 swiftly 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 gently 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 adviser.”

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 unpleasantly and rubbed his jaw.

“As I thought,” he told the inspector. “A waste of time, 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.