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

The inspector and his adviser went to the mayor’s house for refreshment. Four soldiers accompanied them. The other four walked around the village, helping themselves to anything they found.

Tom hid in the woods nearby to think things over. In the early evening, Mrs. Ed Beer came furtively out of the village. She was a gaunt, grayish-blond middle-aged woman, but she moved quite rapidly in spite of her case of housemaid’s knee. She had a basket with her, covered with a red checkered napkin.

“Here’s your dinner,” she said, as soon as she found Tom.

“Why… thanks,” said Tom, taken by surprise. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I certainly did. Our tavern is your place of low repute, isn’t it? We’re responsible for your wellbeing. And the mayor sent you a message.”

Tom looked up, his mouth full of food. “What is it?”

“He said to hurry up with the murder. He’s been stalling the inspector and that nasty little Grent man. But they’re going to ask him. He’s sure of it.”

Tom nodded.

“When are you going to do it?” Mrs. Beer asked, cocking her head to one side.

“I mustn’t tell you,” Tom said.

“Of course you must. I’m a criminal’s accomplice,” Mrs. Beer leaned closer.

“That’s true,” Tom admitted thoughtfully. “Well, I’m going to do it tonight. After dark. Tell Billy Painter I’ll leave all the fingerprints I can, and any other clues I think of.”

“All right, Tom,” Mrs. Beer said. “Good luck.”

Tom waited for dark, meanwhile watching the village. He noticed that most of the soldiers had been drinking. They swaggered around as though the villagers didn’t exist. One of them fired his weapon into the air, frightening all the small, furry grass-eaters for miles around.

The inspector and Mr. Grent were still in the mayor’s house.

Night came. Tom slipped into the village and stationed himself in an alley between two houses. He drew his knife and waited.

Someone was approaching! He tried to remember his criminal methods, but nothing came. He knew he would just have to do the murder as best he could, and fast.

The person came up, his figure indistinct in the darkness.

“Why, hello, Tom.” It was the mayor. He looked at the knife. “What are you doing?”

“You said there had to be a murder, so —”

“I didn’t mean me,” the mayor said, backing away. “It can’t be me.”

“Why not?” Tom asked.

“Well, for one thing, somebody has to talk to the inspector. He’s waiting for me. Someone has to show him —”

“Billy Painter can do that,” said Tom. He grasped the mayor by the shirt front, raised the knife and aimed for the throat. “Nothing personal, of course,” he added.

“Wait!” the mayor cried. “If there’s nothing personal, then you have no motive!”

Tom lowered the knife, but kept his grasp on the mayor’s shirt. “I guess I can think of one. I’ve been pretty sore about you appointing me criminal.”

“It was the mayor who appointed you, wasn’t it?”

“Well, sure —”

The mayor pulled Tom out of the shadows, into the bright starlight. “Look!”

Tom gaped. The mayor was dressed in long, sharply creased pants and a tunic resplendent with medals. On each shoulder was a double row of ten stars. His hat was thickly crusted with gold braid in the shape of comets.

“You see, Tom? I’m not the mayor any more. I’m a General!”

“What’s that got to do with it? You’re the same person, aren’t you?”

“Not ofifcially. You missed the ceremony this afternoon. The inspector said that since I was officially a general, I had to wear a general’s uniform. It was a very friendly ceremony. All the Earthmen were grinning and winking at me and each other.”

Raising the knife again, Tom held it as he would to gut a fish. “Congratulations,” he said sincerely, “but you were the mayor when you appointed me criminal, so my motive still holds.”

“But you wouldn’t be killing the mayor! You’d be killing a general! And that’s not murder!”

“It isn’t?” Tom asked. “What is it then?”

“Why, killing a general is mutiny!”

“Oh.” Tom put down the knife. He released the mayor. “Sorry.”

“Quite all right,” the mayor said. “Natural error. I’ve read up on it and you haven’t, of course – no need to.” He took a deep breath. “I’d better get back. The inspector wants a list of the men he can draft.”

Tom called out, “Are you sure this murder is necessary?”

“Yes, absolutely,” the mayor said, hurrying away. “Just not me.”

Tom put the knife back in his belt.

Not me, not me. Everyone would feel that way.

Yet somebody had to be murdered. Who? He couldn’t kill himself. That would be suicide, which wouldn’t count.

He began to shiver, trying not to think of the glimpse he’d had of the reality of murder. The job had to be done.

Someone else was coming.

The person came nearer. Tom hunched down, his muscles tightening for the leap.

It was Mrs. Miller, returning home with a bag of vegetables.

Tom told himself that it didn’t matter whether it was Mrs. Miller or anybody else. But he couldn’t help remembering those conversations with his mother. They left him without a motive for killing Mrs. Miller.

She passed by without seeing him.