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

He waited for half an hour. Another person walked through the dark alley between the houses. Tom recognized him as Max Weaver.

Tom had always liked him. But that didn’t mean there couldn’t be a motive. All he could come up with, though, was that Max had a wife and five children who loved him and would miss him. Tom didn’t want Billy Painter to tell him that that was no motive. He drew deeper into the shadow and let Max go safely by.

The three Carpenter boys came along. Tom had painfully been through that already. He let them pass. Then Roger Waterman approached.

He had no real motive for killing Roger, but he had never been especially friendly with him. Besides, Roger had no children and his wife wasn’t fond of him. Would that be enough for Billy Painter to work on?

He knew it wouldn’t be… and the same was true of all the villagers. He had grown up with these people, shared food and work and fun and grief with them. How could he possibly have a motive for killing any of them?

But he had to commit a murder. His skulking permit required it. He couldn’t let the village down. But neither could he kill the people he had known all his life.

Wait, he told himself in sudden excitement. He could kill the inspector!

Motive? Why, it would be an even more heinous crime than murdering the mayor – except that the mayor was a general now, of course, and that would only be mutiny. But even if the mayor were still mayor, the inspector would be a far more important victim. Tom would be killing for glory, for fame, for notoriety. And the murder would show Earth how earthly the colony really was. They would say, “Crime is so bad on New Delaware that it’s hardly safe to land there. A criminal actually killed our inspector on the very first day! Worst criminal we’ve come across in all space.”

It would be the most spectacular crime he could commit, Tom realized, just the sort of thing a master criminal would do.

Feeling proud of himself for the first time in a long while, Tom hurried out of the alley and over to the mayor’s house. He could hear conversation going on inside.

“…sufficiently passive population,” Mr. Grent was saying, “Sheeplike, in fact.”

“Makes it rather boring,” the inspector answered. “For the soldiers especially.”

“Well, what do you expect from backward agrarians? At least we’re getting some recruits out of it.” Mr. Grent yawned audibly. “On your feet, guards. We’re going back to the ship.”

Guards! Tom had forgotten about them. He looked doubtfully at his knife. Even if he sprang at the inspector, the guards would probably stop him before the murder could be committed. They must have been trained for just that sort of thing.

But if he had one of their own weapons…

He heard the shufling of feet inside. Tom hurried back into the village.

Near the market, he saw a soldier sitting on a doorstep, singing drunkenly to himself. Two empty bottles lay at his feet and his weapon was slung sloppily over his shoulder.

Tom crept up, drew his blackjack and took aim.

The soldier must have glimpsed his shadow. He leaped to his feet, ducking the stroke of the blackjack. In the same motion, he jabbed with his slung rifle, catching Tom in the ribs, tore the rifle from his shoulder and aimed. Tom closed his eyes and lashed out with both feet.

He caught the soldier on the knee, knocking him over. Before he could get up, Tom swung the blackjack.

Tom felt the soldier’s pulse – no sense killing the wrong man – and found it satisfactory. He took the weapon, checked to make sure he knew which button to push, and hastened after the inspector.

Halfway to the ship, he caught up with them. The inspector and Grent were walking ahead, the soldiers straggling behind.

Tom moved into the underbrush. He trotted silently along until he was opposite Grent and the inspector. He took aim and his finger tightened on the trigger…

He didn’t want to kill Grent, though. He was supposed to commit only one murder.

He ran on, past the inspector’s party, and came out on the road in front of them. His weapon was poised as the party reached him.

“What’s this?” the inspector demanded.

“Stand still,” Tom said. “The rest of you drop your weapons and move out of the way.”

The soldiers moved like men in shock. One by one they dropped their weapons and retreated to the underbrush. Grent held his ground.

“What are you doing, boy?” he asked.

“I’m the town criminal,” Tom stated proudly.

“I’m going to kill the inspector. Please move out of the way.”

Grent stared at him. “Criminal? So that’s what the mayor was prattling about.”

“I know we haven’t had any murder in two hundred years,” Tom explained, “but I’m changing that right now. Move out of the way!”

Grent leaped out of the line of fire. The inspector stood alone, swaying slightly.

Tom took aim, trying to think about the spectacular nature of his crime and its social value. But he saw the inspector on the ground, eyes glaring open, limbs stiff, mouth twisted, no air going in or out the nostrils, no beat to the heart.