The judge turned to MacKinnon. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“I certainly have, doctor,” he began eagerly. “There isn’t a word of—”
Bang! The gavel cut him short. A court attendant hurried to MacKinnon’s side and attempted to explain to him the proper form to use in addressing the court. The explanation confused him. In his experience, “judge” naturally implied a medical man—a psychologist skilled in social problems. Nor had he heard of any special speech forms appropriate to a courtroom. But he amended his language as instructed.
“May it please the honorable court, this man is lying. He and his companion robbed me. I was simply—”
“Smugglers generally think they are being robbed when customs officials catch them,” the judge sneered. “Do you deny that you attempted to resist inspection?”
“No, your honor, but—”
“That will do. Penalty of fifty per cent is added to the established scale of duty. Pay the clerk.”
“But, your honor, I can’t—”
“Can’t you pay it?”
“I haven’t any money. I have only my possessions.”
“So?” He turned to the clerk. “Condemnation proceedings. Impound his goods. Ten days for vagrancy. The community can’t have these immigrant paupers roaming at large, and preying on law-abiding citizens. Next case!”
They hustled him quickly away. It took the sound of the key grating in the barred door behind him to make him realize the extent of his predicament.
~ * ~
“Hi, pal, how’s the weather outside?” The detention cell had a prior inmate, a small, well-knit man who looked up from a game of solitaire to address MacKinnon. He sat astraddle a wooden bench on which he had spread his cards, and studied the newcomer with unworried eyes.
“Clear enough outside—but stormy in the courtroom,” MacKinnon answered, trying to adopt the same bantering tone and not succeeding. His mouth hurt him.’
The other swung a leg over the bench and approached him with a light, silent step. “Say, pal, you must ‘a’ caught that in a gear box,” he commented, inspecting MacKinnon’s mouth. “Does it hurt?”
“Like the devil,” MacKinnon admitted.
“We’ll have to do something about that.” He went to the cell door and rattled it, filling the building with the din. “Hey! Lefty! The house is on fire! Come a-runnin’!”
The guard sauntered down and stood opposite their cell door. “Wha’ d’yuh want, Fader?” he said.
“My old school chum has been slapped in the face with a wrench, and the pain is inordinate. Here’s a chance for you to get right with Heaven by oozing down to the dispensary and snagging a dressing and some neoanodyne.”
The guard’s expression was not encouraging. The prisoner looked grieved. “Why, Lefty,” he said, “I thought you would jump at a chance to do a little pure charity like that.” He waited for a moment, then added, “Tell you what—you do it and I’ll show you how to work that puzzle about ‘How old is Ann?’ Is it a go?”
“Show me first.”
“It would take too long. I’ll write it out and give it to you.”
When the guard returned, MacKinnon’s cell mate dressed his wounds with gentle deftness, talking the while. “They call me Fader Magee. What’s your name, pal?”
“David MacKinnon. I’m sorry, but I didn’t quite catch your first name.”
“Fader. It isn’t,” he explained with a grin, “the name my mother gave me. It’s more a professional tribute to my shy and unobtrusive nature.”
MacKinnon looked puzzled. “Professional tribute? What is your profession?”
Magee looked pained. “Why, Dave,” he said, “I didn’t ask you that. However,” he went on, “it’s probably the same as yours—self-preservation.”
Magee was a sympathetic listener, and MacKinnon welcomed the chance to tell someone about his troubles. He related the story of how he had decided to enter Coventry rather than submit to the sentence of the court, and how he had hardly arrived when he was hauled into court.
Magee nodded. “I’m not surprised,” he observed. “A man has to have larceny in his heart or he wouldn’t be a customs guard.”
“But what happens to my belongings?”
“They auction them off to pay the duty.”
“I wonder how much there will be left for me.”
Magee stared at him. “Left over? There won’t be anything left over. You’ll probably have to pay a deficiency judgment.”
“Huh? What’s that?”
“It’s a device whereby the condemned pays for the execution,” Magee explained succinctly, if somewhat obscurely. “What it means to you is that when your ten days are up you’ll still be in debt to the court. Then it’s the chain gang for you. You’ll work it off at a dollar a day.”
“Fader—you’re kidding me.”
“Wait and see. You’ve got a lot to learn, Dave.”
Coventry was an even more complex place than Dave had gathered up to this time. Magee explained to him that there were actually three sovereign, independent jurisdictions. The jail where they were prisoners lay in the so-called New America. It had the forms of democratic government, but the treatment he had already received was a fair sample of how it was administered.
“This place is heaven itself compared with the Free State,” Magee maintained. “I’ve been there.”
The Free State was an absolute dictatorship; the head man of the ruling clique was designated the “Liberator.” Their watchwords were duty and obedience; and arbitrary discipline was enforced with a severity that left no room for any freedom of opinion. Governmental theory was vaguely derived from the old functionalist doctrines. The State was thought of as a single organism with a single head, a single brain, and a single purpose. Anything not compulsory was forbidden.
“Honest, so help me,” claimed Magee, “you can’t go to bed in that place without finding one of their damned secret police between the sheets.”
“But at that,” he continued, “it’s an easier place to live than with the Angels.”
“The Angels?”
“Sure. We still got ‘em. Must’ve been two or three thousand die-hards that chose to go to Coventry after the Revolution—you know that. There’s still a colony up in the hills to the north, complete with Prophet Incarnate and the works. They aren’t bad hombres, but they’ll pray you into heaven even if it kills you.”
All three States had one curious characteristic in common—each one claimed to be the only legal government of the entire United States, and looked forward to some future day when they would reclaim the “unredeemed” portion; i.e., outside Coventry. To the Angels this was an event which would occur when the First Prophet returned to Earth to lead them again. In New America it was hardly more than a convenient campaign plank, to be forgotten after each election. But in the Free State it was a fixed policy.
Pursuant to this purpose there had been a whole series of wars between the Free State and New America. The Liberator held, quite logically, that New America was an unredeemed section, and that it was necessary to bring it under the rule of the Free State before the advantages of their culture could be extended to the outside.
Magee’s words demolished MacKinnon’s dream of finding an anarchistic Utopia within the Barrier, but he could not let his fond illusion die without a protest. “But see here, Fader,” he persisted, “isn’t there some place where a man can live quietly by himself without all this insufferable interference?”