"I don't see why there has to be a criminal," Tom said.
"That's a very important part of Earth society," the mayor explained. "All the books agree on it. The criminal is as important as the postman, say, or the police chief. Unlike them, the criminal is engaged in anti-social work. He works against society, Tom. If you don't have people working against society, how can you have people working for it? There'd be no jobs for them to do."
Tom shook his head. "I just don't see it."
"Be reasonable, Tom. We have to have earthly things. Like paved roads. All the books mention that. And churches, and schoolhouses, and jails. And all the books mention crime."
"I won't do it," Tom said.
"Put yourself in my position," the mayor begged. "This inspector comes and meets Billy Painter, our police chief. He asks to see the jail. Then he says, 'No prisoners? I answer, 'Of course not. We don't have any crime here. 'No crime? he says. 'But Earth colonies always have crime. You know that. 'We don't', I answer. 'Didn't even know what it was until we looked up the word last week. 'Then why did you build a jail? he asks me. 'Why did you appoint a police chief? "
The mayor paused for breath. "You see? The whole thing falls through. He sees at once that we're not truly earthlike. We're faking it. We're aliens!"
"Hmm," Tom said, impressed in spite of himself.
"This way," the mayor went on quickly, "I can say, 'Certainly we've got crime here, just like on Earth. We've got a combination thief and murderer. Poor fellow had a bad upbringing and he's maladjusted. Our police chief has some clues, though. We expect an arrest within twenty-four hours. We'll lock him in the jail, then rehabilitate him."
"What's rehabilitate?" Tom asked.
"I'm not sure. I'll worry about that when I come to it. But now do you see how necessary crime is?"
"I suppose so. But why me?"
"Can't spare anyone else. And you've got narrow eyes. Criminals always have narrow eyes."
"They aren't that narrow. They're no narrower than Ed Weaver's —"
"Tom, please," the mayor said. "We're all doing our part. You want to help, don't you?"
"I suppose so," Tom repeated wearily.
"Fine. You're our criminal. Here, this makes it legal." He handed Tom a document. It read: SKULKING PERMIT. Know all Men by these Presents that Tom Fisher is a Duly Authorized Thief and Murderer. He is hereby required to Skulk in Dismal Alleys, Haunt Places of Low Repute, and Break the Law.
Tom read it through twice, then asked, "What law?"
"I'll let you know as fast as I make them up," the mayor said. "All Earth colonies have laws."
"But what do I do?"
"You steal. And kill. That should be easy enough." The mayor walked to his bookcase and took down ancient volumes entitled The Criminal and his Environment, Psychology of the Slayer, and Studies in Thief Motivation.
"These'll give you everything you need to know. Steal as much as you like. One murder should be enough, though. No sense overdoing it."
"Right," Tom nodded. "I guess I'll catch on." He picked up the books and returned to his cottage. It was very hot and all the talk about crime had puzzled and wearied him. He lay down on his bed and began to go through the ancient books.
There was a knock on his door. "Come in," Tom called, rubbing his tired eyes. Marv Carpenter, oldest and tallest of the red-headed Carpenter boys, came in, followed by old Jed Farmer. They were carrying a small sack.
"You the town criminal, Tom?" Marv asked.
"Looks like it."
"Then this is for you." They put the sack on the floor and took from it a hatchet, two knives, a short spear, a club and a blackjack.
"What's all that?" Tom asked, sitting upright.
"Weapons, of course," Jed Farmer said testily. "You can't be a real criminal without weapons."
Tom scratched his head. "Is that a fact?"
"You'd better start figuring these things out for yourself," Farmer went on in his impatient voice. "Can't expect us to do everything for you."
Marv Carpenter winked at Tom. "Jed's sore because the mayor made him our postman."
"I'll do my part," Jed said. "I just don't like having to write all those letters."
"Can't be too hard," Marv Carpenter said, grinning. "The postmen do it on Earth and they got a lot more people there. Gook luck, Tom."
They left.
Tom bent down and examined the weapons. He knew what they were; the old books were full of them. But no one had ever actually used a weapon on New Delaware. The only native animals on the planet were small, furry, and confirmed eaters of grass. As for turning a weapon on a fellow villager — why would anybody want to do that?
He picked up one of the knives. It was cold. He touched the point. It was sharp.
Tom began to pace the floor, staring at the weapons. They gave him a queer sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He decided he had been hasty in accepting the job.
But there was no sense worrying about it yet. He still had those books to read. After that, perhaps he could make some sense out of the whole thing.
He read for several hours, stopping only to eat a light lunch. The books were understandable enough; the various criminal methods were clearly explained, sometimes with diagrams. But the whole thing was unreasonable. What was the purpose of crime? Whom did it benefit? What did people get out of it?
The books didn't explain that. He leafed through them, looking at the photographed faces of criminals.. They looked very serious and dedicated, extremely conscious of the significance of their work to society.
Tom wished he could find out what that significance was. It would probably make things much easier.
"Tom?" he heard the mayor call from outside.
"I'm in here, Mayor," Tom said.
The door opened and the mayor peered in. Behind him were Jane Farmer, Mary Waterman and Alice Cook. "How about it, Tom?" the mayor asked.
"How about what?"
"How about getting to work?"
Tom grinned self-consciously. "I was going to," he said. "I was reading these books, trying to figure out —"
The three middle-aged ladies glared at him, and Tom stopped in embarrassment.
"You're taking your time reading," Alice Cook said. "Everyone else is outside working," said Jane Farmer.
"What's so hard about stealing?" Mary Waterman challenged.
"It's true," the mayor told him. "That inspector might be here any day now and we don't have a crime to show him."
"All right, all right," Tom said.
He stuck a knife and a blackjack in his belt, put the sack in his pocket — for loot — and stalked out.
But where was he going? It was mid-afternoon. The market, which was the most logical place to rob, would be empty until evening. Besides, he didn't want to commit a robbery in daylight. It seemed unprofessional.
He opened his skulking permit and read it through. Required to Haunt Places of Low Repute .
That was it! He'd haunt a low repute place. He could form some plans there, get into the mood of the thing. But unfortunately, the village didn't have much to choose from. There was the Tiny Restaurant, run by the widowed Ames sisters, there was Jeff Hern's Lounging Spot, and finally there was Ed Beer's Tavern.
Ed's place would have to do.
The tavern was a cottage much like the other cottages in the village. It had one big room for guests, a kitchen, and family sleeping quarters. Ed's wife did the cooking and kept the place as clean as she could, considering her ailing back. Ed served the drinks. He was a pale, sleepy-eyed man with a talent for worrying.
"Hello, Tom," Ed said. "Hear you're our criminal."
"That's right," said Tom. "I'll take a perricola."