"I suppose we should have one," Tom admitted. "Ill take care of it." He headed for his cottage. The crowd gave a rousing cheer as he departed.
At home, Tom lighted a rush lamp and fixed himself supper. After eating, he sat for a long time in his big armchair. He was dissatisfied with himself. He had not really handled the stealing well. All day he had worried and hesitated. People had practically had to put things in his hands before he could take them.
A fine thief he was!
And there was no excuse for it. Stealing and murdering were like any other necessary jobs. Just because he had never done them before, just because he could see no sense to them, that was no reason to bungle them.
He walked to the door. It was a fine night, illuminated by a dozen nearby giant stars. The market was deserted again and the village lights were winking out.
This was the time to steal!
A thrill ran through him at the thought. He was proud of himself. That was how criminals planned and this was how stealing should be — skulking, late at night.
Quickly Tom checked his weapons, emptied his loot sack and walked out.
The last rash lights were extinguished. Tom moved noiselessly through the village. He came to Roger Waterman's house. Big Roger had left his spade propped against a wall. Tom picked it up. Down the block, Mrs. Weaver's water jug was in its usual place beside the front door. Tom took it. On his way home, he found a little wooden horse that some child had forgotten. It went with the rest.
He was pleasantly exhilarated, once the goods were safely home. He decided to make another haul.
This time he returned with a bronze plaque from the mayor's house, Marv Carpenter's best saw, and Jed Farmer's sickle.
"Not bad," he told himself. He was catching on. One more load would constitute a good night's work.
This time he found a hammer and chisel in Ron Stone's shed, and a reed basket at Alice Cook's house. He was about to take Jeff Hern's rake when he heard a faint noise. He flattened himself against a wall.
Billy Painter came prowling quietly along, his badge gleaming in the starlight. In one hand, he carried a short, heavy club; in the other, a pair of homemade handcuffs. In the dim light, his face was ominous. It was the face of a man who had pledged himself against crime, even though he wasn't really sure what it was.
Tom held his breath as Billy Painter passed within ten feet of him. Slowly Tom backed away.
The loot sack jingled.
"Who's there?" Billy yelled. When no one answered, he turned a slow circle, peering into the shadows. Tom was flattened against a wall again. He was fairly sure Billy wouldn't see him. Billy had weak eyes because of the fumes of the paint he mixed. All painters had weak eyes. It was one of the reasons they were moody.
"Is that you, Tom?" Billy asked, in a friendly tone. Tom was about to answer, when he noticed that Billy's club was raised in a striking position. He kept quiet.
"I'll get you yet!" Billy shouted.
"Well, get him in the morning!" Jeff Hern shouted from his bedroom window. "Some of us are trying to sleep."
Billy moved away. When he was gone, Tom hurried home and dumped his pile of loot on the floor with the rest. He surveyed his haul proudly. It gave him the sense of a job well done.
After a cool drink of glava, Tom went to bed, falling at once into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
Next morning, Tom sauntered out to see how the little red schoolhouse was progressing. The Carpenter boys were hard at work on it, helped by several villagers.
"How's it coming?" Tom called out cheerfully.
"Fair," Mary Carpenter said. "It'd come along better if I had my saw."
"Your saw?" Tom repeated blankly.
After a moment, he remembered that he had stolen it last night. It hadn't seemed to belong to anyone then. The saw and all the rest had been objects to be stolen. He had never given a thought to the fact that they might be used or needed.
Marv Carpenter asked, "Do you suppose I could use the saw for a while? Just for an hour or so?"
"I'm not sure," Tom said, frowning. "It's legally stolen, you know."
"Of course it is. But if I could just borrow it —"
"You'd have to give it back."
"Well, naturally I'd give it back," Marv said indignantly. "I wouldn't keep anything that was legally stolen."
"It's in the house with the rest of the loot."
Marv thanked him and hurried after it.
Tom began to stroll through the village. He reached the mayor's house. The mayor was standing outside, staring at the sky.
"Tom, did you take my bronze plaque?" he asked.
"I certainly did," Tom said belligerently.
"Oh. Just wondering." The mayor pointed upward. "See it?"
Tom looked. "What?"
"Black dot near the rim of the small sun."
"Yes. What is it?"
"I'll bet it's the inspector's ship. How's your work coming?"
"Fine," Tom said, a trifle uncomfortably.
"Got your murder planned?"
"I've been having a little trouble with that," Tom confessed. "To tell the truth, I haven't made any progress on it at all."
"Come on in, Tom. I want to talk to you."
Inside the cool, shuttered living room, the mayor poured two glasses of glava and motioned Tom to a chair.
"Our time is running short," the mayor said gloomily. "The inspector may land any hour now. And my hands are full." He motioned at the interstellar radio. "That has been talking again. Something about a revolt on Deng IV and all loyal Earth colonies are to prepare for conscription, whatever that is. I never even heard of Deng IV, but I have to start worrying about it, in addition to everything else."
He fixed Tom with a stern stare. "Criminals on Earth commit dozens of murders a day and never even think about it. All your village wants of you is one little killing. Is that too much to ask?"
Tom spread his hands nervously. "Do you really think it's necessary?"
"You know it is," the mayor said. "If we're going earthly, we have to go all the way. This is the only thing holding us back. All the other projects are right on schedule."
Billy Painter entered, wearing a new official-blue shirt with bright metal buttons. He sank into a chair.
"Kill anyone yet, Tom?"
The mayor said, "He wants to know if it's necessary."
"Of course it is," the police chief said. "Read any of the books. You're not much of a criminal if you don't commit a murder."
"Who'll it be, Tom?" the mayor asked.
Tom squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. He rubbed his fingers together nervously.
"Well?"
"Oh, I'll kill Jeff Hern," Tom blurted.
Billy Painter leaned forward quickly. "Why?" he asked.
"Why? Why not?"
"What's your motive?"
"I thought you just wanted a murder," Tom retorted. "Who said anything about motive?"
"We can't have a fake murder," the police chief explained. "It has to be done right. And that means you have to have a proper motive."
Tom thought for a moment. "Well, I don't know Jeff well. Is that a good enough motive?"
The mayor shook his head. "No, Tom, that won't do. Better pick someone else."
"Let's see," Tom said. "How about George Waterman?"
"What's the motive?" Billy asked immediately.
"Oh. um. Well, I don't like the way George walks. Never did. And he's noisy sometimes."
The mayor nodded approvingly. "Sounds good to me. What do you say, Billy?"
"How am I supposed to deduce a motive like that?" Billy asked angrily. "No, that might be good enough for a crime of passion. But you're a legal criminal, Tom. By definition, you're cold-blooded, ruthless and cunning. You can't kill someone just because you don't like the way he walks. That's silly."