“A pleasure, Commissioner.”
“Glad to meet you, Commissioner.”
“Thank you. I must say, I am very impressed with your operation.”
“Is everything ready?” asked Karrick.
“Half an hour to O-Time, Chief.”
“Good, we’ll have just enough time to get there. Commissioner, we have equipped a second car to take us there. Radio hookup and all. Officer Stiltson has a radio pickup embedded in his helmet. We’ll wait in the second car while he makes the arrest, and we’ll be able to hear everything that’s said.”
“Tonight? I — we are going to witness an actual arrest?”
“That’s right, Commissioner. I was told to see that you got the full story, and I’m going to see to it. Now, I suggest we get moving.”
Officer Stiltson put on his helmet, got his clipboard, and checked his gun. “Ready,” he said.
“I say,” Commissioner Lusnet said, “is it necessary to carry the gun?”
“Just precautionary,” Karrick said. “That’s all.”
“Oh,” said Commissioner Lusnet. But he noticed Office Stiltson had failed to buckle the strap that held the gun in its holster.
Walter Spector peered through the tattered drapes of his two-room apartment. A hint of condensation glistened on the aged bricks of the narrow street, glinting through the early fog. From somewhere atop a utility pole the droning of a transformer wavered in the air like the snoring of a huge insect.
He withdrew into the Shadows of the apartment and shuffled toward the kitchen, favoring his right leg. The single bulb which he used for illumination flickered as the refrigerator started with a jerk. Walter stopped and looked at the refrigerator; he hadn’t actually looked at it for some time. By all standards it should have stopped long ago, should have jerked and hissed and coughed into silence, should have grown warm and tepid and odorous. But it didn’t know any better; all it could do was to run until it stopped. And that would be that. There were no alternatives.
But Walter Spector had had his alternatives, had stood at the crossroads that led to all his possible futures and reached out a hand and throttled all his own dreams. The refrigerator never had any choice; Walter Spector, once upon a time, had had.
He felt weak and dizzy, and a fine layer of perspiration covered his face. In the darkened apartment the undersides of his arms ached with a hard dampness.
He opened the silverware drawer and took out a large carving knife and a screwdriver with a yellow handle. Back in the front room he slipped them into the pocket of his black wool coat; then he put the coat on and turned up the collar against the fog. He put his cap on his head, low over his eyes.
As he reached for the door there was a knock on the other side.
“Mr. Spector?”
It was a tall man in a night-black uniform, an exceedingly healthy-looking young man with intelligent eyes and a firm mouth. There was a certain indefinable kindness in his manner; he might be an officer selling tickets to the policeman’s ball. But there was also a hard steel glint behind his eyes, as if nothing would stop him from performing his duty.
The tall man removed his helmet, cradled it in his elbow, and held his clipboard in the same hand. Walter’s eyebrows came together for an instant, and he looked down at his hands.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Walter Spector, Social Security Number 247-AZ-5114?”
“I suppose so.”
“Born October 12, 1929, Rocky Mount, North Carolina?”
“Yes,” Walter answered, “but I don’t see what—”
“Mr. Spector, my name is Stiltson — Confrontation Officer Stiltson of the Crime Analysis Station, Enforcement Section, State of California Crime Prevention Authority.”
“How do you do,” said Walter.
“Mr. Spector, the Crime Prevention Authority was enacted into law to prevent crimes before they occur. Our motto is, ‘If we can predict something before it occurs, we can stop it.’ ”
“Of course,” said Walter.
“The CASES burglary program contains the facts on millions of burglaries. It can tell us what makes a burglar, what motivates a burglar, what triggers a burglar. It can tell us about his methods and opportunities. It can tell us a myriad of other details. CASES has, in short, given us a complete portrait of the burglar, including all pertinent social, psychological and economic factors.”
“Of course,” said Walter.
“We also maintain statistics on facts relating to timing, including seasonal, monthly, weekly, daily, and hourly variations. According to our program, Mr. Spector, you are scheduled to commit a burglary tonight between” — he glanced down at the clipboard — “1:05 A.M. and 1:15 A.M.”
Walter didn’t say anything.
“Were you going out?”
“Out?”
“Your coat and hat.”
“I... yes, I was going out. For a walk.”
“What do you have in your coat pocket?”
“For a walk, yes. You see, I often take—”
“In your coat pocket, Mr. Spector. What do you have?”
“I... in my pocket?”
“Isn’t that a kitchen knife protruding from your coat pocket?”
Walter looked down at the knife protruding from his pocket. “Yes,” he said, “and a screwdriver too.”
“Mr. Spector, you must understand that my job is to prevent crimes before they occur. To save the possible loss of life and property. At this time no crime has actually been committed. You have been saved from making a serious mistake.”
“Of course,” Walter looked up, “I haven’t done anything yet!”
“Our records indicate that you are out of food, that your utility bills are overdue, that you are about to be evicted from your apartment.”
“Evicted?”
“That you were laid off from the Polaris Car Wash because of an accident attributed to your carelessness.”
“The suds, all over the place. My leg — it was just an accident. I’m going back soon.”
“That you have no savings, no income, no benefits that you can draw on.”
“Yes, my leg — it isn’t heeding right. But I’ll be back in—”
“Mr. Spector, if you will come with me, please.” The officer put the helmet on his head and stepped back a couple of steps.
“I — well, I don’t know. What do you want with me? I haven’t done anything.”
“Mr. Spector, it is my duty to escort you to the Prevention House.”
“Prevention House?” said Walter. “Oh, no! I couldn’t — you see, in just a matter of — oh, no, I couldn’t go!”
“Mr. Spector?”
Walter took a deep breath, and when he exhaled he found himself looking down. “But I haven’t done anything.”
“I’m sure the Authority will take that into consideration.”
The refrigerator started again, and Walter looked back into the apartment. “If we were to wait just a few minutes. The time would be past and—”
“I understand that, Mr. Spector, but I have no authorization in that respect. If the Probation-Incarceration Computer decides that you’ll be a good risk, you may come back. On the other hand, if the computer decides that you may contemplate another crime, you’ll have to remain at the Prevention House until such time as the computer decides that you are again a good risk.”
Walter looked back into the apartment again. The cupboard door stood ajar and the silverware drawer hung open. The refrigerator continued its odd joggling sound. He caught sight of an old calendar on the kitchen wall. It was brown and many years out of date, and where it curled away from the wall it left a small space infested with roach eggs. He didn’t even know what year it represented.
“Should I turn off the light?”