“If you knew all this,” Barrent asked, “why didn’t your leaders do something about it?”
“That was our original intention. But there was no real drive behind the intention. We preferred not to think about it. We assumed the status quo would remain indefinitely. We didn’t want to think about the day when the Omegans returned to Earth.”
“What are you and your police going to do about it?” Barrent asked.
“I am façade, too,” Dravivian told him. “I have no police. The position of Chief is entirely honorary. There has been no need of a police force on Earth for close to a century.”
“You’re going to need one when the Omegans come home,” Barrent said.
“Yes. There’s going to be crime again, and serious trouble. But I think the final amalgamation will be successful. You on Omega have the drive, the ambition to reach the stars. I believe you need a certain stability and creativeness which Earth can provide. Whatever the results, the union is inevitable. We’ve lived in a dream here for too long. It’s going to take violent measures to awaken us.”
Dravivian rose to his feet. “And now,” he said, “since the fate of Earth and Omega seem to be decided, could I offer you some refreshment?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
With the help of the Chief of Police, Barrent put a message aboard the next ship to leave for Omega. The message told about conditions on Earth and urged immediate action. When that was finished, Barrent was ready for his final job—to find the judge who had sentenced him for a crime he hadn’t committed, and the lying informer who had turned him in to the judge. When he found those two, Barrent knew he would regain the missing portions of his memory.
He took the night expressway to Youngerstun. His suspicions, sharply keyed from life on Omega, would not let him rest. There had to be a catch to all this splendid simplicity. Perhaps he would find it in Youngerstun.
By early morning he was there. Superficially, the neat rows of houses looked the same as in any other town. But for Barrent they were different, and achingly familiar. He remembered this town, and the monotonous houses had individuality and meaning for him. He had been born and raised in this town.
There was Grothmeir’s store, and across the street was the home of Havening, the local interior decorating champion. Here was Billy Havelock’s house. Billy had been his best friend. They had planned on being starmen together, and had remained good friends after school—until Barrent had been sentenced to Omega.
Here was Andrew Therkaler’s house. And down the block was the school he had attended. He could remember the classes. He could remember how, every day, they had gone through the door that led to the closed class. But he still could not remember what he had learned there.
Right here, near two huge elms, the murder had taken place. Barrent walked to the spot and remembered how it had happened. He had been on his way home. From somewhere down the street he had heard a scream. He had turned, and a man—Illiardi—had run down the street and thrown something at him. Barrent had caught it instinctively and found himself holding an illegal handgun. A few steps further, he had looked into the twisted dead face of Andrew Therkaler.
And what had happened next? Confusion. Panic. A sensation of someone watching as he stood, weapon in hand, over the corpse. There, at the end of the street, was the refuge to which he had gone.
He walked up to it, and recognized it as a robot-confessional booth.
Barrent entered the booth. It was small, and there was a faint odor of incense in the air. The room contained a single chair. Facing it was a complex, brilliantly lighted panel.
“Good morning, Will,” the panel said to him.
Barrent had a sudden sense of helplessness when he heard that soft mechanical voice. He remembered it now. The passionless voice knew all, understood all, and forgave nothing. That artfully manufactured voice had spoken to him, had listened, and then had judged. In his dream, he had personified the robot-confessor into the figure of a human judge.
“You remember me?” Barrent asked.
“Of course,” said the robot-confessor. “You were one of my parishioners before you went to Omega.”
“You sent me there.”
“For the crime of murder.”
“But I didn’t commit the crime!” Barrent said. “I didn’t do it, and you must have known it!”
“Of course I knew it,” the robot-confessor said. “But my powers and duties are strictly defined. I sentence according to evidence, not intuition. By law, the robot-confessors must weigh only the concrete evidence which is put before them. They must, when in doubt, sentence. In fact, the mere presence of a man before me charged with murder must be taken as a strong presumption of his guilt.”
“Was there evidence against me?”
“Yes.”
“Who gave it?”
“I cannot reveal his name.”
“You must!” Barrent said. “Times are changing on Earth. The prisoners are coming back. Did you know that?”
“I expected it,” the robot-confessor said.
“I must have the informer’s name,” Barrent said. He took the needlebeam out of his pocket and advanced toward the panel.
“A machine cannot be coerced,” the robot-confessor told him.
“Give me the name!” Barrent shouted.
“I should not, for your own good. The danger would be too great. Believe me, Will . . . .”
“The name!”
“Very well. You will find the informer at Thirty-five Maple Street. But I earnestly advise you not to go there. You will be killed. You simply do not know—”
Barrent pressed the trigger, and the narrow beam scythed through the panel. Lights flashed and faded as he cut through the intricate wiring. At last all the lights were dead, and a faint gray smoke came from the panel.
Barrent left the booth. He put the needlebeam back in his pocket and walked to Maple Street.
He had been here before. He knew this street, set upon a hill, rising steeply between oak and maple trees. Those lampposts were old friends, that crack in the pavement was an ancient landmark. Here were the houses, heavy with familiarity. They seemed to lean expectantly toward him, like spectators waiting for the final act of an almost forgotten drama.
He stood in front of 35 Maple Street. The silence which surrounded that plain white-shuttered house struck him as ominous. He took the needlebeam out of his pocket, looking for a reassurance he knew he could not find. Then he walked up the neat flagstones and tried the front door. It opened. He stepped inside.
He made out the dim shades of lamps and furniture, the dull gleam of a painting on the wall, a piece of statuary on an ebony pedestal. Needlebeam in hand, he stepped into the next room.
And came face to face with the informer.
Staring at the informer’s face, Barrent remembered. In an overpowering flood of memory he saw himself, a little boy, entering the closed classroom. He heard again the soothing hum of machinery, watched the pretty lights blink and flash, heard the insinuating machine voice whisper in his ear. At first, the voice filled him with horror; what it suggested was unthinkable. Then, slowly, he became accustomed to it, and accustomed to all the strange things that happened in the closed classroom.