The instant the fire had started, automatic alarms had gone off. Fire and rescue teams plunged toward the scene. Carl had just put out the last of the flames on the unconscious man’s body when they arrived. A wash of foam instantly killed the fire. An ambulance jerked to a stop and two robot stretcher-bearers popped out of it. A human doctor followed. He took one look at the burned driver and whistled.
"Really cooked!"
He grabbed a pressurized container from the stretcher-bearer and sprayed jelly-like burn dressing over the driver’s legs. Before he had finished the other robot snapped open a medical kit and proffered it. The doctor made quick adjustments on a multiple syringe, then gave the injection. It was all very fast and efficient.
As soon as the stretcher-bearers had carried the burned driver into the ambulance, it jumped forward. The doctor mumbled instruction to the hospital into his lapel radio. Only then did he turn his attention to Carl.
"Let’s see those hands," he said.
Everything had happened with such speed that Carl had scarcely noticed his burns. Only now did he glance down at the scorched skin and feel sharp pain. The blood drained from his face and he swayed.
"Easy does it," the doctor said, helping him sit down on the ground. "They’re not as bad as they look. Have new skin on them in a couple of days." His hands were busy while he talked and there was the sudden prick of a needle in Carl’s arm. The pain ebbed away.
The shot made things hazy after that. Carl had vague memories of riding to the hospital in a police car. Then the grateful comfort of a cool bed. They must have given him another shot then because the next thing he knew it was morning.
That week in the hospital was like a vacation for Carl. Either the staff didn’t know of his sentenced status or it didn’t make any difference. He received the same treatment as the other patients. While the accelerated grafts covered his hands and forearms with new skin, he relaxed in the luxury of the soft bed and varied food. The same drugs that kept the pain away prevented his worry about returning to the outside world. He was also pleased to hear that the burned driver would recover.
On the morning of the eighth day the staff dermatologist prodded the new skin and smiled. "Good job of recovery, Tritt," he said.
"Looks like you’ll be leaving us today. I’ll have them fill out the forms and send for your clothes."
The old knot of tension returned to Carl’s stomach as he thought of what waited for him outside. It seemed doubly hard now that he had been away for a few days. Yet there was nothing else he could possibly do. He dressed as slowly as he could, stretching the free time remaining as much as possible.
As he started down the corridor a nurse waved him over. "Mr. Skarvy would like to see you — in here."
Skarvy. That was the name of the truck driver. Carl followed her into the room where the burly driver sat up in bed. His big body looked strange somehow, until Carl realized there was no long bulge under the blankets. The man had no legs.
"Chopped ‘em both off at the hips," Skarvy said when he noticed Carl’s gaze. He smiled. "Don’t let it bother you. Don’t bother me none. They planted the regen-buds and they tell me in less than a year I’ll have legs again, good as new. Suits me fine. Better than staying in that truck and frying." He hitched himself up in the bed, an intense expression on his face.
"They showed me the films Fire Central made through one of their pick-ups on the spot. Saw the whole thing. Almost upchucked when I saw what I looked like when you dragged me out." He pushed out a meaty hand and pumped Carl’s. "I want to thank you for doing what you done. Taking a chance like that." Carl could only smile foolishly.
"I want to shake your hand," Skarvy said. "Even if you are a sentenced man."
Carl pulled his hand free and left. Not trusting himself to say anything. The last week had been a dream. And a foolish one. He was still sentenced and would be for years to come. An outcast of society who never left it.
When he pushed open the door to his drab room the all too-familiar voice boomed out of the speaker.
"Carl Tritt. You have missed seven days of your work assignment, in addition there is an incomplete day, only partially worked. This time would normally not be deducted from your sentence. There is however precedent in allowing deduction of this time and it will be allowed against your total sentence." The decision made, the numbers clicked over busily on his calendar.
"Thanks for nothing," Carl said and dropped wearily on his bed. The monotonous voder voice went on, ignoring his interruption.
"In addition, an award has been made. Under Sentence Diminution Regulations your act of personal heroism, risking your own life to save another’s, is recognized as a pro-social act and so treated. The award is three years off your sentence."
Carl was on his feet, staring unbelievingly at the speaker. Was it some trick? Yet as he watched the calendar mechanism ground gears briefly and the year numbers slowly turned over. 18… 17… 16… The whirring stopped. stopped.
Just like that. Three years off his sentence. It didn’t seem possible — yet there were the numbers to prove that it was.
"Sentence Control!" he shouted. ‘Listen to me! What happened? I mean how can a sentence be reduced by this award business? I never heard anything about it before?"
"Sentence reduction is never mentioned in public life," the speaker said flatly. "This might encourage people to break the law, since threat of sentence is considered a deterrent. Normally a sentenced person is not told of sentence reduction until after their first year. Your case however is exceptional since you were awarded reduction before the end of said year."
"How can I find out more about sentence reduction?" Carl asked eagerly.
The speaker hummed for a moment, then the voice crackled out again. "Your Sentence Advisor is Mr. Prisbi. He will advise you in whatever is to be done. You have an appointment for 1300 hours tomorrow. Here is his address."
The machine clicked and spat out a card. Carl was waiting for it this time and caught it before it hit the floor. He held it carefully, almost lovingly. Three years off his sentence and tomorrow he would find out what else he could do to reduce it even more.
Of course he was early, almost a full hour before he was due. The robot-receptionist kept him seated in the outer office until the exact minute of his appointment. When he heard the door lock finally click open he almost jumped to it. Forcing himself to go slow, he entered the office.
Prisbi, the Sentence Advisor, looked like a preserved fish peering through the bottom of a bottle. He was dumpy fat, with dead white skin and lumpy features that had been squeezed up like putty from the fat underneath. His eyes were magnified pupils that peered unblinkingly through eyeglass lenses almost as thick as they were wide. In a world where contact lenses were the norm, his vision was so bad it could not be corrected by the tiny lenses. Instead he wore the heavy-framed, anachronistic spectacles, perched insecurely on his puffy nose.
Prisbi did not smile or say a word when Carl entered the door. He kept his eyes fixed steadily on him as he walked the length of the room. They reminded Carl of the video scanners he had grown to hate, and he shook the idea away.
"My name is…" he began.
"I know your name, Tritt," Prisbi rasped. The voice seemed too coarse to have come from those soft lips. "Now sit down in that chair — there." He jerked his pen at a hard metal chair that faced his desk.
Carl sat down and immediately blinked away from the strong lights that focused on his face. He tried to slide the chair back, until he realized it was fastened to the floor. He just sat then and waited for Prisbi to begin.