* * * * *
Hendricks rose from behind the desk, walked leisurely to where Joe was
slouched in a chair. "Give me your CPA ID."
Joe handed him the card with trembling fingers. He felt as if the world
had collapsed beneath him. Conspiracy to commit a crime wasn't a crime.
Anyone could conspire. And if the conspirators were prevented from
committing a crime, then that meant the CPA had functioned properly
once again. That meant the CPA had once again _prevented_ crime, and
the CPA didn't punish crimes or attempted crimes, and it didn't attempt
to prevent crimes _by_ punishment. If it did, that would be a violation
of the New Civil Rights.
Hendricks crossed the room, deposited the card in a slot and punched a
button. The machine hummed and a new card appeared.
When Hendricks handed him the new card, Joe saw that the words
DANGEROUS CRIMINAL TENDENCIES were now in red and larger than before.
And, in slightly smaller print, the ID card stated that the owner was a
DCT First Class.
"You've graduated," Hendricks said coldly. "You guys never learn, do
you? Now you're a DCT First Class instead of a Second Class. You know
what that means?"
Hendricks leaned closer until Joe could feel his breath on his face.
"That means your case history will be turned over to the newspapers.
You'll be the hobby of thousands of amateur cops. You know how it
works? It's like this. The Joneses are sitting around tomorrow night
and they're bored. Then Mr. Jones says, 'Let's go watch this Joe
Harper.' So they look up your record--amateur cops always keep records
of First Classes in scrapbooks--and they see that you stop frequently
at Walt's Tavern.
"So they go there and they sit and drink and watch you, trying not
to let you know they're watching you. They watch you all night, just
hoping you'll do something exciting, like trying to kill someone,
so they can be the first ones to yell '_Police!_' They'll watch you
because it's exciting to be an amateur cop, and if they ever _did_
prevent you from committing a crime, they'd get a nice reward and
they'd be famous."
"Lay off," Joe said. "I got a headache. That girl--"
Hendricks leaned even closer and glared. "You listen, Joe. This is
interesting. You see, it doesn't stop with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. There's
thousands of people like them. Years ago, they got their kicks from
reading about guys like you, but these days things are dull because
it's rare when anyone commits a crime. So every time you walk down
the street, there'll be at least a dozen of 'em following you, and no
matter where you go, you can bet there'll be some of 'em sitting next
to you, standing next to you.
"During the day, they'll take your picture with their spy cameras that
look like buttons on their coats. At night, they'll peep at you through
your keyhole. Your neighbors across the street will watch you through
binoculars and--"
"Lay off!"
* * * * *
Joe squirmed in the chair. He'd been lectured by Hendricks before and
it was always an unpleasant experience. The huge man was like a talking
machine once he got started, a machine that couldn't be stopped.
"And the kids are the worst," Hendricks continued. "They have Junior
CPA clubs. They keep records of hoodlums like you in little cardboard
boxes. They'll stare at you on the street and stare at you through
restaurant windows while you're eating meals. They'll follow you in
public rest rooms and watch you out of the corners of their eyes
while they wash their little hands, and almost every day when you look
back, you'll see a dozen freckle-faced little boys following you half a
block behind, giggling and gaping at you. They'll follow you until the
day you die, because you're a freak!"
Joe couldn't stand the breath in his face any longer. He rose and paced
the floor.
"And it doesn't end _there_, Joe. It goes on and on. You'll be the
object of every do-gooder and parlor psychologist. Strangers will stop
you on the street and say, 'I'd like to help you, friend.' Then they'll
ask you queer questions like, 'Did your father reject you when you were
a child?' 'Do you like girls?' 'How does it feel to be a DCT First
Class?' And then there'll be the strangers who hate DCTs. They'll stop
you on the street and insult you, call you names, spit on you and--"
"Okay, goddam it! _Stop it!_"
Hendricks stopped, wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchief
and lit a cigarette.
"I'm doing you a favor, Joe. I'm trying to explain something you're too
dumb to realize by yourself. We've taught everyone to hate crime and
criminals ... to _hate_ them as nothing has ever been hated before.
Today a criminal is a freak, an alien. Your life will be a living hell
if you don't leave New York. You should go to some small town where
there aren't many people, or be a hermit, or go to Iceland or--"
Joe eyed the huge man suspiciously. "_Favor_, did you say? The day you
do _me_ a favor--"
Hendricks shrugged his shoulders negligently. "Not entirely a favor. I
want to get rid of you. Usually I come up here and sit around and read
books. But guys like you are a nuisance and take up my time."
"I couldn't leave if I wanted to," Joe said. "I'm flat broke. Thanks to
your CPA system, a DCT can't get a decent job."
* * * * *
Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extended
them. "I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back a
little at a time."
Joe waved the money away. "Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Why
don't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me--any
crime."
"Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is a
violation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself."
"Umm."
"Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't _have_ to
be a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all your
criminal tendencies and--"
"Go to those _head-shrinkers_?"