Junior Spaceman Howard Reed said plaintively, "But this is the Bureau
of Justice. According to the Regulations you are supposed to listen to
me, at least."
The space officer behind the desk wore the three wide stripes of the
commander's rank, topped by the fasces that symbolized the law. He was
Commander Hughes, chief of the Space Service Bureau of Justice. He
smiled at the junior spaceman but shook his head. "You would place us
in a most difficult position were we to heed your plea without having
the matter referred to us through official channels."
With some exasperation, Reed said, "Look, sir, I've been subject to a
severe injustice. Why can't I at least tell my problem to someone?"
"That would be cutting across channels. It simply is not done."
"Commander Hughes," said the junior spaceman earnestly, "you're not
serving justice. You're obstructing it!"
"Now see here, young man--"
"Commander Hughes, you're insisting that I request my superior officer
to forward through official channels a complaint against him. First,
sir, I point out that he would refuse my request unless he were
absolutely certain that my case against him was ridiculously weak.
Second, I'm certain that the request would bring quick retaliation."
Commander Hughes shook his head. "The Regulation provides that any
reasonable request be forwarded. And the Regulation further provides
that there shall be no punitive action."
Reed snorted. "Fine. And if I do find myself punished, must I next
forward my request for investigation through the same officer?"
"That is a serious charge, young man."
"I can substantiate it! Look, sir, quite a long time ago I made some
scientific studies, and--"
"You're an Operations officer, Mr. Reed?"
"Yes, but--"
"Then you're not trained in science?"
"Let's not go on that rat-race right now," said the junior spaceman
testily. "I've heard it before. That's why I'm here!"
"Very well."
Junior Spaceman Howard Reed took a deep breath and plunged into his
long explanation. At the end, Commander Hughes nodded, his face in a
non-committal mask.
"One moment now," he said. He turned to the working desk behind him
and spoke into a telephone. It had neither visual plate nor amplified
output; only the user could know what was being communicated, and with
whom.
"Now we'll see," said the commander as he hung up the telephone.
* * * * *
With the awkwardness of a stopped trivideo drama they stood and sat
there motionless and silently as the minutes dragged past. Ultimately
there was a gentle alarm ring from one of the desk drawers. Commander
Hughes opened it to extract a couple of yards of stereofac paper.
"Your service record," explained the commander, picking up a reading
prism and starting at the top. "Just another moment."
Another half dozen minutes went past.
"'Junior Spaceman Howard Reed,'" the commander read quietly at last,
"'has an exemplary record.' That is Commander Breckenridge's opinion,
if we are to believe what we read in this record. Oh, perhaps, he
thought, a bit headstrong and mildly argumentative, factors which he
considered balanced by a faculty for deep concentration."
"And how about my being transferred to Eden, Tau Ceti? And then to
Flatbush, Lalande 25372?" Reed demanded.
"'Reasons for transfer,'" read Commander Hughes from the record.
"'Junior Spaceman Howard Reed is ambitious and overactive. In the
considered opinion of Commander Breckenridge, he will make a fine
superior officer once his duty-experience has the proper breadth.'"
The commander looked up and waved a hand at the length of stereofac.
The fasces wrought in gold above the stripes glittered in the light.
"Were it not for the Regulations against permitting a junior officer to
inspect his own service record," said Commander Hughes with a smile,
"I'd let you see for yourself that nowhere on this record is there a
single word that corroborates your suggestion. Your tour of duty on
Flatbush, Lalande 25372, and your earlier transfer to Eden, Tau Ceti,
were merely the standard tour of duty, granted to satisfactory junior
officers as a means of properly broadening their experience."
"In other words," snapped Reed angrily, "the fact that I have crossed
space in a craft powered by a technical suggestion made by me some
years ago does not prove a thing."
"Can you prove that you made any such technical suggestion?"
"Yes. Call Commander Briggs of the Bureau of Research. Call Commander
Breckenridge of the Bureau of Operations. Demand that they state under
oath, whether I did or did not make such suggestions. I was told my
ideas were worthless."
"In other words, the Bureau of Research says it wouldn't work?"
"But look, sir! I drove a spacecraft all the way from--"
* * * * *
The Bureau of Justice officer held up a hand.
"Look," said the junior spaceman angrily, "all I want is justice!"
"And justice you'll get!" retorted Commander Hughes. "First, Mr. Reed,
let me ask how you obtained permission to leave your post on Flatbush,
Lalande 25372, so that you could come to the headquarters in person to
state your plea? Or was this trip authorized?"
"Well, sir--the detector and beacon stations are completely automated
and--"
"In blunt terms you are absent without leave?"
"Well, sir--"
"Junior Spaceman Howard Reed, you will consider yourself under personal
arrest. We have no alternative but to place you in the custody of the
Space Security Police. Remain as you were!"
Like the fabled case of the drowning man, Junior Spaceman Howard Reed
reviewed his past in a single flash before his eyes. In the second
blink, he covered his present. It wasn't to his liking.
Having covered his past and discarded his present, he next inspected
his most probable future and came to the almost immediate conclusion
that there wasn't very much in it for him. He had never heard
Napoleon's statement that God was on the side with the heaviest
artillery, but, in his own way, Junior Spaceman Howard Reed came to
a parallel conclusion. Justice was on the side of the heaviest rank.
Bitterly, he reflected that the reward for a technical suggestion of
great merit was that they wouldn't make any trouble for him--so long as
he didn't try to claim credit for it.
He came back to his dangerous present quickly. Commander Hughes was
talking briskly into his secret telephone.
With a quick gesture, the junior spaceman leaned forward over the
desk and snatched the instrument out of the senior officer's hands.
He hauled in on the connecting cord until it came taut, and then he
yanked, ripping the cord from its terminals. Brusquely, he dropped the
telephone instrument into the commander's waste basket.
Then as bells began to ring and corridor horns began to sound, Junior
Spaceman Howard Reed left the administration building of the Bureau of
Justice on a dead run. Out in the street the wail of a siren began to
climb from its throaty basso to its ear-splitting ululation.
X
Gloria Hanford awoke, as she always did, with full awareness, like
the transition of a small animal from slumber to flight. It was not
a languid hand that reached for the telephone that had awakened her
but an alert one. It flipped the accept button up and the vidphone
eye button down in a single twisting gesture of thumb and forefinger.
It was not modesty that caused the turn-down of the vidphone eye. It
was vanity. Gloria Hanford deemed unbrushed teeth, uncombed hair, and
unwashed face both unacceptable and unattractive.
"Gloria Hanford here. Go ahead."
"Scholar Ross calling. Miss Hanford, you should know so that you can
be prepared. Bertram Harrison has not yet responded to corrective
therapy."
"Not--yet--responded," she repeated slowly. "Just how bad is this,
Scholar Ross?"
"It is quite grave. It's possible there may be cerebral deterioration."
"You mean Bertram might even go from bad to worse?"
"Miss Hanford, will you cease treating this as if it were a comedy? You
may be defending yourself against charges of criminal negligence. It
might even get to the charge of homicide before it's done."
"Homicide? But he isn't dead!"
"Fifth degree homicide," said Scholar Ross, "comprises the process
of causing by any means the loss of impairment of personality or
intellect. In layman's terms, _brain-washing_."
"So?"
"So if I were you I'd dress and be ready for the authorities.
Harrison forced a special session of court last night and had Bertram
declared as invalid-incommunicado. Since your engagement was formally
dissolved, this places Bertram's well-being under the discretion of his
next-of-kin blood relations. Father Harrison is prepared to prosecute
to the fullest extent. He's even petitioned for the right to take
action against the Department of Domestic Tranquility for what he calls
'incompetent meddling.' So you see, it looks bad."
"Maybe there ought to be some thoughtful laws passed to protect we
active ones from the dolts and dullards," said Gloria. "Okay, Scholar
Ross, I'll take steps!"
In a flurry of expert motion, Gloria Hanford dressed, packed, and left.
The authorities who came for her hadn't had enough experience in
dealing with the hypertonic, overactive, fast-thinking, anti-social
type. They expected to find a slightly fuzzy-minded, still
half-aslumber girl, unable to grasp both an idea and a dressing gown at
the same time. They would not have equated their notion with the trim,
alert, neatly and completely dressed young lady they passed on the
stairs if it hadn't been for the standard, legal locks on all apartment
doors. A tiny flag filled a small aperture only when the full bolt was
cast home by a flip of the inside key.
Its absence meant that no one was inside.
The chief of the group forced his mental image through a mental
photomontage that started with the original picture of the
half-awakened young woman tossing a tousle of hair back out of
one eye, passed through a much-abridged version of the process
of female dressing, and concluded with the trim and striking
number they'd passed on the stairway. Add important item: As an
accessory, whistle-bait was also carrying an overnight bag in one
formal-for-travelling, white-gloved hand.
Nudged, his memory was good.
He hauled his handset out while his men were still making dead certain
that the little flag on the lock meant precisely what it said. By the
time they were convinced that the apartment was truly empty and the
lock bolted from the outside, he had unabashedly reported his failure,
and was concluding a very excellent description of the fugitive Gloria
Hanford.