"No banks! You gotta have banks!"
"And no money to put in them. We found it a rather antiquated method of
distribution well over a century ago."
Joe had given up. Now he merely stared.
Brett-James said reasonably, "We found we were devoting as much time to
financial matters in all their endless ramifications--including bank
robberies--as we were to productive efforts. So we turned to more
efficient methods of distribution."
* * * * *
On the fourth day, Joe said, "O.K., let's get down to facts. Summa the
things you guys say don't stick together so good. Now, first place,
where's this guy Temple-Tracy you want knocked off?"
Reston-Farrell and Brett-James were both present. The three of them sat
in the living room of the latter's apartment, sipping a sparkling wine
which seemed to be the prevailing beverage of the day. For Joe's taste
it was insipid stuff. Happily, rye was available to those who wanted it.
Reston-Farrell said, "You mean, where does he reside? Why, here in this
city."
"Well, that's handy, eh?" Joe scratched himself thoughtfully. "You got
somebody can finger him for me?"
"Finger him?"
"Look, before I can give it to this guy I gotta know some place where
he'll be at some time. Get it? Like Al Rossi. My finger, he works in
Rossi's house, see? He lets me know every Wednesday night, eight
o'clock, Al leaves the house all by hisself. O.K., so I can make plans,
like, to give it to him." Joe Prantera wound it up reasonably. "You
gotta have a finger."
Brett-James said, "Why not just go to Temple-Tracy's apartment and, ah,
dispose of him?"
"Jest walk in, eh? You think I'm stupid? How do I know how many
witnesses hangin' around? How do I know if the guy's carryin' heat?"
"Heat?"
"A gun, a gun. Ya think I'm stupid? I come to give it to him and he
gives it to me instead."
Dr. Reston-Farrell said, "Howard Temple-Tracy lives alone. He
customarily receives visitors every afternoon, largely potential
followers. He is attempting to recruit members to an organization he is
forming. It would be quite simple for you to enter his establishment and
dispose of him. I assure you, he does not possess weapons."
Joe was indignant. "Just like that, eh?" he said sarcastically. "Then
what happens? How do I get out of the building? Where's my get car
parked? Where do I hide out? Where do I dump the heat?"
"Dump the heat?"
"Get rid of the gun. You want I should get caught with the gun on me?
I'd wind up in the gas chamber so quick--"
"See here, Mr. Prantera," Brett-James said softly. "We no longer have
capital punishment, you must realize."
"O.K. I still don't wanta get caught. What _is_ the rap these days,
huh?" Joe scowled. "You said they didn't have no jails any more."
"This is difficult for you to understand, I imagine," Reston-Farrell
told him, "but, you see, we no longer punish people in this era."
That took a long, unbelieving moment to sink in. "You mean, like, no
matter what they do? That's crazy. Everybody'd be running around giving
it to everybody else."
"The motivation for crime has been removed, Mr. Prantera,"
Reston-Farrell attempted to explain. "A person who commits a violence
against another is obviously in need of medical care. And, consequently,
receives it."
"You mean, like, if I steal a car or something, they just take me to a
doctor?" Joe Prantera was unbelieving.
"Why would anybody wish to steal a car?" Reston-Farrell said easily.
"But if I _give it_ to somebody?"
"You will be turned over to a medical institution. Citizen Howard
Temple-Tracy is the last man you will ever kill, Mr. Prantera."
A chillness was in the belly of Joe Prantera. He said very slowly, very
dangerously, "You guys figure on me getting caught, don't you?"
"Yes," Brett-James said evenly.
"Well then, figure something else. You think I'm stupid?"
"Mr. Prantera," Dr. Reston-Farrell said, "there has been as much
progress in the field of psychiatry in the past two centuries as there
has in any other. Your treatment would be brief and painless, believe
me."
Joe said coldly, "And what happens to you guys? How do you know I won't
rat on you?"
Brett-James said gently, "The moment after you have accomplished your
mission, we plan to turn ourselves over to the nearest institution to
have determined whether or not we also need therapy."
"Now I'm beginning to wonder about you guys," Joe said. "Look, all over
again, what'd'ya wanta give it to this guy for?"
The doctor said, "We explained the other day, Mr. Prantera. Citizen
Howard Temple-Tracy is a dangerous, atavistic, evil genius. We are
afraid for our institutions if his plans are allowed to mature."
"Well if you got things so good, everybody's got it made, like, who'd
listen to him?"
The doctor nodded at the validity of the question. "Mr. Prantera, _Homo
sapiens_ is a unique animal. Physically he matures at approximately the
age of thirteen. However, mental maturity and adjustment is often not
fully realized until thirty or even more. Indeed, it is sometimes never
achieved. Before such maturity is reached, our youth are susceptible to
romantic appeal. Nationalism, chauvinism, racism, the supposed glory of
the military, all seem romantic to the immature. They rebel at the
orderliness of present society. They seek entertainment in excitement.
Citizen Temple-Tracy is aware of this and finds his recruits among the
young."
"O.K., so this guy is dangerous. You want him knocked off before he
screws everything up. But the way things are, there's no way of making a
get. So you'll have to get some other patsy. Not me."
"I am afraid you have no alternative," Brett-James said gently. "Without
us, what will you do? Mr. Prantera, you do not even speak the language."
"What'd'ya mean? I don't understand summa the big words you eggheads
use, but I get by O.K."
Brett-James said, "Amer-English is no longer the language spoken by the
man in the street, Mr. Prantera. Only students of such subjects any
longer speak such tongues as Amer-English, French, Russian or the many
others that once confused the race with their limitations as a means of
communication."
"You mean there's no place in the whole world where they talk American?"
Joe demanded, aghast.
* * * * *
Dr. Reston-Farrell controlled the car. Joe Prantera sat in the seat next
to him and Warren Brett-James sat in the back. Joe had, tucked in his
belt, a .45 caliber automatic, once displayed in a museum. It had been
more easily procured than the ammunition to fit it, but that problem too
had been solved.
The others were nervous, obviously repelled by the very conception of
what they had planned.
Inwardly, Joe was amused. Now that they had got in the clutch, the
others were on the verge of chickening out. He knew it wouldn't have
taken much for them to cancel the project. It wasn't any answer though.
If they allowed him to call it off today, they'd talk themselves into it
again before the week was through.
Besides, already Joe was beginning to feel the comfortable, pleasurable,
warm feeling that came to him on occasions like this.