'Show me your card, old timer.'

  Clayton stared at the SSS man's face. It was weak, but vicious, the countenance of a bully. It was the face of one who would back down from a determined confrontation. And what was it that Janine had said ? 'And you a man who daren't say boo! to the office boy!' It was a pity that Janine was not with him now.

  'Why should I?'

  'Because I'm State Security, that's why.'

  'I shall be calling at the State Security Office during my lunch hour.'

  'You'll be calling there now, with me. Unless you produce your card.'

  'I shall produce it to the proper authority.'

  'Gahh! There's some bastards you can't argue with!' The young man snatched the card from Clayton's pocket, stared at it happily. 'You're for it, oldtimer. You're for the high dive into Shit Creek!'

  'I've already told you,' said Clayton patiently, 'that I shall be calling at the State Security Office to get it fixed up.'

  'In your lunch hour.'

  'I've already told you that, too.'

  'How wrong can you be, oldtimer ? How bloody, fucking wrong! You're coming there now. With me.'

  Clayton tried to remember what he had read, been told about the SSS. He said, as firmly as he could, 'You have no power to make an arrest.'

  'Maybe not.'

  'Then let me pass.'

  But the young man was blocking his way, and he was backed up by three youths who, although not wearing the League of Youth almost-uniform, were obviously taking sides.

  'Let me pass!'

  The SSS man had raised his right wrist, on which was buckled a police transceiver, to his mouth. He spoke into it. 'Agent Carstairs, Number 0024, calling any law enforcement

  officers in vicinity of Port Keira fHovercoach Terminal. . .'

  There was a thin but distant whisper in reply. 'Your call acknowledged, Agent Carstairs. Pass your message.'

  'An oldie giving trouble aboard the hovercoach. I am detaining him.'

  'Very well, Carstairs. Detain him. But use no violence.'

  Again Clayton tried to push his way out of the coach. The SSS man stood politely to one side, and put out a foot. Clayton fell heavily. He heard, as he sprawled on the deck, 'I didn't use violence. The stupid old bastard tripped.'

  He got slowly and painfully to his feet, found himself facing two large policemen. One of them was looking at the mutilated card that had been given him by the SSS man, showing it to his mate. 'Hey, Bill, take a gander at this! This joker's had his card less'n a day, an' already he's broken Regulation 13B!' He turned back to Clayton, sympathy on his broad, heavy face, and asked, 'Wife trouble, mate ?'

  'I really don't see how it's any concern of yours!'

  That was a mistake. 'Everything is our concern, as you'll soon find out. We don't make the laws, but we enforce 'em. You're taking a ride with us, Mister — and unless you watch your tongue it'll be a one-way ride.'

  'But I have to get to work. . . My office. . . My wife. . .'

  'They'll be notified soon enough. Come on, now. . .'

  Foolishly Clayton tried to break free. The pain, as his arm was whipped up behind his back, was excruciating. Whimpering a little, he allowed himself to be hustled out of the coach and into the police car.

  10

  Even in this day and age the majority of people managed to keep themselves out of police custody. Imprisonment was a new experience to Clayton. It was something that happened to others, to real lawbreakers, never to oneself. After the steel door had clanged shut on him he collapsed on to the hard bunk, sat huddled with his head in his hands. This was all a mistake, a dreadful mistake. As soon as the authorities realized who he was, the chief clerk of the Port Keira branch of Tasman United, he would be released. Probably there would be a fine for the loss of the pill from his Identity Card, but surely not a prison sentence. . .

  What could They do to him? What would They do? Arid what had happened to Hawkins, in Head Office, shortly after he had passed his forty-fifth birthday? What had happened to Hawkins? Nobody seemed to know, but he wasn't around any more. . ,

  The time dragged. Clayton's frequent inspection of his watch made it drag all the more slowly. He even thought that it must have stopped, but the power cell had been renewed only three weeks ago. He tried to pace up and down — but in a cubicle 2.5 X 2.5 X 2.5 the effort was ludicrous. There was no window to look out of; the only light came from a bulb set behind thick glass in the ceiling. Floor and walls were of hard, featureless plastic. In one place somebody had tried to scratch something on it — name? date? blasphemy? obscenity? — but had given up.

  Time dragged. Now and again there would be muffled footsteps in the corridor outside the cell, and each time Clayton would stiffen with a wild hope. Was it Janine ? Was it somebody from the office? Was it a police officer with an order for his release ? And each time that the footsteps passed and faded he would slump back into despair.

  Then, suddenly, the door rattled open. A uniformed warder stood there accompanied by another man, in drab brown convict's shirt and trousers, pushing a trolley. 'Tucker,' announced the warder, standing to "one side. 'Catch, mate!' said the convict, throwing two packages in

  Clayton's general direction. He muffed the catch. The door clanged shut.

  Slowly Clayton picked up his meal from the floor. He wasn't hungry, but it was something to do. There was a tetrahedral container of some brown, lukewarm fluid which luckily, had not burst. There was a packet of sandwiches. The fluid could have been tea, weak and unsweetened. The bread of the sandwiches was dry, and the filling was Soyjoy. He had never liked it, in spite of its alleged highly nutritional qualities. But there was nothing else, and eating the unappetizing meal passed the time, took his mind — but all too briefly — off his predicament.

  There was another meal, of similar quality, four hours later. After this Clayton made use of the covered bucket that he found under the bunk. Two hours after this second meal the light, without warning, went out. Only the thin thread of illumination around the door saved the prisoner from the horrifying conviction that he had suddenly gone blind.

  It was a long night, and cold, and the single, thin blanket was almost useless. Even had the bed been luxurious Clayton would not have been able to sleep. For the first time in his rather sheltered life, with its womb-to-tomb welfare state security, he was really frightened.

  At last it was morning, and there was a bowl of thin, flavourless gruel thrust at him by the escorted trusty. After he had finished it he was taken by two warders to the toilets, where he emptied his ill-smelling bucket and was allowed a hasty wash in cold water. He was returned briefly to his cell, but given barely time to fold his blanket. He had just completed this minor task when the door opened to admit two guards.

  'Come on!' growled the older and tougher-looking of the pair. 'We haven't all day!'

  'Am. . . Am I being released ?'

  'That'll be the sunny Friday!' guffawed the man. 'Come on — or do we have to drag yer ?'

  'Where are you taking me ?'

  'Never you mind.'

  'But. . . But I've done nothing. . .'

  'Tell that to the beak.' The warder advanced threateningly

  on Clayton. His hands looked as huge and brutal as the rest of him. Clayton decided to go quietly.

  How far was it from the cell block to the room to which he was taken? He never knew, but it seemed like miles, a long, long trudge through a labyrinth of drab, featureless, artificially lit corridors. The guards talked between themselves, ignoring him save for an occasional shove or prod. He soon learned that there was nothing to be gained by asking them questions.

  Then, at the end of a passageway, they came to a door on which, in bold, black lettering, were the words SENIOR MAGISTRATE. The leading guard rapped smartly on the door, opened it. The other man pushed Clayton through the entrance, so violently that he stumbled and almost fell.

  Sitting behind a big desk was the magistrate. He was not an old man, but not as young as his shaven head and plain grey clothing made him appear at first glance. He looked at Clayton through cold, blue eyes. His pale, plump, smooth face was expressionless. Before him was a collection of documents — Clayton's old, superseded Identity Card, his new but mutilated Senior Citizen's one, a fat manila folder. And that, the prisoner realized, would be his life, to date, in print.

  The magistrate asked, 'Is this the man?' The elder of the two warders answered the unnecessary question in the affirmative.

  'H'm. Yes. Well.' Pudgy hands played with the papers.

  'Your Honour,' asked Clayton politely, 'don't I get to see a lawyer, a psychologist?'

  'Shaddup!' barked the senior guard. 'Talk when you're talked to!'

  The magistrate raised an admonitory hand. 'I will allow the question. For your information, Clayton, I am a qualified psychiatrist. I am also a lawyer. Does that satisfy you?' Clayton said nothing; there was nothing to say. 'H'm. Yes. I realize that you will have been expecting a formal trial — but in a case such as yours no trial is necessary. The evidence, the irrefutable evidence, is before me.' A thick finger pushed the Senior Citizen's card, with its damning, empty pouch, across the desk. 'You have abused the trust placed in you by the State, shown yourself to be an unworthy recipient of the privileges accorded a Senior Citizen. You stand before me self-condemned. . .'

  'But, Your Honour, I can explain. . .'

  'Very well. Explain.'

  'It was like this. . .' began Clayton, then fell silent. How could he clear himself without incriminating Janine ? (He was still loyal to her.) I was going to take the pill, but I changed my mind. It fell on the floor. And then, after we'd had a fuck, my wife accidentally flushed it down the toilet. . .'

  'Go on, Clayton.'

  'It. . . It was an accident. . .'

  The pale, plump face showed expression at last — acute boredom. 'That's what you all say, you gutless wonders who decide to avail yourselves of the priceless boon that the State has conferred on you, and then haven't the nerve to go through with it. I know your type, Clayton. It's a common one. Too common. H'm. Yes. However, as this was a first offence I am disposed to be lenient. You are found guilty of lack of moral fibre and sentenced to one year's Corrective Detention.'

  'But, Your Honour! My job, my wife. . .'

  'Your spouse and your employers will be notified. I doubt that either will miss you. Guards, take him away!'

  They took him away.

  11

  They took him away — first of all through a long corridor at the end of which he was hustled into a vehicle that was, as far as he was concerned, a windowless cell on wheels. He was allowed no more than a fleeting glimpse of daylight and of the grim, grey prison yard. At the end of the long ride he was dragged roughly from the van out into another yard and marched to a reception room where he was made to strip and where all his personal possessions, such as they were, were taken from him. He was given a pair of rough, too-large shoes, a pair of coarse grey socks which stretched to fit his feet, a suit of too-small grey overalls. After that he was escorted to a large dormitory, with sixty bunks arranged in tiers of three. The door slammed behind him decisively.

  He stood there, blinking in bewilderment.

  'Welcome!' someone shouted sardonically. 'Welcome, Number 49!'

  'Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!' solemnly intoned another man.

  Clayton looked at his room-mates with both curiosity and trepidation. There were forty-eight of them. All of them were dressed as he was, each of them seemed to be in the same age group, late or middle forties. They returned his stare. It seemed to him that there was derision on each bearded face — but there was, too, a camaraderie.

  'What do they call you?' one of the men asked.

  'Clayton,' he muttered. 'Paul Clayton. . .'

  'We've already got a Paul,' said the man, 'and I'm him. You'd better be Clay. Suit you?'

  Yes, it suits. . . thought Clayton. In the space of a few hours he had been stripped of his standing, his identity, reduced to the primordial clay.

  He asked, 'What happens now ? How does this Corrective Detention work out ?'

  Paul laughed, his big teeth yellow and mottled in his untidy pepper-and-salt beard. 'So far, Clay, it's just detention. We get out meals, such as they are, and our exercise,

  such as it is. Most of the guards are in our age group and there's a certain feeling among them of There but for the grace of God go I. All in all, they're not a bad bunch of bastards. But when there are sixty of us. . . That, they tell us is, when we start to learn the facts of life.'

  4What happens then ?'

  'We're shipped out of here.'

  'Where?'

  'That, brother, is the sixty-four dollar question. There've been rumours that it's hard labour on Mars, but I'm afraid that they are only rumours. . . '

  'Afraid?'

  'Yeah. When I was a kid I used to read a lot of science fiction — and that was about the time of the first Moon landing. I'd have sold my soul to be able to walk on the surface of another world, . . I guess I still would.'

  'Some say that it'll be the submarine farms,' contributed another man.

  'Not on your sweet life,' Paul told him. 'The glamour jobs like that are for the young, not for old has-beens like us.'

  'Somebody must know,' insisted Clayton.

  'Sure. Somebody must know — but he just ain't telling.' Paul shrugged philosophically. 'Oh, well, comes the sixtieth victim and we'll find out.'

  Came the sixtieth victim, and they found out.

  It was all of a month before the tally was filled — thirty days that, to Clayton's surprise, did not pass at all unpleasantly. Discipline was lax, the food was hardly less palatable than that which he had eaten in his own home, the company was good. There were men there from all walks of life, each with his stories to tell. Paul had been a schoolmaster. There were several clerks. There were two factory managers. There were labourers and shop assistants, salesmen and engineers. Each of them, like Clayton, had experienced his moment of temptation, each of them had changed his mind — or had had his mind changed for him. Most of them were philosophical about their fate — after all, what was a year, even though the period of Corrective Detention would not

  commence until they were taken to the place where the actual sentence would be served ?

  'It's a year away from the rat-race,' said Paul. 'It's a year to get ourselves sorted out. . .'

  'And what about our wives ?' asked Clayton.

  'They'll manage,' the ex-schoolmaster said cynically. 'They managed all right before we landed in jug — mine did, anyhow — and they'll manage all right now. . .'

  And Janine would manage, Clayton knew. He had received two short letters from her. She did not seem unduly worried — about him. She implied that he had made his bed and now must lie on it. As for herself—Ted Harmon had used his influence and got her a good job in the Hoyida office. She would probably give up the apartment and find something smaller — and better. . .

  Came the sixtieth victim, the sixtieth prisoner, a frail little man who was given barely time to introduce himself before the guards erupted into a frenzy of activity. The prisoners were chivvied out of their dormitory, into the yard, where a fleet of windowless vans was waiting. They rode, standing, for a long time in darkness — and when, at last, the doors opened to let them out it was on to a vast, twilit airfield. They were given no time to relieve themselves, which was a matter of great urgency for most of them, which would have been too late for a substantial minority. A troop of uniformed officers — unlike the guards at the prison these were all young men — made them line up in rough formation and then marched them to a huge transport. Clayton heard one of them mutter disgustedly to his mate, 'These stinking old bastards!' And so would you stink, he thought, if. . .

  'Step on it, grand-dad! We haven't all fucking night!' The sharp point of a bayonet pricked Clayton's buttock.

  He stepped on it, and stumbled up the ramp to the aircraft's entry port. He groped his way to a hard, bucket seat, collapsed into it. Before long the other prisoners and the guards were in their places. One of the latter ordered, 'Fasten seat belts!' adding, 'It's no skin off my nose if you don't, and break your bloody necks!'

  Jet engines whined into life. The plane leaped skyward. Clayton tried to pull aside the curtain that covered his

  window, cried out as a heavy fist smashed his hand away from the fabric. 'Naughty, naughty, grand-dad! Peeping's not allowed!' Then the officious guard snarled at somebody else, 'And where the hell do you think you're going, you miserable old bastard ?'

  'To the toilet,' came the reply, in Paul's voice.

  'Not bloody likely you're not. Not until you put up your hand and ask me nicely.'

  Paul lifted his hand. 'May I go to the toilet?'

  'Say "please". Say "sir".'

  Clayton could see the schoolmaster's face in the dim lighting. He saw for the first time, the essential arrogance of the man — an arrogance that had been resurrected by this last, petty humiliation. He watched, with a fascinated horror, Paul's hands fumbling with the zip front of his coveralls as he said, too calmly, 'I warn you. It's urgent.'

  'Just do it, grand-dad. Just do it, that's all.'

  'You/' This was a fresh voice, mature, authoritative. 'Stand aside and allow the passenger to get aft!'

  'What's it to you ?'

  'Plenty. I'm the captain of this aircraft, and I don't want her stunk out while you play your silly games. Stand aside. That's an order.'

  The pilot bulked big in the aisle, but the size of him was more than physical, and his authority derived from more than the gold braid on his sleeves. Paul smiled at him gratefully as he slipped past the guard, who ignored him, who muttered, 'Just wait till I get my hands on you!'

  The captain grinned cheerfully. 'You never will, sonny. There are some professions — and mine, thank God, is one of them — in which youth is not regarded as a substitute for experience, whose members don't get that so-marvellous forty-fifth birthday present.' He addressed the prisoners. 'As long as we're airborne you're all fare-paying passengers as far as I'm concerned.' He added sardonically, 'After all, somebody paid your fares — and it wasn't young Fatso here.'

 

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