A Prison Make

                         By WILLIAM W. STUART

                         Illustrated by FINLAY

                  Any similarity between the hero of
                  this Kafka-esque tale and Everyman
                    who chooses the security of the
                  horrible known rather than face the
              unknown, is not by any means coincidental.

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                      Amazing Stories July 1962.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The man on the bunk woke, but not up. Not up at all. He didn't move,
except for a sort of general half-twitch, half-shrug; didn't even open
his eyes. Just past the black borderland of sleep in the miasmic, grey
fog in which he found or failed to find himself, two things only seemed
sure. One of these was that there was no hurry whatever about opening
his eyes to his immediate surroundings. That could wait. He didn't know
why but he knew it could wait.

He knew that. He knew also that he was a man. No doubt there. Not for
an instant did he so much as suspect that he might be a small boy, a
girl, woman, or some nameless beast. No; he was a man. Not an old man,
either. A man and still at least reasonably young.

These things he felt he knew but he could take no very great
satisfaction in them. It didn't seem a very extensive knowledge; basic,
but not extensive. What about other, collateral data--such as his name,
status, situation, condition and present whereabouts?

He couldn't seem to think. No, no, he hadn't lost his memory. He felt
confident that all those things were clearly recorded there someplace.
Only they were obscured, out there in that mist, out where it was hard
to grasp them just now. After a bit, it would all come back to him.

In the meantime he lay there.

He twitched again, a reflective thing, no volition entering into it.
The surface under him gave a little; a bed of some sort, must be. It
seemed rather too firm, a harder bed than he felt he was properly
accustomed to. Not too bad though. He could--he had, apparently, rested
well enough on it. Sheets? He couldn't feel any sheets, only something
scratchy; a blanket. And it didn't, come to notice, feel as though he
were wearing pajamas; more like ordinary clothes. And--he wiggled his
toes--socks, yes. Shoes? No, at least he wasn't wearing shoes.

Now where would a man, not drunk, of course he wasn't drunk, be likely
to go to bed in a hard bunk, blanket, no sheets, all or most of his
clothes on except his shoes? Could be some sort of an Armed Forces
outpost or ... jail? The situation seemed to fit the pattern of a jail
all too closely. And how would the fine young man he was sure he must
be know all this about a jail pattern? Must have read it someplace;
seen it in a show. Well....

       *       *       *       *       *

He opened his eyes to a further greyness, only less thick than that
inside. And there were bars in this greyness, there in front of him,
heavy steel bars; on the sides, he turned his head, walls of solid
steel plate. To the rear? He lifted his head and turned it--a damp,
dirty concrete wall. Oh it was a jail all right. He was in jail, in
a cell. He didn't, at once, move any more. From where he lay on the
cell's single bunk hung by chains from the right side wall, he could
see a narrow, concrete corridor through the bars in front. A bare light
bulb shone tiredly in a dirt-crusted metal reflector in the corridor's
high ceiling; grey light oozed in through a high, barred window. It
must be early morning, he figured.

Probably it was morning, at that. But, as he found in later time, you
couldn't judge it from that window. It had only two tones, grey light
or black; night or day. It was a window remote from any sun and the
grey day-time quality was subject to no variations, or at least none
that he could ever classify or use as a basis of measurement.

Well, assuming as he did then that it was morning in jail, what was he,
whoever he was, doing in jail? The detail of his past was still solidly
fogged in. But he wasn't a--a criminal. Anything like that he would
surely know about, remember. It must be a mistake of some sort. Or
could he be in jail for some justifiable, thoroughly respectable sin?
Income tax, price fixing, collusion, something like that, actually
creditable rather than otherwise? No. He hadn't been through a trial,
couldn't have been; and nobody ever went to jail for things like that
except, perhaps, for a month or so and that after years of trials and
appeals first.

Nevertheless, he was in jail. So? It must be an accident, a mistake of
some sort. Of course. That would be it.

He sat up then, on the bunk. Shoes? He swung his stocking feet over
the edge of the bunk and felt; bent down and looked. No shoes in
sight. Well ... he stood up. Ow! That concrete floor was cold. But he
wouldn't have to stand for it--on it--for long. Whatever the mistake
or misunderstanding had put him in jail, he would straighten it out
quickly enough. He walked to the front of the cell to grasp bars, one
in each hand, the conventional prisoners' pose.

"Hey!" he shouted, "hey!!" He rattled the cell door, doing all the
normal, conventional things. And, standing there shaking his cell door,
he was a conventional, non-remarkable looking young man. Middling
height, not short, not tall. Young, not more than thirty or so; not bad
looking. Slim enough of waist so the lack of a belt didn't endanger
the security of his pants. Naturally, they drooped and, naturally,
he looked unshaven, dishevelled. But his suit was of good quality.
Shirt--no necktie, of course--too. He might very well have been a young
executive, caught in a non-executive moment. Probably, he was, or had
been. But in jail there are no executives. He was only a prisoner
rattling a jail cell door.

       *       *       *       *       *

Turning his head and pressing against bars, he could look up and down
the corridor outside. To his right, sighted through the left eye, it
stretched, maybe a hundred feet, maybe more, to end in a right angle
turn and a blank wall. The other way, some indeterminate, dim distance
off, he could barely make out another barred door. There were, he could
sense rather than see, other cells in neat, penal line on either side
of his. Occupied? Yes. There were noises; grunts, yawns, mumbling,
nothing distinguishable in the way of conversation but clear enough
evidence that there were other prisoners. He was glad of that.

"Hey!" he yelled again, "hey, somebody. Come let me out of here,
damnit." But nobody did.

After a bit he went back to his bunk and sat. Routine, he supposed, and
rules. Probably it was too early yet. But certainly before long someone
would come. They would have to let him see someone in authority;
straighten this mess out fast enough then.

He stood and went through his pockets. Not much; but, at least, a
crumpled pack with three cigarettes and one book of matches. He sat
again and smoked. Patience.

Later, not long probably, he was roused from a dull torpor by a
metallic clatter from the corridor. He leaped to his feet--damn that
cold floor--and to the front of his cell. Outside, just one or two
cells down from his own was a rig of some sort; some kind of a steam
table on wheels, apparently. Anyway, it was steaming greasily. There
were metal trays stacked at one end; buckets of one thing or another in
apertures along its eight foot length. Breakfast? Something, anyway,
being served up by four hopeless slatterns dressed in sack-like, brown
and dirty white striped denim uniforms. The women whined and mumbled at
each other as they dragged along, filling trays and tin cups from the
containers in their steam table, passing them into cells, dispensers of
the state's bounty, no benediction.

"Well now look at here, girls," said the lead witch, coming abreast of
the man's cell, "looks like we got us a real juicy young buster, a nice
gentleman prisoner type. Fresh meat, hah?"

They all screeched and squawked then, crowding to the front of his
cell to look, exchanging viciously obscene guesses regarding his
probable past history of despicable crime, present intimate personal
condition, and future possibilities, all singularly unattractive. He
gaped at them a moment in shocked disgust and then backed from the door
of his cell to sit on the bunk, head down, not looking, trying not to
listen.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Yeah, that's the way it goes. He don't like our service; don't think
what we got is sweet enough and pretty enough for his fine taste; not
now, he don't. It's gonna surprise him some, ain't it, dears, how he'll
learn to like our dishes and our room service after a little time,
hah?" The first charmer hummed an unrecognizable non-musical bar or two
and lifted straggling skirts high, higher to prance a misshapen dance
step. The others cackled wildly.

"Show him Belle. Show him something to put in his dreams. He'll come
around fast enough."

He squeezed his eyelids tighter shut.

"All right then, Sweetie, Jail-Birdie Boy," said Belle, dropping
skirts. "Your appetite for our cell block service'll change. How d'you
want your eggs, Bird-Boy?" She laughed.

He raised his head, dully. "Any way you feel like laying them,
goddamnit," he snarled.

The harsh amusement dissolved. "A funny one? Did I say fresh meat,
dears? Too fresh, hah? All right. Should we serve him a chef's special?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The other two gruntingly pushed the steam table forward. One lifted
a metal plate, something between a dish and a bowl, and scooped a
ladle full of a greyish mess of whatever, mush of some sort. Edible?
Conceivably. Then she reached into some nauseous recess of the table
and brought out a stout roach, legs moving feebly. She dropped it
into the mush. Number two drew a steaming cup of muddy liquid from
an urn. Coffee? Well, it was a brown-grey, it had a smell, it wasn't
soup. Coffee. The hag with the cup hawked gurglingly and spat into the
cup. The third grinned evilly and dropped three slices of grey-white
bread--grey was in everything--on the gritty corridor floor; stirred
them around with her bunion cut left shoe; picked them up.

"Breakfast is served, Birdie. Juicy worms for the early jail bird."
Belle opened the cell door. The man sat still on his bunk, staring
fixedly at the floor. The stout slattern laughed, slopped the filthy
bread on top of the expiring roach and Belle took the plate-bowl and
the cup to slap them down beside him. "Breakfast. Bread's your lunch.
Maybe you'll be gladder to see us by supper. No? Then tomorrow, or the
next day; or the next." She backed out and clanged the cell door shut.
"No tipping," she said. The others cackled. "Please ... no tipping."

They moved on down the row of cells. The man sat. Maybe he should
have been more friendly; played up to them. Then he could have asked
them ... something ... about seeing somebody, somebody in charge, a
lawyer ... anybody. He sat a while, ignoring the filthy bread, the
noisome mush and the grey-tan coffee slush with the yellowish blob of
spittle on top. But it bothered him. Not that he wanted to eat. God no.
His stomach growled; let it growl. He was too nervous, too upset to eat
anything, let alone ... that. But his mouth, his throat were parched,
cotton dry, a desert, a burned out waste of dehydrated tissue.
Liquid ... damn them. He went back again to the cell door. Shook it.
Yelled, a hoarse croak. No answer, except a croaking echo, the subdued
mutter from other cells. He quit trying to yell. His throat was too
dry; it hurt.

       *       *       *       *       *

For the first time since waking then, he really looked around,
checked over the rest of the cell. It wasn't fancy. The bunk, hard
mattress, blanket. Bars, walls. And, at the rear of the cell, stark,
yellow-white, unadorned and unlovely, was one toilet bowl, no wooden
seat, just the stained enamel. To it and through from the dim concrete
ceiling above ran a heavy iron water pipe. Just where the pipe met
the bowl was the handle. He had seen it all before without taking
real notice. A toilet. Hell no, he didn't need a toilet. He was all
dried out, tensed, frozen inside. But ... he walked the three short
paces to the rear of the cell. He reached out, down; took the handle,
pressed it. Water rushed out in a roaring flood, bubbling and swirling
in stained bowl. Slowly the flow cut down and stopped. He pressed the
handle again; again the rush of water. His tongue stuck to the roof of
his mouth. Water.

Sure, there was water, plenty of water. Water, water ... nor any
drop ... to drink? No, Good Lord no; it was unthinkable. A man
couldn't, not conceivably, drink water that came from such a thing. He
would choke on it, strangle, die. But water.... He would die. The iron
pipe above the bowl was sweating, tiny droplets. He pressed his tongue,
his face against it. Water.

Damned little water there. He hugged the pipe for a while, breath
coming in harsh gasps. And, as he gasped, his mind emptied, slowly
to a blank, clear, unreflecting lucidity of, not thought, of direct
motor response. A minute, two. Then, moving deliberately, not thinking
deliberately, he turned back to his bunk. A dish. A cup of nauseating
muck.

A little later he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and lit one of his
two remaining cigarettes. The cup, rinsed, clean and filled with water,
he had placed carefully down at the foot of the bunk on the inboard
side. He sighed. His stomach rumbled. Food ... no, not that. He wasn't
really hungry. Even if, maybe, a piece or two of the bread might be
cleaned off a bit ... no.

He lay back on the bunk looking upward. Hm-m. There was something he
hadn't noticed. Up there, maybe eight feet above the floor level, four
under the ceiling, was a black box, about eight inches square by three
deep. Standing on the bunk in his stocking feet, he could get to it
easily enough. A wire ran from it into the ceiling. A speaker. At the
bottom was a button. He pressed it. First, nothing but a faint hum.
Then....

"Click. Good morning." It spoke with a coolly feminine-metallic
voice, "welcome to the Kembel State Home of Protective Custody, Crime
Prevention and Correction Number One-One-Seven."

"Jail," said the man, sitting back down on the bunk. "All it is, it's a
crummy jail." It pleased him to tell the voice that, firmly and clearly.

"This," continued the speaker, "is a recording." The man shrugged.
So what about it? "You have been admitted to protective custody here
pending investigation, trial, review and ultimate disposition of your
case. This is--click--Sunday morning. Sunday is a rest day. Cell block
therapeutic work schedules are in effect Monday through Friday--click."

Work? What kind of work?

"You, as a custodial ward of the State, are entitled by law to
representation of your own, freely selected legal counsel."

Ah! His lawyer would clear this mess up quickly enough.

"If you wish to name counsel you may do so now. Speak clearly, directly
into your home-room sound box. Spell out name of counsel, home and
business address, code, phone, and qualifications before the bar of
this State. Click."

       *       *       *       *       *

His lawyer? Did he have a lawyer? Who? Think, damnit, think. The sound
box was silent except for a faint hum, waiting. But he couldn't think.
The name Lucille came into his mind, but it seemed unlikely that
Lucille could be a lawyer.

"Click." The box spoke out again. "You have no expressed choice of
counsel. You have therefore opted to avail yourself of the privilege
of representation by State appointed counsel. You are now represented,
with full power of attorney, by State Public Defenders, Contract 34-RC,
Hollingsworth, Schintz and Associates, Attorneys at Law. Counsel will
consult with client twice weekly. Sunday and Thursday between the hours
of 1500 and 1600."

Well, at least he'd get to see some kind of a lawyer.

"And now," the voice seemed to take on the faintest note of
enthusiastic interest, "you, as a custodial ward of the State will
need a clear understanding of how we live here at Kembel State Home
One-One-Seven. A clear understanding of the rules and policies
applicable to custodial wards of the State will enable you to avoid
difficulties and misunderstandings during your institutional life.
Please listen carefully."

He didn't, however, listen very carefully.

"Code One," said the voice, relapsing into a sing-song drone, "Section
A, 1, (a): Internal, closed circuit broadcast of instruction and
entertainment. Broadcast is continuous, daily from 0500 through 2300.
Music and entertainment material, 1800 through 2300. Custodial wards
are urged to listen to instructional material provided by the State
for their benefit. Failure to listen to a minimum of seventy-two hours
of said material weekly shall result in penalty, four credits for each
hour of short-fall. Code One, section A, 1, (b): Care of home-room
facilities...."

The voice droned on. The hell with that noise. The man got up and
pushed irritably at the button under the speaker. It faded out in a
faint, protesting whine. A lawyer. The damned voice had said a lawyer
would come on Sunday afternoon. And this was Sunday. This afternoon
then. He should be out by dinner time. He ... he was thirsty again. He
got his cup from the foot of the bunk and drained the cool water with
luxurious satisfaction. Plenty more where that ... never mind that. He
closed a door of his mind with determination. Then he used the toilet
hurriedly and flushed it three times. The lawyer, his lawyer would
come. He lay back down on the bunk. Nothing to do but wait.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Say! Say there, boy. Up, up! Nothing to do but sleep? Eh? Up, up. My
time is valuable." The voice was harsh, rasping, but with an unsubtle
touch of educated superiority in it.

The man in the cell sat up at the second "say," and was at the front
of the cell clinging to the bars before the voice paused.

"What?" he asked, "What, what, what?"

What? It was still daylight. Still jail, too, no doubt about that. This
must be the lawyer then. He blinked and stared through the bars; it
was hard for a moment to focus in the grey light. The figure outside
the cell looked something like ... what? A wheel chair? A man in a
wheel chair? A ... now what in hell kind of a so-called lawyer was
this? There was no man in the more or less wheel chair out there; only
hardware, piled and assembled in a very roughly human shape. At the top
were two lenses, eye-like except for being in a vertical line, mounted
in a rounded, metallic container with a speaker and, presumably, sound
receivers. Under that was a big, square, torso-sized, faintly humming
black box. This rested on a--uh--conveyance, not unlike a wheel chair.
Under the box was an electric motor and a reel of black wire. Attached
to one side of the main box section was a single metal arm, a sort of
skeletal framework of steel rods, jointed and with an arrangement of
tiny wheels, pulleys and belts.

"Now what, for God's sake...?"

"Whup! Excuse me a moment, my boy," rasped the speaker. "Almost forgot
my cord. Mustn't run down my battery here, and with two more clients
after you." The motor under the black box whined. The wheels turned
and the rig backed away from the cell. It rolled some ten paces back
up the corridor; stopped; the metal arm reached, caught a plug at the
end of the wire on the reel and plugged it into a socket in the far
wall of the building. Then the thing rolled back to the cell, the wire
unrolling from the reel to trail behind it.

"There!" said the speaker with a note of satisfaction. "Now, the
case ... let's see ... oh yes. J7-OP-7243-R. Arrested on suspicion,
vice and homicide squad random selection, brought in for subjective
interrogation at 2200, night of the 14th last."

The prisoner's mouth opened and closed again. He had a few things to
say to this mess of machinery. But this information concerned him. He
would listen first.

"On the basis of clear data extracted, recorded and interpreted,
charged with larceny; grand larceny; extortion; felonious assault; lewd
and lascivious conduct; assault with intent to rape; rape...."

"No, no." The man gripped the bars. "No!"

"... and murder in the first."

"No! I didn't. I didn't do any of those things. I know I didn't."

"Ah?" inquired the speaker, "Splendid. It might make an interesting
defense. How do you know you didn't?"

"I-uh-hell, I just know, that's all. Murder? Ridiculous. Rape? I mean
actually using force, real force to ... no. I never dreamed of such a
thing, of any of them."

"Never dreamed of such things? Oh come now."

"Of course I never...." Of course he had never done any of those
things. Of course ... well. Dreams, hell, a man could have all kinds of
crazy dreams. That didn't mean anything. A man couldn't control dreams.
They didn't mean anything.

"Fact is, boy, you must have done those things or dreamed them. Where
do you suppose they got your charges?"

"What?"

"They put you through shock, electric and drug, and went through your
mind. Amazing technical advances have been made recently. They extract
virtually everything now. The process may have left your own circuits
somewhat blurred--did you notice that?--but the accuracy of information
obtained is complete; legal evidence, my boy. And these things with
which you have been charged were all taken right from your own mind."

"But a dream doesn't mean anything. I never did any of those things."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Of course the dividing line between fact and fantasy is indeterminate
and the law does recognize a distinction, when it can be proven,
although the trend is decidedly toward equating the intent with the
act. Eliminates confusion, as you can see. Well, never mind boy. We
shall make a fine case of this, legal history. You are in good hands."

"We ... you.... Now look here, damnit, you're nothing but a confounded
robot."

"Computer, Pinnacle, Legal Model X 27, working title, Mr. Boswell.
Boy, you are extremely fortunate. You couldn't get a finer legal mind
anyplace. Programmed through the State Supreme Court library, shades
of interpretation, judgment and emotional factors drawn from the minds
of Mr. Hollingsworth and Judge Schintz, both very compassionate men.
Circuits overhauled only last month."

"I want a real lawyer."

"I am your lawyer, boy, by law. Fortunate thing too, for you. I can
see your case through. Mr. Hollingsworth--wonderful gentleman, of
course--but even now he is, well, not as young as he used to be. Bad
thing, to change lawyers in mid-case, eh? You are lucky, boy. You know
the human mind is fallible."

"You almost forgot to plug in that silly extension cord."

"Service men are not what they should be. Some of those back motor
circuits of mine, not properly rewired at all. But those are minor
areas, non-legal. Why is your cell speaker cut off, boy?"

"That thing? It got on my nerves so I cut it off, that's why. So?"

"Turn it on at once. You can't afford to lose credits, boy."

"Credits?"

"Boy ... m-mph. Your circuits are in bad shape, aren't they? You are
going to want things, boy. Cigarettes--here's a pack for now, by the
way. Books. Other-ah-little extras from the trustees from the women's
division. With that mind of yours, from the charge sheets ... you buy
things here with your credits and you are going to need them."

"How do I get...?"

"Do your work. Follow the rules. You earn credits. Turn on your
speaker."

He turned it on. "You talk like I'd be here forever."

"Eh? Oh no. It will be less than that, eh? Eh, eh. Don't worry, boy.
I'll be taking care of you. So. This is all the time my programming
permits me to give you now. Till Thursday, eh? Good night, boy."

The wheel chair rig backed off, unwinking eye-lenses still peering at
the man in the cell. The arm pulled the plug, the wire rolled back onto
the reel.

"Mind the rules," the voice rasped, "earn your credits, eh? Be a credit
to the firm. Good night, J 7." The machine rolled silently off. The
prisoner stood clinging to the bars of the door. He was thirsty again.

       *       *       *       *       *

Time serving, time served. Time.

J--or Jay--7, the man in the cell, wiped his mess gear with a
denim rag, a nice match for his shapeless prison pants and the
number-stencilled jacket he wore over a grey-white T-shirt. He belched
sourly and made a face. Damn. Wednesday. The rice had been passable
enough, but the stew was even more sour than usual. Thank goodness for
the bottle of ketchup, resting now with an assortment of items on the
unpainted wooden shelf hung neatly over his bunk with two strips of
denim rag from his busily sounding off speaker box. Two credits, that
ketchup. He belched again. Well, he could never have downed that stew
without it. It did pay to build up those credits. Mr. Boswell, hardware
or not, knew his business. And now at least he, Jay 7, knew his, the
prisoner's business well enough. Well enough to get by.

As Mr. Boswell had said--and said--"we have to go by the rules of
the game we are in, boy." Trying to beat them was beating on a stone
wall. Three days in solitary that time he had stuffed his blanket in
the toilet and tried to flood the place had taught him. Now his head
was unbloody and bowed to the extent that seemed necessary. As Mr.
Boswell had said, with soft harshness, on his third day, a Thursday, in
solitary, peering down through the tiny grill with unwinking lenses,
"If you think, my boy, that you are the one with a head that will prove
harder than these concrete and steel walls you may try if you can
bruise them; but this will not help your case."

The hard way, but only once. He learned the lesson. Now his
cell--home-room--squawker stayed on straight through 0500 through
2300 every day. That brought four bonus credits per week. His cell
was neat and clean; the toilet bowl gleamed, pure, sparkling white.
Four more credits. And he did his work, in his cell, adding endless
columns of surely meaningless figures, writing out political letters
to constituents in a neat hand for all levels of elective officials of
the State. Tedious work? Well ... in a sense; but it was a challenge,
too, all those figures without an error, making the letters neat and
appealing, and balancing properly on the page. It wasn't so easy. He
earned his credits; made his quota, too, every day. Mr. Boswell was
pleased with him. So.

He looked around him at his home-room with a certain clear
satisfaction, if not pride. Now he kept his own mess kit, clean and
shining. He had the shelf with ketchup, mustard; soap and shaving gear;
tobacco and cigarette papers; a nice white enamel basin. And something
more, too. Set into his water pipe, above the toilet bowl was a real
luxury item--a faucet. Not many custodials earned that privilege but he
had had it now for ... how long? Hard to say, to keep track. Quite a
while now, anyway, but the pleasure in having it, in not having to use
the bowl of the toilet for ... everything, hadn't worn off. He put his
mess kit on his shelf, took his cup and went to draw a cup of water,
for the joy in being able to do it, mostly. He drank luxuriously;
carelessly spilled a half-cup of water into the bowl.

There was a tapping on the wall, left side, across from his bunk. He
frowned and ignored it. That tapping from other cells never amounted
to anything, never seemed to make any sense. He'd tried it himself, at
first. For some reason, a vibration barrier, it wasn't possible to talk
and distinguish words from one cell to the next. But tapping? It made
no sense either. It was an annoyance and the hell with it. Except....

       *       *       *       *       *

Jay 7 reached up over his head and brought down his mess gear; put
it on his bunk in front of him; picked up his blunt knife and spoon.
Overhead, the squawk box wound up a stirring speech on something by the
governor and launched into the 1800 review of the rules. The sing-song
voice started. Jay 7 began to rap a rhythm, simple at first, building
into more intricate patterns, following the flow of the speaker. "Code
One--tap, tap--Section A, 1 (a)--tap-tappety tap--." His head nodded.
That was the only tapping that meant anything, a beat with a lift
that a man could put himself into. His head nodded and he listened,
absorbed, to his pattern of rhythm. He felt pretty good. Later he would
feel better.

Sure. Sure he would. This was Wednesday, a Rec. night. Tonight, after
supper, Belle and her Three Graces would make a night round. "Personal
service"--if you had the credits. He had the credits. He'd take a
fall--hell, a couple, why not--out of old Belle herself. Not that Belle
looked any better than the others, but at least she put a little life
into it. A couple of hours with Belle, twelve credits; a bottle, four
more. All right, he had them. Tonight he was really going to make a
night of it. Yeah.

Yeah?

Yeah. And the next day, Thursday, all day ... yeah! His head ached,
stomach churned; that burning back of the eye-balls; the awful,
tight-drawn humming of nerves. And on just one bottle? God, that
acid-burn gin. No, old Belle had been in rare form and he got two
bottles instead of one. But even so ... must be that stew the night
before. Oh death!

He fought the day, his work, all day. He missed quota. The fingers were
just a blistering mist before his eyes. He drank water and gagged on
it. He paced his cell. He sweated. God! Could a man live like this?

"Boy! Say there, boy. Look alive, eh?"

Mr. Boswell, the old electronic shyster. It was afternoon, finally,
of the everlasting, miserable day. Jay 7 looked up to watch sullenly
as, the usual afterthought, Mr. Boswell rolled on off to plug in his
cord; and rolled back. Made a noise, a harrumph-type, throat clearing,
introductory noise. Mr. Boswell had no throat but he was a believer in
certain niceties, form and procedure.

"Well now, boy. Let me see, where are we? Oh yes. Bring you up to date.
My latest petition for further continuance pending a review of the
transcr...."

       *       *       *       *       *

Suddenly, it was all too much. Jay 7 was mad, furious. He, in a
word, blew his gin-throbbing top. He was on his feet, shaking hands,
white-knuckled, gripping bars. "Goddamnit!" he shouted, "Goddamnit,
you rotten old fraud, I've had enough, you hear me? I got a
by-God-bellyfull enough."

[Illustration: Suddenly, it was all too much. Jay 7 was furious with
the old electronic shyster. He was on his feet, shaking hands, white
knuckled, gripping bars.]

"Oh?" inquired Mr. Boswell, mildly. "Enough is enough, eh? But how can
we be sure that alternatives...."

"All right, all right." Jay 7 wouldn't get anything out of him by
shouting, he knew that. He was still tense and shaking but he managed
to lower his voice to a tense, confidential whisper of appeal. "But I
can't take much more of this. And the uncertainty. I've got to know.
How much longer, huh? Please, please, Mr. Boswell, man to man ... when
will the trial come? How much longer before we go to court, I--we--get
my acquital, huh? Man to man, when can I walk out of here a free man?"

"Man to man? You are just a boy, boy. Show it all the time. Man to man?
Well ... perhaps it is time you did grow up a bit. So. You want to know
when you will leave here a free man? I'll tell you. Never."

"Never?!?"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Never. Hasn't that been obvious from the start? Look. You know the
charges, the evidence against you. In your actions, in your mind,
either way you are guilty, boy. Regardless of the degree, you are
guilty. The evidence is undeniable. You know better than I how guilty
you are."

"No!"

"You are so eager to leave here? Why?"

"Just to get out. To be free. Isn't that enough?"

"Nonsense, lad; nonsense. You are doing fine here, just fine. Look at
it this way. You are here for the common good, yours and society's, in
protective custody. You have made rather a nice adjustment. Quite nice,
really. To accept it gracefully, gratefully, is best. And, with me as
your counsel, there is no reason why we cannot hope to continue your
case indefinitely--for years, for decades. Why...."

"No! No, they can't, you can't do that to me." A highly unoriginal
protest. Mr. Boswell made a mild sound of disapproval. At such times
he regretted the limitations of construction that did not permit him a
shake of the head.

"Years? Decades? No! I can't stand it; I can't, I won't. I'll find a
way out. I'll make a way."

"Suicide? Oh now, my boy, please. To take your own life? A shameful
thing. And not at all fair to my firm."

"No, not suicide. I--I'll break out. Damn you, I will. I'll grab your
damned wire--I can reach it from here; I'll pull your plug. You'll have
to take me out of here or I'll let your juice run out and you'll die.
Boswell, you're going to hide me under that machinery of yours and take
me out."

"Oh? But my boy--what then?"

"Then I'll be out, that's what."

"Then you will be out. Out of here; out in the street; out of
protective custody; outside the law. You would be alone then, lad;
alone with your guilt, cast out, apart from society and the sound,
stable order you find here. And would not every decent man's hand be
against you? Think, my boy, what that means. Could you face it?" During
these remarks, as Jay 7 clung, hot-eyed and shaking to the bars, Mr.
Boswell had backed prudently well away, out of reach from the cell door.

"Yes! I don't care. To hell with you; to hell with all of them. I've
got to get out of here. Come back, you coward. I tell you I've got to
get out, out, out!"

Mr. Boswell backed across the corridor and pulled his plug from the
socket. The wire rolled back neatly on the spool. "Time--no more time;
other clients." He peered myopically through thick lenses back toward
the cell. "Please, lad--it pains me to hear you talk so wildly."

"I've got to get out, you hear? Out!"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well, my boy, if it has become such a phobia with you and you feel you
have got to do so foolish a thing ... why don't you just walk out?"

"Walk out? What in hell are you talking about? How can I walk out of
this cell?"

"Now, now, boy. You are only in protective custody, to protect you from
yourself, from an outraged society, you understand. That cell isn't
locked. Never has been. You know that."

"That's a lie!" The man, Jay 7, threw himself against the bars, pressed
against them, every muscle straining. "It's locked, locked. You can
see. It won't open."

"Now, now," said Mr. Boswell again, starting to swing around on his
wheels, "that door opens inward. You get your food through it, your
work; the other--ah--amenities, girls ... eh? Nobody ever unlocks that
door, isn't that right? They all just push it open. Right? Eh? It opens
in."

"You lie. It's a damned, rotten, filthy lie." He was yelling, shaking,
rattling the door; pushing at the door.

"Easy, boy," said Mr. Boswell, "easy now. If you say so ... perhaps you
are right after all. So. We adjust, eh? See you Sunday. There are some
details, questions of improper punctuation in the transcript of your
involuntary confession we must go over; something we can use in the
next preliminary hearing. Eh? Good night, boy." Mr. Boswell rolled off,
smoothly as always, down the corridor.

Jay 7 quit pushing then, all at once and completely, and hung limply,
two hands circling two solid bars, leaning heavily against the cell
door. He sobbed once and then sniffed. He felt thirsty. So ... well, he
had his cup, his own faucet. He could get a nice, cold drink of water
any time he wanted it. He sniffed again and turned away from the barred
door.


                                THE END