Interstellar Patrol (2 of 5 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
Interstellar Patrol by Anvil and Flint (Ed.). Copyright 2003 by Christopher Anvil.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.

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PART I: PARADISE (CONT'D)

Roberts blinked. Apparently he would have to become a citizen in order to exist while arranging for repairs.

"Name," snapped the box.

"Roberts. Vaughan N. Roberts."

"Sex."

"Male."

"Age."

"Thirty-six."

"Height."

"Six feet one-quarter inch."

"Weight."

"One hundred seventy-five pounds. Look . . ."

"Occupation?"

"Spaceship captain. Listen, all I want . . ."

"Inapplicable occupation. Demand for spaceship captains on this planet: Zero. Correction: Occupation: Unskilled. Years of experience?"

Roberts stared. "Experience? As a spaceship captain?"

"As unskilled," snapped the box. "This is your occupation."

Roberts said, "I have no experience as unskilled. I . . ."

"No experience," said the box disapprovingly. "Any physical defects?"

"No. Look, all . . ."

"Convicted of how many crimes the last three years?"

"None. All I . . ."

"Formal education?"

Roberts blew out his breath. "Twelve years of general schooling, six years training in the Space Academy, one year at the Tactical Combat Command Advanced Training Center. And all I want is to get some repairs done!"

"Seven years college training. Equivalent fourteen years experience credit. Excellent. Raise your right hand."

Roberts exasperatedly raised his right hand.

"Repeat after me," said the box, and rolled off words in short incomplete groups, so that Roberts had time to repeat the words, but not to understand their full meaning. Then the box said, "You are now a citizen of the planet Boschock III, known as Paradise, and entitled to all the rights and privileges appertaining thereto, and subject to all the laws, regulations, and customs thereof, so help you God, Amen. This hearing is closed."

The words IMMIGRATION HEARING faded out.

Before Roberts could say a word, he was rushed up a gravity-lift, down a hall, and shoved into a room where he was weighed, measured, photographed, fingerprinted, palm, toe, and foot-printed, retina-graphed, his mouth pried open and teeth examined, and then he was presented with an identification card, and run down the hall to a window where ration books popped out of slots onto a counter. Next he was hurried out to a store full of huge vending machines, and outfitted with a new set of clothes.

Roberts and Hammell now found themselves outside, holding their own clothing wrapped in big bundles, and each wearing a kind of loose long-sleeved blouse, loose long pantaloons, ill-fitting shoes, and long-billed high-topped floppy cap.

Roberts looked sourly up the street at the milling crowd, then glanced at Hammell. "Do you have any ideas?"

"I wouldn't know an idea if one banged into me," growled Hammell. "I'm so mad I can't see straight."

"We need to get in touch with someone in authority--if any human on this planet has authority."

"Yes," said Hammell. "But how?"

Roberts said, "If they have any kind of public communications system here, there ought to be a directory."

While they were trying to think where to look for one, a large mobile metal box stopped in front of them, and abruptly shot its antenna to full height. Metal covers on its sides snapped back and a dazzling yellow light flashed in their faces. A set of long flexible metal arms whipped out, a mesh-covered speaker snapped "Spot check," and with a quick flip of the metal arms, the robot emptied their pockets onto the sidewalk. Next, it rapidly felt them all over, then jerked loose the bundles they were holding, so that they spilled open in the street.

"Nonexplosive. Clothing. But nonstandard. You have receipts for these?"

For the moment, Roberts was speechless. He heard Hammell snarl, "They're our own clothes."

"Uncitylike behavior, one count: lying to roboid police officer under direct interrogation during spot check; these are not clothes permissible for a citizen to wear, hence they are not your clothes. They can only be costumes, and costumes can only be purchased by registered entertainers. You are not dressed as registered entertainers." The yellow light flashed in Roberts' face. "You. You have receipts for these? Your answer? Do not lie."

"We're new citizens," Roberts began, "and--"

"Not asked. Do not evade the question. Do you have receipts for these costumes?"

"Of course," said Roberts. "Yes, certainly."

"Produce the receipts."

"They're on board the spaceship Orion. We wore these clothes on board Orion, came down to arrange for repairs, got sent to Immigration, and then bought the clothes we're wearing now. These clothes in the bundles are the clothes we wore when we came down."

"Spaceship visits are rare, improbable. It follows, this explanation is improbable. Arrest on suspicion of shoplifting. You will come with me for immediate interrogation while investigation proceeds."

The two men were separated, placed under bright lights for a long series of questions, then put into a cell with two cots, a light bulb, a toilet, a 3-V set that didn't work, and a decorative design on the ceiling that obviously incorporated the pick-up heads for a sight-and-sound recording system.

As the robot-jailer rolled off down the corridor, Roberts and Hammell eyed the ceiling, and lay down on the cots without a word.

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