Dayworld

He and Ozma were to go to an artists' party at 7:30 P.M. That meant two hours or more of standing atound drinking cocktails and talking with people who were mostly phonies. There were, however, a few he would enjoy talking to.

He had a luncheon engagement with Anthony Horn, the Manhattan organic commissioner-general. He doubted that they would talk much about police business. She was an immer.

There was also a note to see Major Wallenquist about the Yankev Gril case. He frowned. The man was a Monday citizen. What was Gril's name doing on the MCOD file?

He sighed. Yankev Gril. He did not even know what he looked like, but he would find out today.

Chapter 3

After kissing Ozma good-bye, he got a bicycle, one of six, out of the garage. As soon as it had rolled a few feet, its squeaking told him that Monday's occupants had neglected to lubricate the pedal mechanism. He cursed softly. He would make a recording to chew Monday out, but the omission was no big thing. He'd get an OD mechanic to attend to it. He was not supposed to do that, but what was the use of being a detective-inspector if he did not have his little perks?

No. That would not be right. Anyway, he'd be damned if he'd ride all the way to work on the irritating and attention-getting vehicle. He returned to the garage and got another bike. This one squeaked, too. Swearing, he took out a third, the last of the adult-size, and rode out of the garage. When he saw Ozma bent over with laughter, he shouted, "Straighten up! You look like a cow! And put a robe on!"

Ozma, still laughing, gave him the finger.

"What a relationship we have," he muttered. He went past the white picket fence along Bleecker Street and turned the corner onto the bike path along the canal. Two men fishing from the walk looked up as he passed them. Caird rode on. As usual, there were many pedestrians illegally on the path. Some of them saw his OD badge, but they moved only to get out of his way and some did not do that.

Time for another sweep, he thought. Not that it would do any good. The pedestrians would have to pay only a small fine. Ah, well. His daughter Ariel, the historian, had told him that Manhattanites had always paid little attention to traffic rules. Even in this law-abiding age, there were so many misdemeanors that the organic officers usually ignored most of them.

The air had cooled off a little during the night but was begi

Jeff Caird had passed twelve canal bridges when he saw a pedestrian sixty feet ahead of him drop a banana peel on the pavement. Jeff looked around. There was no organic officer in sight. Maybe it was true that the organics were always around except when you needed them. He would have to write out this ticket himself. He looked at his wristwatch. Fifteen minutes to report on time. He was going to be late. But, if he was performing a duty, he would be excused.

He braked to a stop. The litterer, a short thin pale man-the shortness and paleness were in themselves causes for suspicion_was suddenly aware that a cop was near him. He froze, looked around, then gri

"It sort of slipped out of my hand," he whined. "I was going to pick it up."

"Is that why you walked away from it?" Caird said. "You are now approximately twelve feet past it and the waste barrel by the wall."

Caird pointed at the TV strip on the wall.

NO LITTERING

LITTERING IS UNESTHETIC

UNSOCIAL

UNLAWFUL

REPORT ALL CRIMES TO TC CHANNEL, 245-5500

Caird kicked the bike parking-stand down, opened the bag in the basket over the front wheel, and removed a Kelly-green box. He raised the attached screen on its top and said, "ID, please."

Holding the unbitten banana in one hand, the man lifted a chain from around his neck. Caird took the chain and the metal seven-rayed star-on-a-disc attached to it. He inserted a ray point into the slot in the box.

The screen displayed:

DOROTHY WU ROOTENBEAK

CZ-49V-*27-8b*-AP4-12

Caird glanced at the personal history and pertinent data that rolled on the screen after the name and ID number, Rootenbeak had four priors, all misdemeanors for slobbishness, though none for littering. Neither the history nor the present offense justified Caird in having a sky-eye satellite zero in on Rootenbeak.

The man edged closer so he could see the screen. "Give me a break, officer!"

"Did you give your fellow seniors a break? What if one had slipped on the peel?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. Look, officer, I've got a lot on my mind. I got a sick child and a wife that drinks, and I been late a couple of times without a good excuse-so they said. What do they know? My mind was on my troubles. You got troubles, ain't you? Maybe you don't, being an organic and all that. But I got them. Everybody got them. Give me a break. I won't do it again."

Caird spoke into the front section of the box, asking for the file department. A complete update on Rootenbeak flashed on the screen. This included the fact that Rootenbeak had used the same excuses to other officers as he had to Caird. Also, Rootenbeak had no children, and his wife had left him three weeks ago.

"I'm going to be late again if you don't let me go now. I can't afford another credit cut. I ain't making enough now. We just barely get by."

The state guaranteed that nobody just barely got by. Rootenbeak knew that Caird had checked out his story, yet he was lying. And he knew that being caught in a lie would cost him at least another credit.

Caird sighed. What made them do it?

He should know. He was a far bigger criminal than Rootenbeak, who was, actually, a committer of misdemeanors, not of felonies. But Caird believed, at least he told himself that he believed, that there was a difference between him and other criminals. A qualitative difference. Also, if he let Rootenbeak go because of a misplaced sense of empathy, he would put himself in danger. Moreover, the discarded peel, besides being offensive, was dangerous.

And I'm not hurting anyone.

No, not yet. But if I were caught, many would be hurt.

He took a camera from the bag, held it between two fingers, sighting with one eye through the tiny magnifying glass in the center, and squeezed. A second later a photograph slid out. He inserted that into another slot in the R-T box. The screen displayed that the photograph had been transmitted and was recorded in the files. It also confirmed that the culprit was indeed Rootenbeak. Caird read the ticket for Rootenbeak into the box. A few seconds later, the screen flashed that the charges had been recorded at files and on the culprit's ID disc.

Caird handed the disc to Rootenbeak. "I'll give you a break," he said. "You won't have to appear immediately at court. You can go after work. Put that peel where it belongs and get going."

Rootenbeak's face matched his whine. It was long and narrow with a thin drooping nose, close-set small watery blue eyes, a short jaw, and a chin that had failed to bud in the womb. His shoulders were slumped, his hair was uncombed, and his robe was torn. Caird expected only servility from the slob. He certainly did not expect what happened next.