Public Enemy
by Kendell Foster Crossen
At long last, Public Police Officer Brad Raynor was going to see some action--perhaps he’d have some of the excitement that policemen in the past experienced every day!
Brad Raynor cruised in the one thousand level above Nyork and tried to suppress his boredom. Because of his training he was aware that dull routine was preferable, but emotionally he yearned for a little action.
This was Public Police Officer Brad Raynor’s fifth day in uniform. It had taken him seven years to achieve that uniform; four years at Harvard and three years at the University of Public Protection. His three degrees--one in psychology, one in sociology, one in criminalistics--were announced to the world by the neat blue uniform and the badge, Number 42,151, he wore.
“Car three thirty-seven,” said the voice over the audio-speaker. Brad Raynor tensed at the first sound of the voice, then relaxed as he heard the number. “Proceed to street level at two eighty-four West Seventieth Street. Signal eighty-three.”
Signal eighty-three meant a minor domestic adjustment problem. Brad Raynor idly watched the swerving speck of light on the patrol screen, which indicated the path of Car 337, and sighed.
Secretly, he was amused at himself. No one was prouder than Brad Raynor of the progress made by the middle of the 32nd Century, while all of his training had been directed toward increasing that progress. Still, only five days after becoming a part of the Public Police Administration, he found himself longing for the “good old days” he’d read about when the cops went after a fugitive with blazing guns.
Not that he was unarmed. The police cruiser was equipped with everything from a lightweight atomic cannon to a tiny nerve-gun which could be concealed between two fingers. Nevertheless, it was a fact that there was seldom any need for the weapons and Brad Raynor was young enough to indulge occasionally in romantic fantasy. In reality, he knew there was nothing romantic about the “good old days.” A complete history of police work was, of course, a required subject at the university and he was well aware that in the old days most of the police had been incompetent, generally brutal, and for the most part held in contempt by the Public. A favorite subject during some of the bull sessions had been the old question of whether the actions of the police produced the public attitude or whether the attitude formed the police mentality. All of that, of course, had been changed by the 21st Century. Since then all policemen had to be adequately trained and the national, state, and city officials over them were elected by the voters.
“Car two ninety-one,” droned the voice from the audio-speaker. “A speeding air-car is headed up toward your sector. Intercept and investigate the cause.”
Brad Raynor glanced at the chronograph on his instrument panel and saw that it was eighteen hundred. He leaned back, lifted the panel behind his seat and removed the record film for the past hour. He inserted it in the projector and quickly ran it off. The film showed all the details of the streets and houses over which he had passed during the previous hour. He spotted nothing unusual and the film was put away to be handed in when his patrol was over.
“Routine,” he muttered to himself. He grinned and reached for the audio-phone. “Car three hundred, on course, at eighteen hundred plus,” he reported. He swung the phone back into place and idly watched the pips of light on the patrol screen.
“Car three twenty. Proceed to street level at one twenty-six East Fifty-third Street and arrest citizen Jon Bair. There’ll be a complete report on your tape by the time you get there in the event you need it. Bair has been under voluntary treatment at Therapy Control because of having trouble with his neighbor, but he has just destroyed some property belonging to this neighbor. Arraign him on the charge of destroying private property, then deliver him to Therapy Control. Watch your screen for a photograph of Bair.”
And that’s the way it goes, thought Brad Raynor. Even though he knew it was almost impossible, he found himself wishing that someone would rob a bank--in his sector, naturally. It would be nice to have a citation on his blue uniform when he got married, an event which was but two weeks away.
“Car three hundred,” the voice said sharply. That was his number, but it was the tone that caused Brad Raynor to straighten up. “Citizen Will Howard broke into the home of Jan Laird, Mayor Of Nyork, ten minutes ago. He stole two hundred world credits, in cash, and a smallbore energy gun. Upon leaving the premises, he encountered Public Officer Arthur Sommers and killed him without warning.” The voice paused briefly, then continued. “The fugitive escaped in an air-car belonging to the city. He is now in your sector, at the three thousand level--Horizontal sixty-two, approaching Vertical ninety-one.”
* * * * *
The voice droned on, giving a description of the fugitive which included his brain-wave pattern and a chemical analysis, but Brad Raynor was already in action. He still heard the voice and was memorizing the description, but with his left hand he touched the controls so that the cruiser tilted up and leaped ahead. With his right hand, he swung the radarscope. A minute later, he was picking up the echo of the returning signal. He triggered the cybernetic control and glanced at the tape. The fugitive was traveling at eight hundred miles per hour and still accelerating.
Although this was his first case, Brad Raynor had been so well trained that all of this was already second nature to him. Even as he glanced at the tape-reading, he was punching the fugitive’s brain-wave pattern into the encephalscope and swinging it onto the fix held by the radarscope. A rhythmic pinging came from the tiny receiver and he knew that he was following the right man.
“Watch your screen for the film record of the fugitive’s escape,” said the voice from the audio-speaker.
Brad Raynor glanced up at the video-screen and a moment later saw a full color shot of a big, furtive-looking man hurrying into an air-car. It was enough for a sight identification, despite the briefness. Brad knew that it had been caught by the side-camera of one of the street-level patrol cars and he felt a surge of pride at the speed with which headquarters had located it, taken a videoprint and beamed it to him.
“Warning,” said the headquarter’s voice. “The fugitive is armed and is obviously in an unstable condition.”
Brad Raynor grinned up at the audio-speaker. This was turning into just the sort of assignment he’d been thinking about. “Car three hundred,” the voice said sharply--and it was almost as if the Assignment Officer were reading his mind, although actually he was merely remembering when he too had been a probation patrolman--“under any circumstances, bring this man in alive.”
That was all, but Brad Raynor knew the Assignment Officer was reminding him of Rule 127 in the Handbook of Public Police Procedure. Like the other rules, it was indelibly fixed in his mind. “Public Officers must at all times remember that the criminal is merely a person at odds with his society. The Public Police Administration was not formed to preside at the execution of citizens. Except in those instances where a large segment of the population is endangered, the Officer must always deliver his prisoner alive. Insofar as it’s possible, the criminal must make amends for the results of his crime, and this might be called punishment, but the chief duty of the police is to see that he is brought in for therapy. A criminal cured is a citizen saved.”
Brad Raynor watched the air-speed needle move past the twelve hundred mark and knew he was gaining on his quarry. He glanced at his other instruments and was surprised to see that he was already up to fifteen thousand feet. Since the cruiser was built to adjust its oxygen supply and pressure automatically, height was no problem. It might, however, cause another problem. Frowning, Brad leaned over and triggered the cybernetic control. The tape revealed that the other ship was at twenty-five thousand.
He pulled the audio-phone to him. “Car three hundred,” he reported, “at fifteen thousand feet, gaining. The fugitive is now at twenty-five thousand feet, obviously heading out.”
“Try to intercept him before he reaches the limits of Earth’s atmosphere,” the Assignment Officer said over the speaker. “If this is not possible, then your orders are to arrest him whenever possible. We will arrange clearance with the Space Patrol and with any planetary government when needed. Use your own judgement in the matter of time and place.”
Being a normal young man who had never traveled farther than the moon, there was a minute when Brad Raynor thought of letting the fugitive escape from Earth and then catching up with him on, perhaps, Mars. But it lasted no more than a minute, for he took very seriously the responsibility which went with the neat blue uniform. He reached over and shoved the power full on. The cruiser surged forward.