The suspect was sitting on a stool under the usual dazzler. He was a white-collar consumer of thirty or so. He had a couple of bruises on his face. “Turn that thing off,” I said. A square-faced foreman said: “But we always-” One of my guards, without wasting words, shoved him aside and switched off the dazzler. “It’s all right, Lombardo,” the board chairman said hastily. “You’re to co-operate with these gentlemen.” “Chair,” I said, and sat down facing the suspect. I told him: “My name’s Courtenay. What’s yours?” He looked at me with pupils that were beginning to expand again. “Fillmore,” he said, precisely. “August Fillmore. Can you tell me what all this is about?” “You’re suspected of being a Consie.” There was a gasp from all the UMPA people in the room. I was violating the most elementary principle of jurisprudence by informing the accused of the nature of his crime. I knew all about that, and didn’t give a damn. “Completely ridiculous,” Fillmore spat. “I’m a respectable married man with eight children and another coming along. Who on earth told you people such nonsense?” “Tell him who,” I said to the board chairman. He stared at me, goggle-eyed, unable to believe what he had heard. “Mr. Courtenay,” he said at last, “with all respect, I can’t take the responsibility for such a thing! It’s quite unheard of. The enure body of law respecting the rights of informers-” “I’ll take the responsibility. Do you want me to put it in writing?” “No, no, no, no, no! Nothing like that! Please, Mr. Courtenay- suppose I tell the informer’s name to you, understanding that you know the law and are a responsible person-and then I leave the room?” “Any way you want to do it is all right with me.” He grinned placatingly, and whispered in my ear: “A Mrs. Wor-ley. The two families share a room. Please be careful, Mr. Courtenay-” “Thanks,” I said. He gathered eyes like a hostess and nervously retreated with his employees. “Well, Fillmore,” I told the suspect, “he says it’s Mrs. Worley.” He began to swear, and I cut him off. “I’m a busy man,” I said.
“You know your goose is cooked, of course. You know what Vogt says on the subject of conservation?” The name apparently meant nothing to him. “Who’s that?” he asked distractedly. “Never mind. Let’s change subjects. I have a lot of money. I can set up a generous pension for your family while you’re away if you co-operate and admit you’re a Consie.” He thought hard for a few moments and then said: “Sure I’m a Consie. What of it? Guilty or innocent, I’m sunk so why not say so?” “If you’re a red-hot Consie, suppose you quote me some passages from Osborne?” He had never heard of Osborne, and slowly began to fake: “Well, there’s the one that starts: ‘A Consie’s first duty, uh, is to, to prepare for a general uprising-‘ I don’t remember the rest, but that’s how it starts.” “Pretty close,” I told him. “Now how about your cell meetings? Who-alFs there?” “I don’t know them by name,” he said more glibly. “We go by numbers. There’s a heavyset dark-haired fellow, he’s the boss, and, uh-” It was a remarkable performance. It certainly, however, had nothing to do with the semi-mythical Conservationist heroes, Vogt and Osborne, whose books were required reading in all cells-when copies could be found. We left. I told the board chairman, hovering anxiously outside in the corridor: “I don’t think he’s a Consie.” I was president of Fowler Schocken Associates and he was only the board chairman of a jerkwater local police outfit, but that was too much. He drew himself up and said with dignity: “We administer justice, Mr. Courtenay. And an ancient, basic tenet of justice is: ‘Better that one thousand innocents suffer unjustly than one guilty person be permitted to escape.’ ” “I am aware of the maxim,” I said. “Good day.” My instrument corporal went boing as the crash-crash priority signal sounded in his ear and handed me the phone. It was my secretary back in Schocken Tower, reporting another arrest, this one in Pile City Three, off Cape Cod. We flew out to Pile City Three, which was rippling that day over a