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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79265 ***




                              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.

The police cruiser was within a thousand feet of the fleeing air-car by
the time they were twenty miles above the surface of the earth. Brad
Raynor switched on his sighting screen, turned the nose-cannon over to
_Manual_ and fired a shot which would explode well ahead of the other
ship. He pulled over the audio-phone and thumbed the button on its side.

“Public Officer Brad Raynor calling Nyork city car, registration 12Z,”
he said. He knew the occupant of the car would hear him whether his
receiver was on or not. Every air-car built contained a panel which
would automatically pickup police calls sent out on a tight beam
limited to police work. “City car 12Z, pull up and surrender.”

       *       *       *       *       *

For a moment, the air-car continued at the same speed. Then it began
to slow up, finally becoming stationary at an altitude of twenty-five
miles. The police cruiser approached cautiously, Brad holding himself
in readiness to send it flashing away if the other ship tried to ram
him. When the two craft were a mere hundred feet apart, he stopped the
cruiser and stabilized it. He was sure that city air-cars were not
normally armed and the appearance of the ship in the forward viewing
screen revealed nothing that looked like armament. With that, Brad
Raynor leaned over and pressed a button on the control panel projecting
a tractor beam.

But even as the beam reached for the other ship, it moved. Straight
down it flashed, the backwash of power rocking the police cruiser.
The tractor beam gyrated in empty space and dissipated itself. Brad
switched off the beam, savagely jammed the power on and brought the
cruiser around in a whirling dive. But even so the ruse had given the
other a start. As the radarscope lined up on the fleeing ship, it was
already thirty miles away and accelerating madly. Brad shot the cruiser
in pursuit.

It was a wild race earthward. But the fugitive’s craft had gained just
enough of a lead by the maneuver to stay in front, and it pulled out
of the dive only a few hundred feet above the ground. So quickly did
the dive end, there was a moment when Brad thought his stomach wouldn’t
make it.

They had come down over a small town which Brad recognized as one of
the suburbs lying north of Nyork. The ship ahead of him darted down to
within a few feet of the street and began zooming among the buildings.
Brad Raynor followed. As he did so, he thrust his left foot down on a
button on the floor and held it there. The grilled nose of the cruiser
began broadcasting supersonic waves, out and around the ship ahead, to
be picked up by an oncoming craft so that they could get out of the
way. At the same time, he flipped another switch which automatically
sent out a police identification signal which would be picked up by any
other police car in the neighborhood.

Once more the police cruiser slowly gained on the car ahead. Brad
was strained forward in his seat, squeezing every bit of speed out
of the cruiser that was possible as they zigzagged around buildings.
He watched as the nose of the cruiser reached the tail of the other
car, then crept up along the side. He was holding a slight elevation
advantage of the other and now he began nosing it to the side and down.
It was a delicate operation, with both ships traveling at well over a
hundred miles per hour, where one slip might crash both of them.

Then, suddenly, the fleeing car heeled over and flashed into a narrow
alley. Brad saw it scrape the side of the building as he flashed by
and he winced. Crushing, he threw the cruiser up in a tight top loop,
cutting speed at the same time. Even so, he lost several minutes
getting back to the alley.

       *       *       *       *       *

The city air-car was parked inside the alley, on the ground. There was
a long dent on one side where it had scraped the wall, but otherwise
it seemed undamaged. Brad grounded his cruiser behind it. He swung the
encephalscope on the ship, but there was no answering _peep_. It meant
that the fugitive had already left the car.

He opened the emergency panel in the cruiser and took out a smaller,
portable encephalscope. He hesitated, then took from the rack over his
head the tiny nerve-gun. A moment later, he stepped out into the alley.
He slowly swung the encephalscope around until it emitted a slight
sound. It was pointed toward the solid wall rising beside him.

Brad walked out of the alley and to the front of the building. It was a
large apartment house and the faint _peep_ from the encephalscope told
him that the fugitive was somewhere inside.

The front door was locked and there were a number of push-buttons along
the wall, each one with a tiny two-way video-screen above it. But Brad
went directly to the door. He pulled an electronic pick from his pocket
and bent over the lock. The door swung open.

Inside, Brad paced along the hall, swinging the encephalscope from door
to door. He did the same thing on the second and then on the third
floor. It was on the third floor that he finally pointed the instrument
to a door and was rewarded with a strong, steady chatter from it.

Again, he used the electronic pick. Then, holding the nerve-gun
concealed in his hand, he kicked the door open.

Directly inside, energy gun gripped in shaking hand, stood the large
man who had been pictured in the film strip flashed on Brad’s screen.
For what seemed like several long minutes the two men stared at each
other, while the encephalscope fairly purred.

“Drop it,” Brad said finally. “It’ll do you no good to fight. Even
if you get the best of me, you can’t escape. There’ll be a thousand
encephalscopes searching you out the minute my next report fails to
come in. So, drop it.”

There was another wait, while the hand that held the energy gun
trembled more violently. Then, slowly, reluctantly, the fingers spread
and the gun dropped to the floor. “Damn you to hell,” the man said
bitterly. “Damn all science!”

“You’re wrong,” Brad said, leaning over to pick up the gun. “Now
you feel that you wouldn’t have been caught if it hadn’t been for
science--but the truth is that if it weren’t for science you would
have been killed while trying to escape. Come along.” He followed the
prisoner from the building.

       *       *       *       *       *

Twenty-four hours later Brad Raynor landed his cruiser in the space on
the roof of the Justice Building in the 22nd Sector of Nyork. Herding
his prisoner ahead of him, he entered an elevator and they were carried
down to the hearing rooms.

The Public Justice Administrator looked up as they entered. Then he
glanced back for a moment at his desk. “You must be Public Officer
Raynor,” he said with a smile. “I see that your assignment is the only
thing open in this Sector.”

“Yes sir,” Brad said, saluting. “This is my prisoner.”

“Will you charge him, Officer Raynor?”

“Yes, sir. As an officer of the Public Police Administration, I charge
this man--Jan Laird, Mayor of Nyork--with the crime of negligence
in his responsibility to the people of this city. A citizen, one
Will Howard, was permitted to go unemployed. As a result of the
unemployment, Will Howard committed robbery and in leaving the premises
shot and killed a public officer.”

“How do you plead, Mayor Laird?” the Administrator asked.

There was a moment of silence. Then, “Guilty,” the mayor said huskily.

The Administrator glanced at the papers on his desk. “Your crime,
Mayor Laird,” he said, “is doubly serious because of the high position
to which you were elected by the people. We have already discovered
a number of other citizens who have become slightly unstable because
of feeling that they are in a hostile environment. Fortunately, Will
Howard was the only one who had reached the point of direct action. I
have a report from Therapy Control stating that he will need five or
six months of therapy before once again being a smoothly-functioning
individual.

“I notice, Mayor Laird, that you have done well in private enterprise
and possess considerable surplus wealth. Therefore, it is the judgement
of this Administration that you be appointed the guardian of the wife
and children of the slain Public Officer Arthur Sommers, responsible
for their economic security. This responsibility will continue for
the life of the widow and will include the children until they have
finished university training. You are also removed as mayor of this
city. This is the extent of this Administration’s concern with you. You
will now be turned over to Therapy Control for proper treatment.”

With bowed head, the former mayor turned away.

“Good work, Officer Raynor,” the Administrator called after them. Brad
Raynor followed the prisoner out, feeling every inch a cop and no
longer wishing for the “good old days.”




Transcriber’s note:


  This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, December 1952
  (Vol. 1, No. 1). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence
  that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.

  Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but
  minor inconsistencies have been retained as printed.




*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79265 ***