Before he could speak, she went on: 'Oh, I know I blamed you, but in the final issue, I knew it was he. He was always cold and calculating, but I was weak, and I was sure that if you handled him in a different ... and besides I didn't want to see his faults for a long time. He—'
'All I see,' Fara interrupted doggedly, 'is that I have saved our name from disgrace.'
His high sense of duty rightly done lasted until midafternoon, when the bailiff from Ferd came to take over the shop.
'But what—' Fara began.
The bailiff said: 'The Automatic Atomic Repair Shops, Limited, took over your loan from the bank, and are foreclosing. Have you anything to say?'
'It's unfair,' said Fara. 'I'll take it to court. I'll—' He was thinking dazedly: 'If the empress ever learned of this, she'd ... she'd—'
The courthouse was a big, gray building; and Fara felt emptier and colder every second, as he walked along the gray corridors. In Glay, his decision not to give himself into the hands of a bloodsucker of a lawyer had seemed a wise act. Here, in these enormous halls and palatial rooms, it seemed the sheerest folly.
He managed, nevertheless, to give an articulate account of the criminal act of the bank in first giving Cayle the money, then turning over the note to his chief competitor, apparently within minutes of his signing it. He finished with:
'I'm sure, sir, the empress would not approve of such goings-on against honest citizens. I—'
'How dare you,' said the cold-voiced creature on the bench, 'use the name of her holy majesty in support of your own gross self- interest?'
Fara shivered. The sense of being intimately a member of the empress' great human family yielded to a sudden chill and a vast mind- picture of the ten million icy courts like this, and the myriad malevolent and heartless men—like this—who stood between the empress and her loyal subject, Fara.
He thought passionately: If the empress knew what was happening here, how unjustly he was being treated, she would—
Or would she?
He pushed the crowding, terrible doubt out of his mind—came out of his hard reverie with a start, to hear the Cadi saying:
'Plaintiff's appeal dismissed, with costs assessed at seven hundred credits, to be divided between the court and the defense solicitor in the ratio of five to two. See to it that the appellant does not leave till the costs are paid. Next case—'
Fara went alone the next day to see Creel's mother. He called first at 'Farmer's Restaurant' at the outskirts of the village. The place was, he noted with satisfaction in the thought of the steady stream of money flowing in, half full, though it was only midmorning. But madame wasn't there. Try the feed store.
He found her in the back of the feed store, overseeing the weighing out of grain into cloth measures. The hard-faced old woman heard his story without a word. She said finally, curtly:
'Nothing doing, Fara. I'm one who has to make loans often from the bank to swing deals. If I tried to set you up in business, I'd find the Automatic Atomic Repair people getting after me. Besides, I'd be a fool to turn money over to a man who lets a bad son squeeze a fortune out of him. Such a man has no sense about worldly things.
'And I won't give you a job because I don't hire relatives in my business.' She finished: 'Tell Creel to come and live at my house. I won't support a man, though.
That's all.'
He watched her disconsolately for a while, as she went on calmly superintending the clerks who were manipulating the old, no longer accurate measuring machines.
Twice her voice echoed through the dust- filled interior, each time with a sharp:
'That's overweight, a gram at least. Watch your machine.'
Though her back was turned, Fara knew by her posture that she was still aware of his presence. She turned at last with an abrupt movement, and said:
'Why don't you go to the weapon shop? You haven't anything to lose, and you can't go on like this.'
Fara went out, then, a little blindly. At first the suggestion that he buy a gun and commit suicide had no real personal application. But he felt immeasurably hurt that his mother-in-law should have made it.
Kill himself? Why, it was ridiculous. He was still only a young man, going on fifty. Given the proper chance, with his skilled hands, he could wrest a good living even in a world where automatic machines were encroaching everywhere. There was always room for a man who did a good job. His whole life had been based on that credo.
Kill himself—
He went home to find Creel packing. 'It's the common sense thing to do,' she said. 'We'll rent the house and move into rooms.'
He told her about her mother's offer to take her in, watching her face as he spoke.
Creel shrugged.
'I told her 'No' yesterday,' she said thoughtfully. 'I wonder why she mentioned it to you.'
Fara walked swiftly over to the great front window overlooking the garden, with its flowers, its pool, its rockery. He tried to think of Creel away from this garden of hers, this home of two thirds a life-time, Creel living in rooms—and knew what her mother had meant. There was one more hope—
He waited till Creel went upstairs, then called Mel Dale on the tele- stat. The mayor's plump face took on an uneasy expression as he saw who it was.
But he listened pontifically, said finally: 'Sorry, the council does not loan money; and I might as well tell you, Fara—I have nothing to do with this, mind you—but you can't get a license for a shop any more.'
'W-what?'
'I'm sorry!' The mayor lowered his voice. 'Listen, Fara, take my advice and go to the weapon shop. These places have their uses.'
There was a click, and Fara sat staring at the blank face of the viewing screen.
So it was to be—death!
He waited until the street was empty of human beings, then slipped across the boulevard, past a design of flower gardens, and so to the door of the shop. The brief fear came that the door wouldn't open, but it did, effortlessly.
As he emerged from the dimness of the alcove into the shop proper, he saw the silver-haired old man sitting in a corner chair, reading under a softly bright light. The old man looked up, put aside his book, then rose to his feet.
'It's Mr. Clark,' he said quietly. 'What can we do for you?'
A faint flush crept into Fara's cheeks. In a dim fashion, he had hoped that he would not suffer the humiliation of being recognized; but now that his fear was realized, he stood his ground stubbornly. The important thing about killing himself was that there be no body for Creel to bury at great expense. Neither knife nor poison would satisfy that basic requirement.
'I want a gun,' said Fara, 'that can be adjusted to disintegrate a body six feet in diameter in a single shot. Have you that kind?'
Without a word, the old man turned to a showcase, and brought forth a sturdy gem of a revolver that glinted with all the soft colors of the inimitable Ordine plastic. The man said in a precise voice:
'Notice the flanges on this barrel are little more than bulges. This makes the model ideal for carrying in a shoulder holster under the coat; it can be drawn very swiftly because, when properly attuned, it will leap toward the reaching hand of its owner. At the moment it is attuned to me. Watch while I replace it in its holster and—'
The speed of the draw was absolutely amazing. The old man's fingers moved; and the gun, four feet away, was in them. There was no blur of movement. It was like the door the night that it had slipped from Fara's grasp, and slammed noiselessly in Constable Jor's face. Instantaneous!
Fara, who had parted his lips as the old man was explaining, to protest the utter needlessness of illustrating any quality of the weapon except what he had asked for, closed them again. He stared in a brief, dazed fascination; and something of the wonder that was here held his mind and his body.
He had seen and handled the guns of soldiers, and they were simply ordinary metal or plastic things that one
