The Circuit Riders

River."

  "So?" the older man shrugged. "Half hour flight. Hop in."

  "I don't understand," the cub said.

  "What? Me offering you a lift."

  "No," said the cub. "Back there in the station house. You know."

  "You mean the deAngelis?"

  "Not that exactly," said the cub. "I understand a deAngelis board;everybody broadcasts emotions, and if they're strong enough they can bereceived and interpreted. It's the cops I don't understand. I thoughtany reading over eighty was dangerous and had to be looked into, andanything over ninety was plain murder and had to be picked up. Here theybeen ignoring eighties and nineties all night long."

  "You remember that children's story you wrote last Christmas about anIrish imp named Sean O'Claus?" his companion asked him.

  "Certainly," the cub said scowling. "I'll sell it some day."

  "You remember the Fashion Editor killed it because she thought 'See-Ann'was a girl's name, and it might be sacrilegious."

  "You're right I remember," the cub said, his voice rising.

  "Like to bet you didn't register over ninety that day? As a matter offact, I'll head for the nearest precinct and bet you five you're overeighty right now." He laughed aloud and the young man calmed down. "Ihad that same idea myself at first. About ninety being against the law.That's one of the main troubles, the law. Every damn state in thedominion has its own ideas on what's dangerous. The laws are all fouledup. But what most of them boil down to is this--a man has to have acontinuous reading of over ninety before he can be arrested. Notarrested really, detained. Just a reading on the board doesn't prove athing. Some people walk around boiling at ninety all their lives--likeeditors. But the sweet old lady down the block, who's never sworn in herlife, she may hit sixty-five and reach for a knife. And that doesn'tprove a thing. Ninety sometimes means murder, but usually not; up to ahundred and ten usually means murder, but sometimes not; and anythingover one-twenty always means murder. And it still doesn't prove a thing.And then again, a psychotic or a professional gunsel may not register atall. They kill for fun, or for business--they're not angry at anybody."

  "It's all up to the deAngelis operators. They're the kingpins, they makethe system work. Not Simon deAngelis who invented it, or the technicianswho install it, or the Police Commissioner who takes the results to CityHall. The operators make it or break it. Sure, they have rules tofollow--if they want. But a good operator ignores the rules, and a badoperator goes by the book, and he's still no damn good. It's just likeradar was sixty, seventy years ago. Some got the knack, some don't."

  "Then the deAngelis doesn't do the job," said the cub.

  "Certainly it does," the older man said. "Nothing's perfect. It givesthe police the jump on a lot of crime. Premeditated murder for one. Theaverage citizen can't kill anyone unless he's mad enough, and if he'smad enough, he registers on the deAngelis. And ordinary robbers getcaught; their plans don't go just right, or they fight among themselves.Or, if they just don't like society--a good deAngelis operator can tellquite a bit if he gets a reading at the wrong time of day or night, orin the wrong part of town."

  "But what about the sweet old lady who registers sixty-five and thengoes berserk?"

  "That's where your operator really comes in. Usually that kind of areading comes too late. Grandma's swinging the knife at the same timethe light goes on in the station house. But if she waits to swing, orbuilds herself up to it, then she may be stopped.

  "You know those poor operators are supposed to log any reading oversixty, and report downtown with anything over eighty. Sure they are! Ifthey logged everything over sixty they'd have writer's cramp the firsthour they were on watch. And believe me, Sonny, any operator whoreported downtown on every reading over eighty would be back pounding abeat before the end of his first day. They just do the best they can,and you'd be surprised at how good that can be."

  * * * * *

  The old man woke up, but kept his eyes closed. He was afraid. It was tooquiet, and the room was clammy with an early morning chill. He openedhis eyelids a crack and looked at the window. Still dark outside. He laythere trembling and brought his elbows in tight to his body. He wasgoing to have the shakes; he knew he'd have the shakes and it was stilltoo early. Too early. He looked at the clock. It was only a quarterafter five. Too early for the bars to be open. He covered his eyes withhis hands and tried to think.

  It was no use; he couldn't think. He sobbed. He was afraid to move. Heknew he had to have a drink, and he knew if he got up he'd be sick. "OhLord!" he breathed.

  The trembling became worse. He tried to press it away by hugging hisbody with his arms. It didn't help. He looked wildly around and tried toconcentrate. He thought about the bureau ... no. The dresser ... no. Hisclothes ... he felt feverishly about his body ... no. Under the bed ...no ... wait ... maybe. He'd brought some beer home. Now he remembered.Maybe there was some left.

  He rolled over on his stomach and groped under the bed. His tremulousfingers found the paper bag and he dragged it out. It was full of emptycans; the carton inside was ripped. He tore the sack open ... empty cans... no! there was a full one ... two full ones--

  He staggered to his feet and looked for an opener. There was one on thebureau. He stumbled over and opened his first beautiful, lovely can ofbeer. He put his mouth down close to the top so that none of the foamcould escape him. He'd be all right 'til seven, now. The bars opened atseven. He'd be all right 'til seven.

  He did not notice the knife lying beside the opener. He did not own aknife and had no recollection of buying one.

  It was a hunting knife and he was not a hunter.

  * * * * *

  The light at the end of the second row was growing gradually brighter.The needle traveled slowly across the dial, 68.2, 68.4, 68.6....

  King called over to the audio controller. "They all report in yet?"

  The controller nodded. "Squirrel Hill's got your signal on, same readingas you have. Bloomfield thinks they may have it. Oakland's not too sure.Everybody else is negative." The controller walked over. "Which one isit?"

  King pointed to the end of the second row.

  "Can't you get it on your screen?"

  "Hell, yes, I've got him on my screen!" King swiveled in his chair andturned on the set. The scope was covered with pale dots. "Which one ishe? There?" He pointed to the left. "That's a guy who didn't get theraise he wanted. There?" He pointed to the center. "That's a little girlwith bad dreams. She has them every night. There? That's my brother!He's in the Veteran's Hospital and wanted to come home a week ago."

  "So don't get excited," said the controller. "I only asked."

  "I'm sorry, Gus," King apologized. "My fault. I'm a little edgy ...probably nothing at all."

  "Well you got it narrowed down anyway," Gus said. "If you got it, andSquirrel Hill's got it, then he's in Shadyside. If Oakland doesn't havehim, then he's on this side of Aiken Avenue." The controller had caughtKing's fever; the "it" had become a "him". "And if Bloomfield doesn'thave him, then he's on the other side of Baum Boulevard."

  "Only Bloomfield might have him."

  "Well what the hell, you've still got him located in the lower half ofShadyside. Tell you what, I'll send a man up Ellsworth, get Bloomfieldto cruise Baum Boulevard in a scout car, and have Squirrel Hill put apatrol on Wilkens. We can triangulate."

  "No," said King, "not yet. Thanks anyway, Gus, but there's no point instirring up a tempest in a teapot. Just tell them to watch it. If itclimbs over 75 we can narrow it down then."

  "It's your show," said Gus.

  * * * * *

  The old man finished his second can of beer. The trembling was almostgone. He could stand and move without breaking out in a cold sweat. Heran his hand through his hair and looked at the clock. 6:15. Too early.He looked around the room for something to read. There were magazinesand newspapers scattered everywhere; the papers all folded back to thesports section.
He picked up a paper, not even bothering about the date,and tried to interest himself in the batting averages of theIntercontinental League. Yamamura was on top with .387; the old manremembered when Yamamura came up as a rookie. But right now he didn'tcare; the page trembled and the type kept blurring. He threw the paperdown. He had a headache.

  The old man got up and went over to the bathroom. He steadied